Didn’t seem fair on the young lad. That suit at the funeral. With the braces on his teeth, the supreme discomfort of the adolescent. On such occasions, one could almost come to regret one’s own social brilliance. Gives him the excuse, or gives him in any case someone at whom to look pleadingly between the mandatory handshakes. God love him. Nearly twenty-three now: Ivan the terrible. Difficult actually to believe the suit on him. Picked it up perhaps in some little damp-smelling second-hand shop for the local hospice, paid in cash, rode it home on his bicycle crumpled in a reusable plastic bag. Yes, that in fact would make sense of it, would bring into alignment the suit in its resplendent ugliness and the personality of the younger brother, ten years younger. Not without style in his own way. Certain kind of panache in his absolute disregard for the material world. Brains and beauty, an aunt said once. About them both. Or was it Ivan brains and Peter beauty. Thanks, I think. He crosses Watling Street now towards the apartment that is not an apartment, the house that is not a house, eleven or is it twelve days since the funeral, back in town. Back at work, such as it is. Or back anyway to Naomi’s place. And what will she be wearing when she answers the door. Slides his phone from his pocket into the palm of his hand as he reaches the front step, cool tactility of the screen as it lights under his fingers, typing. Outside. Evenings drawing in now and she’s back at her lectures, presumably. No reply but she sees the message, and then the predictable sequence, the so familiar and by now indirectly arousing sequence of sounds as behind the front door she comes up the old basement staircase and into the hall. Classical conditioning: how did it take so long to figure that out? Common sense. Not that. Everyday experience. The relationship of memory and feeling. The opening door.
Hello, Peter, she says.
A cropped cashmere tank top, thin gold necklace. And black sweatpants fitted slim at the ankle. Not elasticated, she hates that. Bare feet.
May I come in? he asks.
Down the staircase and into her room without seeing any of the others. Fairy lights glowing dim pinpricks against the wall. Takes his shoes off, leaves them by the door. Laptop lying splayed open on the unmade mattress. Fragrance of perfume, sweat and cannabis. In whose blent air all our compulsions meet. Curtains hanging closed, as always.
Where have you been? she asks.
Ah. I’m afraid something came up.
She’s looking at him, and then not looking, with a scoff. Off on a late summer holiday, were you? she asks.
Naomi, sweetheart, he says in a friendly voice. My dad died.
Stunned, she turns to look, saying: Your— Then she falls silent. Jesus, she adds. Oh my God, fuck. Peter, I’m so sorry.
Do you mind if I sit down?
They sit on the mattress together.
Christ, she says. Then: Are you okay?
Yeah, I think so.
She’s looking down at the soles of her feet, crossed on the mattress. Blackened with the dirt that never seems dirty exactly. You want to talk about it? she asks.
Not really.
How’s your brother doing?
Ivan, he says. Do you know he’s about your age?
Yeah, you told me. You said you wanted to introduce us. Is he okay?
With love, irresistibly, Peter smiles, and to avoid the spectacle of smiling with irresistible love at Naomi herself, he smiles instead, as if humorously, at the inside of his own extended wrist. Oh, he’s doing— I actually have no idea how he’s doing. What did I tell you about him before?
I don’t know, you said he was ‘a curio’ or something.
Yeah, he’s a complete oddball. Really not your type. I think he’s kind of autistic, although I guess you can’t say that now.
You can, if he actually is.
Well, not clinically or whatever. But he’s a chess genius, so. Peter lies back on the bed now, looking up at the ceiling. You don’t mind, do you? he adds. I have to head on somewhere else in a bit.
From outside his line of sight, Naomi’s mouth answers: That’s cool. A pause. He toys with the inseam of her sweatpants. She lies down beside him, warm, her breath warm, the scent of coffee, and something else. Her breasts warm under the little cashmere top. Which he bought for her, or the same one in another colour. ‘Paris grey’. Letting him touch with his fingertips her damp underarm. Chalky scent of deodorant only masking the lower savoury smell of perspiration. Hardly ever shaves anywhere except her legs, below the knee. He told her once that back in his day, the girls in college used to get bikini waxes. That made her laugh. She asked if he was trying to make her feel bad or what. Not at all, he said. Just an interesting development in the sexual culture. She’s always laughing. Those Celtic Tiger years must have been wild. Anyway, you like it. And it’s true, he does. Something sensual in her carelessness. Cold feet. Soles always black from walking around this kip half-dressed, smoking a joint, talking on speakerphone. She murmurs softly now: I’m so sorry. His fingers under the cashmere. Eyes closing. Everything very languid and dreamy like this. Her skin unseen beneath his hands with that soft downy quality almost velvet. He asks what she got up to while he was away. No answer. His eyes open again and find hers.
Listen, she says. I feel stupid telling you this. But some stuff came up a few weeks ago. Like for college, I had to buy some books. So I needed money. It’s not a big deal.
Slowly he nods his head. Ah, he says. Okay. I could have helped you out, if I’d known.
Yeah, she says. Well, you weren’t really replying to my texts. Screws her mouth up into a pained smile. Sorry, she adds. I didn’t know about your dad, obviously.
Don’t worry, he says. I didn’t know you needed money. Obviously.
They look at one another a moment longer, embarrassed, irritable, guilty. Then she turns onto her back. It’s cool, she says. I didn’t even have to do anything, the pictures were from ages ago. Feeling his body tired and heavy he closes his eyes. One of these guys who comments on all her posts, probably. The emoji of the monkey covering its eyes. Or some sad married man with a credit card his wife doesn’t know about.
That’s fucked up about your dad, she says. When was the funeral?
Last week. Two weeks ago.
Did your friends all go?
He pauses. Not all, he says. After another pause: Sylvia. And a few others.
I guess you didn’t want me to be there.
He turns to look at her face in profile. Full lips parted, sweep of freckles on her cheekbone. Silver stud glinting in her ear. The image of youth and beauty. He wonders also how much the guy paid. No, he says. I guess not.
Without looking at him she grins. What did you think I was going to do? she says. Try to seduce the priest or something? I have been to funerals, you know.
I just thought people would probably ask me who you were, he says. And what was I going to say, we’re friends?
Why not?
I don’t think anyone would believe me.
Thanks a lot, she says. I don’t look classy enough to be friends with you?
You don’t look old enough.
Tongue between her lips now, grinning. You’re sick in the head, you know, she says.
I know, but so are you.
She stretches her arms thoughtfully, and then settles the back of her head down on her hands. Do you have a girlfriend or something? she asks.
He says nothing for a moment. Since in any case she doesn’t seem to care, and why should she. Thinks of saying: I did, once. And now might be the time to tell her about that, mightn’t it. About the funeral, and afterwards. Not that anything happened. Just the feeling, memory of a feeling, which was nothing in reality. In the car found himself mumbling stupidly: Don’t leave me alone with Ivan, will you. That was why she stayed. Only reason. Up in the old childhood bedroom, throbbing against her like a teenager. Too dark blessedly to look her in the eyes. She slept beside him, that was all. Nothing to tell. In the morning she was up before he was. Downstairs in the kitchen with Ivan, speaking in soft tones; he heard them from the landing. What did they have to say to each other? Nice little outpost for the knight on d5, was it? She probably would too. Humour him. Forget about it.
If I did, he says, why would I be hanging around with you?
Turning her body to face him, she touches with a fingertip the thin gold chain at her neck. Because you’re sick in the head, remember? she says.
He remembers, yes, and remembering touches his hand to her small face, his palm resting on her jaw. Is she laughing at him also. Yes, of course, but is it only that. At her birthday party in the summer when he brought champagne and she drank from the bottle with her painted lips. In the kitchen her friend Janine said you know I think she likes you Peter. Different from the others, he knows. Something of the challenge he liked when he met her. At the bar in her tiny silver dress, hair down nearly to her waist, stud in her nose glinting red under the lamps. Her friends showed him the website, pretending to ask if it was legal. Fuck off, she said. Don’t tell him about that. Flashing him a glance then: animal intelligence. Just between the two of them, he knew. Different from the others. Men who send her deranged threats of sexual violence on the internet, stupid whore, I’ll kill you, I will slit your throat. Thumbing through the inbox she laughs. The absolute cringe, imagine. Beneath her to be frightened. If it happened she would die laughing, he believes. Stupid not to reply to her texts. Some of them very nice too. His fault. He wonders how badly she needs the money, and then he feels— what? Ashamed, or whatever. As usual. She lies face down with her head in her arms. Familiar choreography, rehearsed together and with others, both. What lips my lips have. There is no one else, he could say. Someone, but not. I’m sorry. I love you. Her. Both. Don’t worry. Don’t say it. Christ no. Christ commands us universally to love one another.
Nine already by the time he leaves. Four minutes past. Also a little high because they smoked together afterwards. Types into the white box: Running about 20mins late, sorry. Cool darkness gathers around the lighted screen. Trees waving silent branches overhead, tram running past with faces in the windows. Locks the phone and pockets. James’s Street at night. Has to walk quickly to try and make up the time now. But it is a pleasure, isn’t it, on a crisp September night in Dublin to walk with long free strides along a quiet street. In the prime of his life. Incumbent on him now to enjoy such fleeting pleasures. Next minute might die. Happens every day to someone. And the man was no age, as everyone kept saying, sixty-five, that was all. Peter halfway there himself now, thirty-two and six months. Already middle-aged by that calculation. Frightening how quickly it all falls away. No, he’ll say, my father’s no longer with us, I’m afraid. People will be sorry, naturally, but not shocked. Different for Ivan. Almost like an orphan in his case, for all the good their mother has done him. Why they ever had children in the first place God knows. At the funeral, she muttered to Peter: The cut of him. And although Ivan did actually look absurd, and although Peter himself had only seconds before been thinking about how absurd Ivan looked, he replied: Well, his appearance may not have been foremost on his mind this week. Christine glancing back at him. Her tasteful skirt suit, navy merino. Nothing wrong with your turnout, she said. Always like that with her. He avoided her eye, watching Ivan loitering miserably alone at the table of sandwiches. Yes, he answered. Thanks. Past the old bank now towards Thomas Street and Sylvia’s reply vibrates in his pocket, against his hip. Used to have a different ringtone for her messages, didn’t he. In the old days. Dublin in the rare, etc. Can’t remember now how it sounded. What make or model the phone was, how it weighed in his hand. Obsolete now presumably, no longer in production. Just to hear that sound once again, he thinks. To feel that his life has been preserved somewhere and not forgotten, gathered around him, packed protectively around him still. Early-morning bus journeys to the intervarsities. Prepping for the final in a back corridor while the audience waited in their seats. The record-breakers. Despised, they both were, of course. In love with one another and themselves. On the lock screen now: No problem. Have you eaten? Sensible woman. Wearing good sturdy shoes no doubt and the warm tweed coat. No. Looking out for him, that’s all. Twenty minutes late and she wants to know if he’s had his dinner. Twenty-five minutes. And she is, to say the least, not stupid. He thinks sometimes the nature and extent of her suffering has lifted her free from the petty frustrations of mere inconvenience. Half an hour late, so what. When you’re in and out of hospital every other week with a needle in your arm, doesn’t matter much, probably. Overhearing the doctors talking about you behind the curtain. Patient female thirty-two years old. History of chronic refractory pain following traumatic injury. Road traffic accident. No, no kids, lives alone. And few could know. For himself he would rather die than go on like that. No fuss, just get it over with. She must know that other people think so. Knows even he does, maybe. But then they say one adjusts. The old life of pleasure gone and never returning: accept, or else delude yourself, all the same in the end. The will to live so much stronger than anyone imagines. Like a kind of death, what happened. A kind of death you survive out of politeness, respect for others, out of selfless love. Christ also survived his own death. And was dignified and exalted.
Past the art college now, students milling around in denim jackets, plastic boots, torn stockings. Formless teenage faces floating pale under the streetlight. At the outer door of life. He knows they’re watching. Brains and beauty. Amused as he passes. One head turning to follow. Well, good for her, you only live once. He could be halfway through his days already. Allows himself to glance back with a smile. Not even pretty, but why not, and she smiles also, crookedly. Half an hour late at least. Naomi would be beside herself. God, men are disgusting. She only looked about sixteen. Oh, and it’s illegal to smile now? At children. Actually he does smile at children. Also elderly people. Likes to convey to the world at large a genial disposition. Even smiles at other men sometimes. Differently. No you don’t. He does if there’s a reason. Mishears them speaking, or walks in front of them by accident, that kind of thing. Smiles, yes. At his rivals and enemies. You hate men more than I do, says Naomi. Obviously true, since she goes to bed with them of her own free will. Peter only goes to bed with people he likes. Most women ultimately very likeable individuals. Men, as everyone knows, disgusting. Not all: not his father, not like that. And Ivan? Different. Used to think he was one of these sexless beings you read about. Sort of amoeba blob floating in a jar. Then Peter brought a certain girlfriend home for dinner and saw him staring. Ah, your brother’s a little bit awkward, no? Yes, I’m sorry. I think he liked you. Later, of course, he went to college, made friends with girls. But then, his friends are— Well, anyway. No, go on. They’re what? Ugly? No, perfectly nice-looking as far as it goes. Some of them in facial symmetry terms quite attractive. Lack of taste, that’s all. Naomi would be in bits. And a snob on top of everything else. But is it snobbery? Not about money, nothing to do with that. Black sweatpants tapered at the ankle, not elasticated, she hates that. And anything knee-length she hates. Discerning eye. Ivan’s friends not ugly, not at all, but the dress sense. Criminal. And the turns of phrase, the gestures. Maybe it is snobbery, of a different order. Highly intelligent young women, of course. Mathematicians and chess players. None of them remotely interested in Peter and the feeling mutual. Some of them, come to think of it, probably in love with his brother. Smiles to himself at that. Feeling never appeared to be mutual there, but what does he know. Did catch him looking at the lovely Giulia that time however. Green silk blouse with the top three buttons undone. Mother of pearl. White teeth laughing, loud healthy Roman laugh. Past Christ Church now, lit up at night, stone walls bleached grey-yellow. Texts her: Almost there. No haven’t eaten, what about you? And what about her. Sylvia. Beyond him entirely. Not actually very good-looking, never was. Makes the beauty of others seem excessive. Her small plain face. Of course the clothes are always right. Gets ideas sometimes for gifts he could give Naomi – high-necked sweaters, coloured silk shawls, an ankle-length raincoat. Only to realise later how wrong they would look: pretty girl dressed up as old lady. Dowdy, prudish. Sylvia never in the least. He went to one of her lectures in the spring. Slender woman at the top of the room talking about eighteenth-century prose forms. Every pair of eyes fixed on her. Voice very clear and low-toned. Contralto. Not another sound in the place. When she was finished, they all broke out in applause, what, two hundred of them, more, and she smiled and nodded, used to it, probably. Sheer charisma. Made him want to say: I know her. Ex-girlfriend of mine. So embarrassing, imagine. Think she’s interesting on the subject of amatory fiction, you should try getting her into bed. Though can’t now. She can’t. Too much pain. Again vibrates. She has found a table in an Italian restaurant in Temple Bar, pin dropped, what does he think? Types back: See you in 5. Lord Edward Street at night, walking down towards the college gates. Scenery of old romances, drunken revelries. Four in the morning getting sick there outside the Mercantile, remember that. Scholarship night. Young then. Mixing memory and desire. Dark remembered walkways. Graveyard of youth.
Waiting for the bill, they go on talking while he eats absentmindedly the final piece of soft oily focaccia bread. Hadn’t realised how hungry he was until. And then, the heavy curtains, iced water, candlelight, all so conducive to appetite. There it is again: conditioning. Across the table she’s drinking her water. Faint muscular movement of the white throat while she swallows, and then, resettling her glass on the table: What are you going to do about the dog?
Oh God, says Peter. I don’t know. Christine is looking after him until— I don’t remember when. Next Friday, she said? Or maybe the Monday. We’ll have to think of something.
The man returns with their bill and Peter takes his card from his wallet, insisting, and keys in his pin. Now, after eating, he feels better, more relaxed. Realises at last how tired he is. Effect of her presence: stills the nerves. Other feelings he notices also as they wait together in the dim warmth of the restaurant for the man to bring their coats. Had believed once that life must lead to something, all the unresolved conflicts and questions leading on towards some great culmination. Curiously underexamined beliefs like that, underpinning his life, his personality. Irrational attachment to meaning. All very well as far as it goes, the question of constitutionality arises, and so on. Couldn’t go to work in the morning if he didn’t think something meant something meant something else. But what is it all leading up to. An end without an ending. The man helps Sylvia into her coat as Peter looks on. Calmer now. Attuned to the quieter feelings. Under what conditions is life endurable? She ought to know. Ask her. Don’t.
Outside, it has been raining and the streets are wet, reflecting in fragments the diffuse light of headlamps, traffic lights, shop windows. Empty pizza boxes discarded by the opposite wall, disintegrating. Let me walk you home. She’s knotting her scarf. Thank you. She takes his arm. Her fine small hand almost weightless. Fingers in the creases of his jacket. Were you seeing Naomi earlier? How is she? Good. Yeah. Walking up towards Dame Street again. You like her. I do. Fond of her, very fond, very much so. He wants almost, and at the same time wants not, to tell Sylvia what happened, that Naomi, etc. The website, etc. For what reason? To show that it’s okay: her, the others, himself, nothing to worry about. Relationships these days. Or conversely to weasel some sympathy. Sexual humiliation, little bit of a turn-on maybe. She’s asking again now about Naomi’s tenancy situation. Building owners secured court order before the pandemic, instructing previous group of tenants to vacate property. Which unrelatedly they already have, none of them left now. Legally can’t be valid for the current crowd, Sylvia agrees, and yet. What’s to stop them. Always the possibility. Gardaí take one look at the paperwork, correct address, and wave them in. Doesn’t bear thinking about. But go down the route of proving the invalidity of the order, legal letters, etc., and you just give them all the more reason to get a new one: then you’re really fucked. Because the tenancy is, no one suggests otherwise, in fact illegal. Better to stay quiet and hope the owners forget. How many properties do they keep lying vacant anyway, lost count probably, bloodsucking parasites. A conversation he and Sylvia have had many times, and they are this time, as ever, ad idem. Which they would be anyway, purely from the ideological perspective, both being fully paid-up members of the same tenants’ union and Sylvia in fact chairing one of the working groups. The fact of Peter’s ongoing sexual and also quietly financial relationship, of eight months’ duration, with a participant in this particular illegal tenancy is, from the legal-philosophical, socio-political points of view, a thing of nothing. Never told his father about her, for instance, even when asked. No, no one at the moment, he said. The idea of them meeting: too awful. No. Could have told him there was someone: nothing serious, just a girl he’s been seeing. What difference would that have made? Quite literally none. Why think about it then? Why these regretful feelings, and for whom? His father, himself? Pointless. Depressed even thinking about it. Depressed in general probably. Thoughts rattling and noisy almost always and then when quiet frighteningly unhappy. Mentally not right maybe. Never maybe was. Small weightless hand on his arm.
I never really got to know him, he says. Sorry. Just thinking. It’s sad.
She glances. Everything communicated. Enveloped in the depth of her understanding. I know what you mean, she says. But you did know him. From her bag she takes a little rectangular sachet wrapped in plastic film. Packet of tissues. For Christ’s sake, is he crying? On George’s Street? Anyone could see him. And will, probably. How’s life Peter, still at the bar are you, saw your name in the paper there not long ago, fair play. Quietly he accepts a white square of tissue smiling and wipes his face, saying only: Hm. She walks by his side at the same speed he walks, always. He loved you, she says. He didn’t know the first thing about me, Sylvia. We were allergic to each other. Never had a real conversation in our lives. Folds the tissue up and puts it in his pocket. Oh, you take conversation too seriously, she says. Life isn’t just talking, you know. He looks at her while she replaces her hand on his arm. That’s a cryptic remark, what does that mean? She’s laughing. Prettier then. But what does she mean: life isn’t just talking? Love’s austere and lonely offices perhaps. Taking their school uniforms from the tumble dryer on Wednesday nights, Ivan’s little claret-coloured tracksuit and Peter’s shirt and trousers, hot, crackling with static. And in the morning, warming milk on the range. At Sylvia’s side on Stephen Street now he breathes the perfume of car exhaust and dark night air. Consoling in its own way. Everything about her nearness is. And why. He knows why, doesn’t, doesn’t want to know whether he does or not. Comfort of long companionship then. Opens up space and quiet for him to feel at last how tired he is, how depressed. Better off perhaps staying at Naomi’s, getting high and playing Call of Duty with her roommates, medicating himself to sleep. This way accepting consolation he must accept also that he needs it. Because his father, with whom he was never particularly close, has died in his sixties after five years of cancer treatment. An eventuality, once expected, so long delayed that he began to think it would never come, until it did. Peter somehow inexcusably unprepared for the anticipated event. Somehow suddenly head of a family which has at the same time ceased to exist.
They walk along by the Green together, gates shut, yellowing leaves. In their autumn beauty. Talking about students. Her lectures. Seminars he teaches to pay the rent. He asks after her friend Emily and smiling she gives the usual story, more administrative hassle at work, and she hasn’t been able to find another sublet. Emily, little absentminded academic who always seems to have a headcold, always sneezing into a handkerchief and talking about Karl Marx. Friend of their youth, the old debating days, not that she ever had much success, hopelessly off topic and refusing every point of information. Used to spend a lot of time at their place, his and Sylvia’s, even slept on the couch for a while, when he, when they. Nights they would all three sit up together drinking tea, bickering over nothing, getting into hysterics. Sylvia the cool collected friend, Emily the disaster. Says she’s staying with Max for the moment, good old Max. See him sometimes at Sylvia’s still. Useless he was too in competition. Too nice, not ruthless enough, always seeing both sides. Funny though. All her friends are. Lightly she has to hold the world, lovingly but lightly. Have you been talking to your brother? she asks. Ah, well, he answers. Life isn’t just talking, you know. She prods him with her elbow. Nice actually to feel her so close. He’s alone, she says. Aren’t we all? Though Ivan admittedly appears to be more alone than most. At that, almost spiritually alone, and perhaps best left that way. What were the two of you talking about in the house the other day? he asks. Oh, she says. He was telling me— You mean at breakfast? He was telling me about some chess event he’s doing in Leitrim the weekend after next. Do you know about that? No. Some kind of exhibition game, and he’s giving a workshop afterwards. He was thinking about cancelling it, with everything going on. But he’s decided to go ahead and do it anyway. Passing the gates of the Huguenot Cemetery. Why was he thinking about cancelling it? She’s looking up at him. Because— Well, you know. Because his dad just died. Wincing now frowning, overwarm, and tired. Label under his shirt collar rubbing the back of his neck. Baggot Street lit up and busy, too busy, lights in his eyes, everything too much. Do you think he’s upset? he asks. She’s still looking at him, and idiotically he tries to smile. I mean, obviously, he adds. I think he is upset, she answers. I think he’s lonely. Yes. Yeah. Sure. Closer and closer they draw to her apartment, the end point, and how lonely he will be then, or not. Why in God’s name is everything so loud all of a sudden. Sylvia, he says. No, wait until it’s quieter. Yes? Nearly there now anyway and could make it sound more casual at the door. Like just tired of walking even. Would you mind— I don’t know. Can I sleep on your couch? I won’t— No, no, Jesus, don’t say it: I won’t touch you. Don’t. I’m just kind of— Her hand gentle tender on his arm not moving, still, still. All quiet and stillness gathered at the point of her merciful touch. Of course, she says. No problem. Don’t say it. I’m in love with her. You, if only. Is that what you think? Under these conditions, is life endurable. He waits while she opens the door. She understands and knows everything. Be nice if you got in touch, she says. You could text him. In what language. 1. e4. Yeah, he answers. You’re right. I will do that. I will.