On Saturday morning, Margaret is sitting alone in the living room, reading the newspaper, while Ivan is in the shower. Faintly through the walls she can hear the motor running, and the plash of hot water. And absently she allows her eyes to move over the paper, yesterday’s, brought home from the office last night. Columns of cramped newsprint, photographs with colours misaligned, oversaturated greens and reds.
The passing weeks have seen autumn into winter. Sunlight on the treetops falls cold and clear now over loosening leaves. Weekday mornings before work, Margaret remembers to fill the bird feeders, and over breakfast watches from the window: goldfinches, four, five of them, powerful thrum of wings, and sparrows, greenfinches, coloured plumage flashing. The tiny precise gestures of their beaks. She chases off magpies with a knock on the glass, clink of her silver ring. Noisy flutter departing. After rinsing the dishes, she drives into town, and in the dim quiet building unlocks the office, the community arts room, studio upstairs, checks the radiators. Linda arrives at ten, catching up, gossiping, and the phone starts ringing. Town waking up outside the window. Shutters rolled back, steam curling in grey tendrils from heating vents. Schoolchildren in their uniforms then, splashing through puddles, and teenage girls in black tights, schoolbags slung heavy over one shoulder. On rainy days Margaret watches them huddle in the walkway opposite, crowding around each other’s phones, laughing. Rivers of rainwater streaming in the gutters. Occasionally from the street she hears the sound of a car horn, impatient, as someone stalls at the lights. Monday morning the national school were in, first or second class, making papier-mâché masks with Tina downstairs in the art room. Margaret checked in at eleven to see how it was going: the room lighted and warm, Tina’s apron smeared with paint, and the children in their claret-coloured tracksuits huddled over the trestle tables, dabbing carefully. Aren’t you all working hard? Margaret said. A little dark-haired girl held up her mask for Margaret to see: a sort of indistinct papier-mâché blob with a red painted mouth. In a serious tone of voice the girl said: I’m making a princess. Oh, she’s lovely, Margaret replied. Through the high windows a glimpse of blue sky over Ellison Street, cold sunlight. On her way back up to the office, Margaret stopped in the coffee shop, ordered a cappuccino, chatted with Doreen. Christmas coming up now. Hard to believe the way the year has flown.
In these weeks the town has seemed more than ever to her eyes beautiful, the rich bronze tones of November darkening at night into deepest liquid blue. It has something to do, she thinks, with Ivan, with his way of looking out the passenger window of her car on Friday evenings and saying: God, it’s so nice here. On their walks in the laneways around the cottage he likes to observe trees and other plant species, as well as the local livestock, heavy browsing cattle, nimble sheep. In her garden, the fat spherical brown rabbits with their beady black eyes. Last week in the car, he said: If I had my choice, I would live somewhere exactly like this. With a garden, to grow vegetables. Yeah, I went through a phase of learning all about growing vegetables, the different techniques. No dig, and all that. Which is kind of sad, since I might never be able to do it. It is interesting just to learn about, though. Margaret told him about Anna and Luke, the various small crops they cultivate in their garden, and Ivan was very curious, asking a lot of questions. Beyond the subject of crops, he was generally interested to hear more about Anna and Luke, their respective jobs, their friendship with Margaret, their baby, what age the baby is, what kind of motor skills a baby has at that age. One teacher and one working part-time, Ivan said. They can afford to live on that, with a child? Margaret was parking the car outside the cottage then. They live pretty modestly, she said, but they’re okay. Thoughtfully Ivan was nodding his head. When they get to the house, they have something to eat, a dish of pasta or rice, and then they wash up together. Putting away the pots and pans the morning after Ivan has done the washing-up, Margaret finds them surprisingly clean to the touch, almost squeaky; whereas when she washes the dishes herself, tired and distracted after work, they retain a faint greasiness under her fingers.
In her room she and Ivan lie down in the lamplight, talking, undressing one another. While he unbuttons her blouse or looks for the zip of her skirt, he likes to ask her intimate little questions about her sexuality, and about female sexuality generally. He seems to appreciate how harmlessly idiotic some of his questions sound, and often he starts laughing at himself before he has even finished asking. Do women, or I mean— Like, say you, for example, do you— When you’re in bed at night, do you ever touch yourself, or? In return, he will talk with bashful good humour about his own sexual experiences: mistaken ideas he used to entertain about girls, how awkward he feels buying condoms, whether he watches pornography. Well, it depends what you mean by a lot. I do look at it, yeah. Not lately, but I would have before. And when I was a teenager, more so. I saw too much stuff at that age, to be honest. You even start getting preferences about what you like, which is probably a sign that you should stop. They were both laughing then, lying side by side looking up at the ceiling. She asked if he would tell her what his preferences were, and after a second he answered: No. That made her laugh even more. Nothing too sick, he added. I don’t know, it’s all pretty sick, but nothing that would really freak you out. I did go through a phase— It’s not as bad as it sounds. But did you ever see online any of the Japanese animation type stuff? Margaret was laughing so much she had to wipe her eyes. You mean the little cartoon schoolgirls with gigantic breasts? she said. Ivan was laughing as well, his face and throat flushed. Right, he said. I went through a phase of that. It’s not all schoolgirls, there are different genres. And you can get full series, with plotlines and everything. I don’t know why I’m saying that, it just sounds worse. Anyway, I don’t look at any of that stuff anymore. Animated or real, I mean. She asked why not, and after a pause he answered: Recently I don’t feel like it. He cleared his throat and then said in a funny joking voice: I have more interesting things to think about now. Inside herself, deep, a certain pleasurable feeling, and she turned over on her side to face him. On the quilt he lay stretched out, wearing a pair of light-blue cotton boxer shorts. Milky white his skin, and his figure slender and beautiful as a Grecian marble. Unknown youth reclining. So do I, she said aloud. He gave a kind of groaning sound then, smiling, shaking his head. Oh my God, he said. Margaret. Come here. Mint taste of his tongue in her mouth. His hand inside her underwear. A catching sensation in her throat. He likes to kiss and touch her for some time before they make love, to make her very wet, she thinks, to feel her breath hot, wanting, to feel her almost impatient. Do you like that? he murmurs. And when she says yes, he smiles. Cool, he says. I’m glad. I feel really good. You’re sure it’s nice? And again she says yes, yes, and he’s happy, even laughing. Okay, he says. For me as well. You look insanely beautiful, by the way. Like, it’s actually crazy. Do you want me to get a condom? To allow herself this pleasure. To be foolish and impulsive for once. To lie half-asleep afterwards, murmuring: I don’t know, am I being foolish and impulsive? And to hear Ivan’s thoughtful intelligent voice answering: Well, if you are being, is there anything so wrong in that? I’m not saying you are, but even if.
Yes, his intelligence, his thoughtfulness. His travel chess set with the embossed leather case. Sensitivity to beauty in inanimate objects. Generally sensitive, yeah. No, I don’t like being around ugly things. You know, if something is really ugly, I can even get a bad feeling. Kind of nails on a chalkboard sensation. Which is weird, I know. Games of chess Margaret has played with him at her kitchen table, or on the sofa, with the board propped between them. His fine attractive hands moving the pieces, his voice analysing, cautioning, dispensing encouragement. Aha, okay. Let’s just be a little bit careful with that rook. His refusal, environmentally motivated, to travel by air. Image of him alone on long-distance continental trains, reading books of chess theory, biting his nails. His clothing exclusively second-hand, preferably without any synthetic fibres. Not that I’m saying my clothes are so nice, by the way. Subjectively, other people probably think they’re ugly. But to me, ugliness is something else. Yes, his philosophical theories. Enthusiasm for explaining concepts in physics – how a refrigerator works, what a ‘water battery’ is – by sketching out diagrams on scrap paper. His extremely broad and general love of learning. No, but I listened to a podcast about the Crusades once. For no reason, just interested. You can get a lot from podcasts, if they’re well researched. His success in attaining the title of FIDE Master at the age of sixteen, and his subsequent failure, over the following six years, to qualify for the International Master title. His interest in everything about her: did she have a happy childhood, was she popular in school, was she always so beautiful or did she grow into her looks more. To reconstruct her life for him, the story of her life, her personality, to make herself interesting to him, to become in the process interesting even to herself. In school, bright but disorganised, a daydreamer, lover of books and music. Her friendship with Anna. Folk records they used to listen to together, French novels they would lend one another after school. Adolescent dream of attending university in Paris: sunlit boulevards, tempestuous love affairs, autumn afternoons at the Louvre. Went instead to Galway, hung around in poorly ventilated apartments smoking hash with boys who played acoustic guitar. The romance of those years. Her first boyfriend, the American, with his ironed shirts. His accent she thought glamorous. Fifteen years ago, more. Anna didn’t like him, she said he was arrogant. Actually he was arrogant, but I liked that about him. I suppose it made me feel special, that he liked me. They were eating dinner together, and Ivan was smiling. It’s a stereotype, I hope you know, he said. Pretty girls always go for the most arrogant guys. But go on, what happened? Crisp bedlinen, fragrance of cut flowers, cold winter sunlight. Her simple physical sense of being in the world again: renewed, as if after a long absence. Turning of the seasons. At work, the dim buzz of her phone against the desk.
Is it wrong, the relationship between them? Ivan says he’s certain that it is not. His mother’s brother, for instance, is married to a woman who’s eighteen years younger than he is, and they have like four children together, is that wrong? Faced with the question, Margaret said that in this day and age a lot of people might actually say yes, and Ivan gave a scoffing sound, saying that people think all kinds of things these days. They were having breakfast in the kitchen then, drinking coffee, eating toasted soda bread with butter and jam. At least their marriage isn’t a secret, Margaret said. Ivan shrugged his shoulders. If it bothers you to keep secrets, you can tell people, he replied. But I think the only reason you’re not telling is because you think people would react stupidly. That has nothing to do with right and wrong. Margaret said that in fact she sincerely feared the judgement of others, and Ivan said that to fear judgement was not the same thing as believing that the judgement was valid. You’re making yourself anxious, he remarked. What’s the point? We have a nice time together, no one is getting hurt. Margaret fell silent then for some time, thinking. And finally she said: I suppose I’m afraid that someone will get hurt, in the end. Ivan gave no sign of shock or distress at this, he just went on refilling his coffee cup. Yeah, obviously, he answered. I mean, it’s possible. It’s probable, if you want to put it that way. But you still have to live your life, in my view. He swallowed a mouthful of the coffee then and put the cup back down. And if it’s any consolation, if someone does get hurt, it will definitely be me, he said. Getting my heart broken in the end, let’s be honest, it won’t be you. With a horrified laugh Margaret said that was no consolation at all, and that it made her feel terrible. Ivan smiled then, looking at her, and replied: Oh, well, okay. Maybe it will be you. I doubt it, but you can think that if you prefer. She put her hands in her hair, and her head was shaking. I think you’re going to meet a nice girl your own age, she said. Some beautiful nineteen-year-old, and she’ll be able to play chess with you. He started laughing at that. Hm, he said. I was about to say that nineteen seems a little young for me. But maybe that wouldn’t be tactful. They looked at each other, and they were both laughing, sheepishly, flushed. It’s the brain, he added. It’s not fully developed until twenty-two. Margaret said that actually she had read it wasn’t fully developed until twenty-five, and Ivan frowned for a moment before answering: Well, I guess it varies by individual. Mine is done, for sure. I can tell. Last year, maybe two years ago, it was still going a little bit, but it’s finished now. So if you’re hoping I’m going to develop any further, you’ll be disappointed.
Walking the laneways around the cottage on Saturday afternoons, Sunday mornings, Ivan often talks about his father. His illness, first diagnosed when Ivan was finishing school. The remission, the relapse, requiring further rounds of chemo and radiotherapy for two more years. The final months and weeks, the secondary infections, antibiotic cocktails, the spells in the ICU and the High Dependency Unit, the particular nurses and doctors who were nice and those who weren’t. Now and then Ivan will repeat to Margaret a particular anecdote he has already told, prefaced with the remark: I know I said this before, but anyway. Sometimes, he has found something more interesting or revealing in the anecdote the second time around, and sometimes it seems he just wants to tell it again in exactly the same way, perhaps to relieve some of the pressure of keeping all these stories inside himself all the time. On their way back to the cottage Margaret may talk a little about her own family, her own father, or about the last several years in her own life, and Ivan will ask interested questions. What did her family do to help her when her husband was drinking? Well, there wasn’t a lot they could do. But they were supportive when she decided to leave? Supportive, I don’t know, it depends what you mean by that. But they would check in at least, and let her know they were thinking of her. Surely her sister Louise, after everything Margaret had done for her. I never put it like that. You’re exaggerating now. And she paid me back that money, remember. Okay, he said eventually. I get it, you don’t want to say anything bad about your family. And I won’t either. I have my own opinions on what I think of them, but I’m keeping silent unless you ask. She was smiling then, embarrassed. They’re not that bad, Ivan, she said. And mildly he would only reply: I never said they were. I said I’m not sharing my opinion.
On Monday evening, Margaret called round to her mother’s house, dropping back an electric drill she had borrowed some time before, and they had a cup of tea together. Bridget sat peering down through her glasses, looking at a social media website on her tablet, while Margaret sipped slowly at her drink. Occasionally Bridget would read aloud a piece of news or a joke and Margaret would smile and say it was funny or interesting. Bridget is seventy-two now, widowed, retired. Her favoured children have long since left home, and only Margaret lives in town, the daughter with whom she has never been satisfied. If she had taken her mother’s advice, she never would have married that poor man; and once she had done, she ought to have stayed married to him. On Thursday evening, Margaret looked dutifully at a series of pictures of her brother Stuart and his wife and their children on holiday. Bridget turned the screen of her phone to face Margaret and thumbed through the images one by one, and with restraint Margaret nodded her head instead of taking the device from her mother’s hand and flinging it forcefully across the room. This is what you get, Bridget seemed to be saying, for being different. Well, it’s true, after all, Margaret thinks. This is what you get. To work in a nice place with a few interesting people, to have friends with whom to discuss life and ideas. To attend the theatre, to hear live music, to arrange the use of the studio room on Monday nights for the local philosophy reading group. Oh, Kierkegaard, that’ll be interesting. To exercise once again, for a little time, who knows how long, the power to charm and fascinate, to be the object of an intense and searching desire. And to feel inside herself the reciprocating force of desire, this is what she gets, a life of her own.
Last weekend, with the light coming through the curtains, she and Ivan lay half-awake in each other’s arms: and when he looked at her, she seemed to feel herself understood completely, as if everything that had ever happened to her, everything that she had ever done, was accepted quietly into his understanding. Without speaking they made love, and the intimacy between them felt total and perfect, their ways of knowing one another passing out beyond language. In the moments afterwards he held her very close, and then said almost inaudibly: I love you. I’m sorry. You don’t have to say it back. Tender, the feeling inside her, a warm immersive accepting feeling. It’s alright, she said. I love you too. He made no reply, only held her in his arms, breathing deeply, his face in her hair. For the last four weekends, five, he has come to see her, and again this weekend; and next weekend once more, she thinks, until inevitably there is some reason why not. A chess tournament he has to attend, or a friend visiting from abroad. Then, another week, another reason, and gradually Ivan will stop calling and texting, she knows. He’ll meet someone else, a girl his own age, just like Margaret said, and at first he’ll feel confused and guilty, and then in time he won’t. And Margaret will greet these events with acceptance, with loving fondness, sincerely wishing Ivan well, remembering always the beautiful purity of what seems to her his soul. Her life, after the interlude of their nearness, will resume as before, no worse, and perhaps even for his affection a little better.
Now, with the light streaming in through the window, and the sound of the shower still running at the end of the hall, she turns another page of her newspaper. Finds her hand pausing. Something tugging at her attention. Quickly she scans, and sees: yes, Ivan’s name, it is. Not his, but his family name, Koubek, in the Crime and Law pages. A line reading: represented by Peter Koubek, BL. Her eyes flicker up to the headline of the piece: Sales associate wins discrimination claim over ‘sexist’ uniform. Ivan’s brother, Margaret thinks, it must be, and with a funny distracted feeling of excitement she starts to read the article, almost at random, jumbling up the paragraphs.
‘The complainant performs precisely the same workplace duties as her male colleagues, but is obliged to do so in uncomfortable, restrictive and implicitly sexualised apparel, because and only because she is a woman,’ Mr Koubek told the tribunal. ‘The disparity between the “male” and “female” uniforms serves no practical purpose, except as a visual advertisement of gender inequality in the workplace.’
Down the corridor she hears the bathroom door coming open, Ivan’s footsteps on the floorboards, and she folds the paper flat, ready to show him. A visual advertisement of gender inequality: very oratorical. When he appears in the doorway, fully dressed, Margaret says smiling: Did you know your brother’s in the news? Strangely, instead of answering, Ivan averts his eyes. Without speaking he walks to the other sofa, sits down, and then finally says: No, I didn’t know. What is it, a legal case? She has been holding the paper out in her hand, expecting him to take it, but now she leaves it down in her lap. Right, she says. Something to do with gender equality. I assume it’s your brother, anyway. Peter, isn’t it? Without raising his eyes, Ivan gives the barest twitch of a nod. He has taken his phone from his pocket and is looking down blankly at the screen. Is something wrong? Margaret asks. Ivan glances up then and says: Oh no. Not at all. What do you feel like doing today?
You don’t want to see the article? she asks.
Pensively he returns his attention to his phone. Not really, he says. It’s not a big deal. I’m not too interested in law.
After a pause she asks: Has something happened?
No, he says. Something like what, what do you mean?
I don’t know, she says. Is everything okay between you and your brother?
Without looking at her he shrugs his shoulders. Sure, he says. I mean, nothing happened, or anything like that. But we’re not the best of friends. Actually, yeah, we don’t really talk.
In surprise now, and in vague embarrassment at her own mistake, she says: Oh, I didn’t know. I didn’t realise.
Ivan locks the screen of his phone, she can see it turning dark in his fingers, but he still doesn’t look up. Yeah, he says. It’s whatever. You know, he told me once before that there’s no point trying to talk to me, because I can’t speak any normal language anyway. And that I have a weird accent. International Chess English, he called it. The way I speak.
She goes on looking at him, but he doesn’t return her gaze. What a bizarre thing to say, she replies. There’s nothing unusual about your accent. And in any case, he’s your brother, I imagine his accent is the same as yours.
Oh, it’s not at all, Ivan says. If you heard him, hand on heart, you would swear he was from South Dublin. He’s so obsessed with fitting in with his lawyer friends, it’s actually sad. Like, if he could change his name to O’Donoghue without anyone noticing, one hundred percent he would. Our mother’s last name. Because he hates for anyone to think he’s foreign.
Watching Ivan across the space of carpet between the chair and sofa, Margaret feels herself frowning, as if these pieces of information somehow don’t fit together correctly. Well, you’re right, she says, that is sad, if it’s true.
At last Ivan puts his phone away, face down on the coffee table in front of him. Some time elapses during which he says nothing, but seems to be at every moment on the point of speaking. Finally he says: Just out of curiosity, is it always the eldest child who gives the eulogy at a funeral? Or it differs. In your experience.
She goes on looking at him. I suppose it differs, depending on the family, she says. Did your brother give the eulogy at your dad’s funeral?
Yep, Ivan says. He told me it was always the eldest. Breaking off, he bites at his thumbnail, before going on: And he didn’t even do a good job. It was just a speech, it was nicely written, but it had no feeling to it. Everyone afterwards said it was really good, but I didn’t think it was.
I’m sorry, she says.
He starts picking at his nail then with his fingers. So am I, he says, because I would have done better. I was a lot closer with Dad than he was. And I understood him more. But Peter pressured me not to do it, saying it was always the eldest, which isn’t even true. Like you said. He just thinks he’s a better public speaker than I am, because he was this big debating champion in college. In reality, that’s why he wanted to give the eulogy, to show off how good he is at public speaking. That’s just the kind of person he is.
She waits for him to go on, but he says nothing more. I didn’t realise you had such a low opinion of him, she says.
Well, I do. And it’s mutual, by the way. There’s not a lot of liking on either side.
He doesn’t look back at her while he’s talking, and again she waits for him to continue. When it’s clear he has nothing more to say, she answers finally: But weren’t you supposed to have lunch with him a couple of weeks ago? And then you missed it, because you were here. Remember?
Still looking at his fingernails, Ivan gives no response at all for some time. Then he says vaguely: Right. That wasn’t a big deal.
But if you were planning to go out for lunch together, you must have some kind of relationship.
Well yeah, we’re blood-related. He’s my brother. That doesn’t mean we have to like each other.
Carefully she answers: Sure, but you never gave me that impression before. At the time you just said something like, he’s funny, and he has a lot of girlfriends. You didn’t say anything about the two of you not getting along.
Ivan shrugs. He doesn’t care about me, he says. I can assure you, he doesn’t.
Do you care about him? she asks.
Ivan falls still, as if surprised by the question. He stares down at the carpet, and then at length says: I don’t really think of it that way. As in, do I care about Peter. I guess the answer is, not really. I don’t like his personality at all. His brows knitted, he rubs his palm against his chest. There is still a part of me that’s like, the younger brother, he adds. Kind of looking up to him, or whatever, which is stupid. Maybe he has certain qualities I wish I could have, and it makes me jealous. Like the way he’s so popular, and people think he’s really witty. And when he’s critical of me, it sticks in my head. What he said about my accent, that was like four or five years ago, maybe six years ago, and I’m still selfconscious about that, even now. But I don’t think that means I care about him. Absently Ivan scratches at his chest with the tips of his fingers. I used to, more, he goes on. Say when I was younger, we got on a lot better then. You know, for a long time he had this girlfriend, who was like part of our family. I think I mentioned her before. Sylvia, we all loved her, me and my dad both. And I guess Peter would behave more friendly when she was there, so I started getting along with him better. You know, he would take an interest in my chess, and we would talk about different things. I definitely did care about him at that time. Or even kind of heroised him, maybe. But anyway, that had a sad ending, because Sylvia was in an accident. It was really serious, she was in and out of hospital for a long time afterwards. That was when they broke up. I was like sixteen then, and I guess we kind of drifted apart from that point, me and my brother. Because Sylvia wasn’t there to smooth things over, probably. Even though he always stayed friends with her. And she’s still in our family. You know, I see her, still.
Again and dimly Margaret feels confused, as if the story fails to cohere, as if some key details have been left out. To make sense of this person, the brother: to imagine the same information, she thinks, presented as if from his perspective. We all loved her, Ivan said about the girlfriend. And then something terrible happened, some dreadful accident, and everything changed, they couldn’t be together anymore. Distractedly she murmurs aloud: Oh, that’s very sad.
What is?
Looking up now she sees Ivan watching her. Somehow flustered, without knowing why, she answers: Sorry. I mean, that his girlfriend was in an accident, and then they broke up. It sounds like a sad situation.
Blinking at her, Ivan replies: Right. But I mean, he wasn’t in the accident, he was fine. For her it was a lot worse, she could have died.
Margaret feels her face growing hot. No, I understand that, she says. But just to have a relationship break down in those circumstances, I imagine it must be difficult, that’s all. Obviously I don’t know the details, I’m just listening to what you’re telling me.
Ivan looks up at the ceiling, breathing in slowly, as if in thought. Well, I don’t know the details either, he says. Peter doesn’t tell me things about his life, personal things or whatever. It’s not something I think about a lot. She broke up with him, he told me that at the time. That it was her decision, not his. But apart from that, I know nothing. Briefly Ivan falls silent, and then adds: My dad was always encouraging us to get on better. You know, it really upset him when we would fight. I regret that. Now that he’s gone, I don’t care whether I ever see Peter again, to be quite honest. But I do regret the way it affected our dad. Even the last few times I talked to him, like when he was in the ICU at the end, he would bring it up with me. Your brother really loves you, and things like that. Which isn’t true, by the way. I’m sure my dad thought it was true, but in reality it’s not.
When he has finished speaking, Ivan wipes at his nose with his fingers, in a businesslike, almost dismissive way. What makes you say it’s not true? she asks.
He shrugs his shoulders, wiping again at his nose. That Peter doesn’t love me? he says. He doesn’t show me respect. He’s not even nice to me.
Well, I’m sorry about that. But I think, as sad as it is to say, I think people aren’t always very nice to the people they love.
Ivan exhales now, a quick frustrated kind of laughter. Okay, he says. What does it mean to love someone, then? I’m curious. If you don’t care about the person’s feelings, and you’re not nice to them, and you don’t really want them to be happy, how is that love, in your opinion? Maybe we have different definitions.
Pained, she says nothing for a moment, only watching him. Then she says quietly: I’m not trying to make you angry, Ivan, I’m sorry.
He’s shaking his head, drawing his sleeve across his eyes. I’m not angry, he says. It just feels like you’re defending my brother against me. Saying his life is so hard, and why can’t I be more understanding, or whatever.
The heat has not quite left her face, she feels. I didn’t say that, she says. I didn’t tell you to be more understanding.
But you’re giving his side.
No, I’m not, she says.
He rests his forearm over his eyes, not looking. Okay, he replies. I’m sorry. It just makes me feel bad, talking about these things. You know, my dad wanted us to get along, and we don’t get along, that upsets me. And I feel like you’re saying it’s my fault. Like I’m going against my dad’s wishes. Maybe I am, I don’t know.
Quickly she replies: I must be expressing myself badly if that’s what you think I’ve been saying. I never meant to imply that anything was your fault, or that you’re going against your dad’s wishes, of course not. If you’re telling me that your brother isn’t nice to you, I believe you, and I’m sorry. And I don’t think you should be selfconscious about your accent, by the way. You have a very pleasant speaking voice.
From behind his arm he gives a little smile, relenting. Well, I don’t know, he says. Thank you. International Chess English, it’s probably true to some extent. Not that I talk like that on purpose.
She rises from the chair and goes to sit by his side on the sofa, touching gently his hair, and he lays his hand on her knee. And he’s right, she thinks. If being around his brother makes him feel bad, why should he have to do it? On the other hand it strikes her as some kind of imperative, perhaps even a law of nature, that people should do their best for one another in times of grief. Ivan and his brother have both lost the same father: surely the loss is something that should be shared, expressed, consoled, not kept separate and silent. But the situation remains unclear to her, she can see that. Much has been disclosed, a proliferation of new facts and details, and yet somehow she doesn’t feel she understands Ivan’s relationship with his brother any better than she did before. It strikes her that on the contrary she has become, during this conversation, even more confused, even more uncertain. Something has not been said, she thinks: there is something Ivan has not wanted to say. Does it relate to the girlfriend somehow, the one who was in an accident? And why did Margaret herself respond so strongly, with such a strong wave of emotion, on hearing that story? The hospital visits, the relationship destroyed, the terrible waste of it all. Dimly she wonders now whether she has been thinking somehow about herself, her own circumstances, and she feels her face again growing flushed. It is this, she thinks, her own sense of identification, that has thrown everything into confusion. She has lost sight of the brother Ivan has been describing, replacing him with herself, and therefore attributing to herself a greater understanding of his motives than she could possibly possess. Never having, after all, laid eyes on the man, whoever he is. And she can see in retrospect that Ivan, accusing her of defending his brother, was not entirely wrong, that she did feel defensive, that for some reason even now she still does. Wishing irrationally that Ivan might try, despite all his brother’s faults, to care for him more. He, the older, disappointed, compromised person, who has made a mess of everything, who does not deserve Ivan’s love.
On Thursday afternoon, Ivan is walking alone from Skerries train station to the housing development where his mother lives with her partner and stepson. The air around him is filled with an indistinct grey rain, like a very fine beaded curtain through which he has continually to walk, and in the absence of any head covering, his hair and face are growing faintly but increasingly wet. Passing through a small mixed-use commercial area and taking a right, he continues up a hill towards the housing development, towards the large engraved rock at the entrance, which reads in italic font: Hazelbrook. At eight o’clock this morning, he woke up to the sound of his alarm as usual, turned it off as usual, booted up his laptop and began some puzzle training he had planned for the morning. In the kitchen he made his coffee and ate breakfast without running into any of his flatmates, and everything was shaping up towards a good day. Then, after lunch, he received a new text message from his mother. Sweetheart I have done my best. But we just can’t put up with this any longer. I’m sorry. I’m going to search online for a good home – I promise he will be well looked after. xxx. Attached to the message was a picture of Alexei chewing innocuously on a roll of toilet paper: as if this was evidence of some unspeakable sin against nature, as if no one could possibly be expected to live with an animal whose worst habit was occasionally chewing on safe and inexpensive household products when left alone for protracted periods of time. And now, instead of spending the afternoon as he would like to spend it, a valuable afternoon he had put aside only for chess, Ivan is on his way to his mother’s boyfriend’s house in Skerries to confront, in person, the issue of the dog.
The other day, without forethought, simply allowing the words to form and express themselves unimpeded, Ivan told Margaret that he loved her. And lying there warm and peaceful in his arms she said that she loved him too. All day afterwards he could feel himself smiling, irrepressibly, sort of stupidly even, although not, because the happiness was real. On the bus home he was still smiling, and even with his flatmates that night, in the kitchen, he could not disguise his good mood. Roland’s girlfriend Julia was like, what are you smiling about, Ivan? And Roland said, he’s met a nice little lady chess player for himself. With a somehow sympathetic feeling Ivan laughed at that. From the kitchen he took a yogurt and a clean spoon and then went up to his room alone. For a time without even opening the yogurt he dwelled on the events of that morning, telling Margaret that he loved her, and the simple accepting way she had said: I love you too. But rather than smiling this time he felt a kind of acute feeling, almost like pain, opening out inside himself, and his eyes were stinging. To love, and for his love to be accepted, yes. It was in fact painful, the relief of all that compression suddenly, to say the words aloud, and hear her saying them, to be loved by her, it was so needed that it actually hurt. Not even a feeling of unmixed happiness, but of happiness that was strongly and confusingly mixed with many other feelings. Sadness, missing his father, and a kind of shame somehow, because each passing day seemed to bring Ivan further away from him and the life they used to have together, a life that was receding increasingly into the past, into the realm of childhood and adolescence. The realisation that his adulthood, into which he was entering now so definitively, and which would last all the rest of his life, would have to be lived without his father. That he was becoming a person his father would never know. And he was thinking also about Peter, their argument, the blocked number, and how upset and hurt their dad would feel if he knew the situation. The sense that he was doing something to hurt his father, that he was disrespecting his memory, and yet the opposite and even stronger sense of wrong, of the wrong Peter had done. The need Ivan felt to protect himself from that, the contempt, the cruelty, and to protect Margaret also, to keep her from the terrible and pointless hurt of finding out the truth. Eventually, he ate the yogurt, and then opened up his laptop to play some chess. In time, getting into some nice positions, making intelligent moves, watching the online rating climb higher, he started to feel okay again. And by the time he went to bed that night, he could once more remember the words that had been spoken in the morning, I love you, with no pain, but rather with a deep radiant warmth that seemed to envelop his whole being, and nothing could harm him, he was happy.
That was before the incident with the paper, Margaret seeing Peter’s name in the paper, and Ivan having to say some things to Margaret that were not one hundred percent truthful. Because, while he didn’t tell any actual lies, he did give a false picture of events, which isn’t something he feels proud of. But what else was possible? He should have told her about Peter’s cruel words, do you think any normal woman, and so on? She didn’t need to hear that. She’s sensitive about these things. Anyway, all words can give a false picture, and who’s to say what picture another person ends up with, even when the supposedly right words are used? Just the other day, to that point, Ivan got a text from Sylvia, asking if he would like to get a cup of coffee together, and he responded instantly, almost within the minute, saying yes. They met up near the college and strolled around together, drinking coffee, talking, and he felt good to be in her company again. There was a lot of liking between them, a lot of mutual respect and liking, and she didn’t pry into his life or bring up difficult topics. Instead she asked him if he could explain a logic puzzle to her, and he said yes, of course. The puzzle was about a liar who always lies, and the liar says: All my hats are green.
Now, can we conclude that he has some hats? Sylvia asked. Or is it possible he doesn’t have any hats at all?
Ivan explained that it was an established problem in formal logic. You have to think of it as a conditional, he said. Saying ‘all my hats are green’, it’s like saying ‘for all hats, if they are mine, then they are green’. And if there aren’t any hats that satisfy the condition of being mine, it can’t be a lie to describe them as green. You can say anything about the hats and it would be true, because they don’t exist. That’s called vacuous truth. So yeah, if the liar says ‘all my hats are green’, he has to have hats, otherwise it wouldn’t be a lie.
Promptly, Sylvia replied: So if I said, ‘all my sisters are right over there’, it would be true? Because I don’t have any sisters.
Ivan confirmed that it would, but only vacuously, and he reiterated again about vacuous truth, not to confuse it with a meaningfully true statement.
What if I said, ‘my sister is right over there’? Sylvia asked. Just one sister, but she doesn’t exist.
Ivan himself had to take a little pause then. Hm, he said. I think, in that case, that actually would be a false statement. Because you’re not making a conditional statement, if x then y. You’re giving what’s called a definite description. In logic, it’s different. If you say ‘my sister is over there’, you’re claiming ‘there is such a person as my sister’ and also ‘that person is over there’. So if the first claim isn’t true, that makes the whole statement a lie.
Sylvia had a sort of interested innocuous look on her face. It’s a false statement if I just invent one sister? she asks. But if I invent more than one, it becomes true?
Ivan was frowning then, he could feel a frown had developed. A universal statement is conditional, he repeated. With the example of sisters, maybe it’s different. But no, yeah. If it’s one non-existent sister, it seems, I think, yes, you would be lying, because of the way the statement would be formalised in logic. But a universal statement, to include all your non-existent sisters – I don’t know. It doesn’t seem to make sense that one would be true and the other not, does it?
Sylvia was smiling lightly, mischievously. No, she said, not to me. But then, of course, I’m not a mathematician.
Ivan said he would look into the puzzle and get back to her. And he did try to look into it, later, but he couldn’t find anything useful. If the liar says that all his hats are green, it means he has some hats. Accepted. But if the liar just says that his ‘hat’ is green, does it mean he has to have a hat? Yes, by the same logic: it can’t be a false statement if he has no hat at all. And does that imply that it’s not a lie if you say ‘all my daughters are waiting for me’, as long as you don’t have a daughter? You can claim you’re telling the truth, albeit vacuously? And if it’s just one daughter instead? But why should it be any different? It goes to show, Ivan thinks, that the difference between truth and lying is complicated. You think you’re fitting language onto the world in a certain way, like a child fitting the right-shaped toy into the right-shaped slot. But at times you realise that that’s a false picture too. Language doesn’t fit onto reality like a toy fitting into a slot. Reality is actually one thing and language something else. You just have to agree with yourself not to think about it too much. While they were strolling and drinking coffee, Ivan mentioned to Sylvia that he had been seeing someone, and she touched his arm and said: Oh, how nice. She didn’t ask what age the woman was, or anything else, even her name. Yeah, she’s actually an amazing person, he added. Who I think you would like a lot, if you ever met her. Sylvia said that she would love to meet her, and Ivan could feel a tightening inside his throat then, a feeling of emotion that was difficult to describe. Okay, cool, he said. It’s still early times, obviously. But maybe one day, it would be nice if you could meet. Because she makes me really happy. Sylvia too was becoming emotional, he could see that, and she put her arms around him, saying he deserved to be happy, he deserved all the happiness in the world. And the feeling between them in that moment, wasn’t that true? Doesn’t the feeling between people have a truth of its own? Not in the sense of formal propositional truth-value, no. But then why does that word, ‘truth’, have a certain sensation to it, which is not exhausted by the formal definition?
As of this week, Ivan’s online chess rating is within six points of his highest ever, a record achieved when he was only eighteen. Every time he begins a new game now, he feels a light buoyant sensation, like his brain is floating up above the game, up to a vantage point very high and refined, from which he can see everything clearly. When a move suggests itself to him for no obvious reason, he need only apply the slightest pressure to his intuition, a few seconds or minutes of conscious calculation, in order to feel the strength of the intuition asserting itself forcefully in response: because after the exchange, for instance – forcing his opponent to withdraw the rook and then taking with the pawn on g5, exposing the light-squared bishop, trading, after all that – then white’s knight will be trapped. And this image, this idea of the trapped knight, was there in Ivan’s mind, unexpressed, not even visualised, but present, folded into itself, preparing to be made real. There inside him, the trapped knight: the hidden idea that manifested its own reality, the idea that created itself. And after the game is over, pacing around his flat, or maybe walking the streets, breathing the cold winter air, breath of his body blossoming into mist, he feels impressed and humbled by the work his brain has done for him, humbled and impressed. Like, thank you, brain, whatever you are. A strange little room in his head where things happen secretly: which in fact seems so impressive it crosses over into being alarming. Of course, he thinks, all his other vital organs also perform their work without his conscious knowledge, carrying out all their various finely calibrated tasks. What makes the brain any different? It has always been Ivan’s philosophy, at least in previous phases of his life, that the brain is indeed different, that the body is merely a sack of flesh and the brain an animating consciousness. But on his walks around the city lately – after long arduous chess games in which his brain has played a role he has not entirely understood – it has occurred to him that perhaps the mind and body are after all one, together, a single being. And that he should be humbled not only by his brain, but by his body also, a complex and beautiful system for the sustenance of life itself. When he and Margaret are together, for instance, the intelligence that animates instinctively his gestures, touching, is that not the same intelligence that suggests to him the move that will later trap the knight? It is the same, himself, his own intelligence, his personhood. And for this he feels a tender wounding gratitude, a sense of blessing, that he exists simply in this body, in this mind, that he is himself, this one person, rich in priceless resources which to his conscious mind remain almost infinitely unknown.
When his rent was due last month he was a hundred short, but they let him pay a week late, and he promised to be on time in future. Now he is assiduous about finding work, completing it on time, submitting invoices right away, and following up not aggressively but firmly until the minute he gets paid. The fact that he is playing such good chess, and that he spends the entirety of each weekend with Margaret, far from interfering with his financial stability, has given him unprecedented motivation in terms of income. He has for really the first time in his life worked out precisely, to the euro, how much money he needs in order to pay rent and purchase bus tickets and feed himself, and he is committed to making this much money in the smallest number of labour hours possible. It’s kind of like a game, adding the hours together, and not going over, because his time is so important now. Each additional hour or even minute he spends compiling data or toggling between the R interface and an Excel spreadsheet, that is a golden hour or minute he could be playing chess, or reading theory, or lying on his bed thinking about Margaret, literally even just thinking and remembering. In the evenings he sees his friends, they hang out in Colm’s flat or Emma’s house, playing board games or FIFA or talking about the tournament coming up in town next month, which will be Ivan’s first formal chess competition since the spring. He will finally have the opportunity to qualify for his second IM norm, moving him one step closer to the three norms he needs to secure the title, but he will also have the opportunity to fail, to lose rating points, to slip further away from his goal, perhaps even unreachably far, so far that the goal is no longer attainable. And in that case, rather than forging ahead to become a grandmaster, he would just drop out of the chess world in his early twenties as so many failed hopefuls do, with his sad little FM title more like an embarrassment than an accolade. But that won’t happen, he thinks, not with the way he’s playing lately. And even if it does happen: so be it. There is more to life than great chess. Okay, great chess is still a part of life, and it can be a very big part, very intense, satisfying, and pleasant to dwell on in the mind’s eye: but nonetheless, life contains many things. Life itself, he thinks, every moment of life, is as precious and beautiful as any game of chess ever played, if only you know how to live.
Reaching the front door of his mother’s boyfriend’s house now, under the same hanging veil of tepid rain, Ivan rings the bell and waits. After a moment, he can hear the sound of footsteps, and then his stepbrother Darren answers the door. Ivan nods at him.
Hey, man, says Darren. Come on in.
Ivan enters the hallway and allows Darren to close the door behind them. Inside, the house emits its familiar synthetic smell of cleaning products and air freshener. Darren, who is three and a half years older than Ivan, is wearing a polo shirt with an embroidered brand logo on the front, and a pair of plastic flip-flops for some reason. Closing the door behind them as Ivan wipes his feet on the doormat, Darren adds: Your mam’s just out at the shops. Be back in a minute, though. All good with you?
Ivan feels inside himself a strong unwillingness to answer this question, a sudden and extreme attachment to his own silence. With effort, however, he replies: Yeah. As soon as he pronounces this word, this single syllable, he hears a clattering noise from somewhere inside the house, a scrabble of paws, and at the same time a high whimpering whine. Where is he? Ivan says.
Oh, the little guy? says Darren. He’s in the back.
Ivan, walking towards the sound, down the hall towards the kitchen, says: Where?
There in the utility room, Darren says.
Ivan crosses the kitchen, opens an interior door, and instantly the dog springs out, tail wagging, the entire back half of his body wagging madly. Three times Alexei runs in a circle around Ivan’s feet, leaping, scampering, lifting his thin head intermittently to lick at Ivan’s hand. He even bows down playfully like a puppy and lets out a kind of elongated howl of excitement, flicking his tail. Ivan crouches down on the tiles and embraces him, smoothing his palms over the dog’s short silken coat. Burying his face in Alexei’s neck, Ivan breathes in, smelling at first only a sweetish detergent fragrance, and then, underneath that, the kind of dark soil or sweat odour of his body, a smell which most people would probably consider kind of disgusting, but which at this moment fills Ivan with an overpoweringly strong, agonising feeling of love, and also a horrible guilt. Alexei, wriggling with delight, licks at his neck and ear with a dry panting mouth, dry nose. Ivan gets to his feet again and the dog looks up at him, tongue lolling. The door of the utility room is still open: a tiny room with a washer and dryer inside, releasing into the kitchen the same strong fragrance of laundry detergent that Ivan could smell in Alexei’s coat. On the floor by the washing machine, Ivan can see the dog’s fleece bed and two empty silver feeding bowls.
From the kitchen doorway, Darren says: Well, he’s obviously happy to see you.
Yeah, says Ivan. How long has he been in there?
In where?
Ivan turns around to face Darren. In the utility room, he says.
Darren affects a thoughtful frown, answering: Couldn’t tell you. I was in the office all morning, just working from home now this afternoon.
Ivan goes into the small room and takes one of the bowls from the floor, while the dog noses and licks at his hands. He happens to know that Darren lives at home and works for a corporate law firm, earning a massive salary and contributing zero, literally nothing at all, to human civilisation. ‘Working from home’, he said just now. How so ‘working’? Is this work, standing around uselessly in plastic flip-flops? Do they pay him for that? Why can’t Ivan get paid for standing around, if all this money is just sloshing pointlessly through the economy, spilling over into the bank accounts of people like Darren? Returning to the kitchen with the bowl in hand, he says: His water bowl is empty.
Ah, says Darren. He must have drank it all.
Ivan goes to the sink and refills the bowl. Alexei follows at his heel, beating his tail rhythmically against the door of a cabinet. When the bowl is full of cold water, Ivan puts it on the floor, and instantly with a wet lapping sound the dog begins to drink. In the silence, the drinking noise is so loud as to seem exaggerated, like a joke. Droplets of water spray over the tiles with the rapid energy of the dog’s clamorous gulps. Ivan stands there, and Darren stands there, working from home presumably, while the dog goes on and on lapping from the bowl. Thirsty boy, Darren remarks. Ivan gives no answer. When the bowl is empty, he refills it from the tap, and the dog takes a few more mouthfuls before returning to Ivan and burrowing his nose, now cold and wet, into his hand.
So how’s life with you? says Darren. How’s the chess?
Again, and now even more strongly than before, Ivan feels a strong desire not to answer, feels his lips glued shut, his tongue sealed to the roof of his mouth, against this question, and any question that Darren might ask, any interaction that Darren might try to initiate. Darren knows nothing, as it happens, about chess. As a child Ivan was, for a time, actually prohibited from playing chess in this exact house, supposedly because it was ‘antisocial’, but in fact because his prowess at the game made Darren, why not be honest, feel insecure. When Peter came home from college at the weekends, he would make a big point of bringing a chess set with him, wanting to play, because he knew that although everyone could bully Ivan, no one would even attempt to bully him, and the chess would be allowed to proceed. Not that it was great-quality chess or anything, because Peter never practised, but it was a gesture anyway. Now, before Ivan has to do or say anything in response to Darren’s palpably insincere question, he hears the front door opening, and Darren says: That must be Christine now.
Ivan’s mother enters the kitchen carrying a woven plastic shopping basket, heavy with groceries. Seeing Ivan, she raises her eyebrows, making a funny shocked face, and then hefts the basket up onto the countertop. The prodigal son, she says. Come here to me. Approaching him, she wraps his body in a motherly embrace, smelling strongly of perfume and face powder. Drawing back then, she grips his arms and holds him out in front of her, as if to scrutinise his facial features. You’ll have those braces off soon, she says.
Yeah, he answers. Next month.
You won’t know yourself. You’ll be so handsome.
Pausing, he answers: Hm. Then he says: Anyway, never mind that. I’m here because of the dog.
At this, she releases him again, throwing her hands up into the air. Well, it’s good to see you too, my darling, she says. I have been trying to get in touch, you know.
Ivan watches her return to the shopping basket, which she begins to unpack. Dogs are supposed to have fresh water to drink, he says.
Excuse me. He’s been given fresh water.
His bowl was empty when I came in. And he was really thirsty. Darren saw.
They both look at Darren, who gives an exaggerated shrug and says: Here, I know nothing about dogs.
You saw him drinking an entire bowl of water five seconds ago, says Ivan. You said yourself, he’s a thirsty boy, or something like that.
I don’t know, sorry, says Darren. He’s not my dog.
Indeed he’s not, says Christine. Nor mine. Are you staying for dinner?
No, Ivan says.
Christine goes on unpacking the basket. Alright then, she answers. Suit yourself. Ivan stands in dissatisfied silence watching her. She is wearing a cream-coloured woollen jacket, and her pale hair has a glossy and slightly rigid-looking texture under the ceiling lights. She has always been someone who sets a lot of store by personal appearance. At the funeral, for instance, she asked Ivan right out loud where on earth he had acquired such a ‘hideous’ suit. Did the question make him feel bad? Actually, yes it did, despite his being typically and with some conscious pride invulnerable to the opinions of others regarding his looks. Ivan is not a person who needs his mother, or the world in general, to approve of his sartorial choices, especially considering that for environmental reasons he stopped purchasing new clothes at the age of nineteen and has since then only ever shopped second-hand, except for underwear. Nonetheless, given the context of the funeral, his mother’s remarks did give him a bad feeling, like maybe his suit was so hideous that it was drawing people’s attention towards him rather than, as he hoped, quietly repelling their attention away; or maybe he even seemed to be making a mockery of the funeral proceedings, or of his father’s memory, by looking so bad. His mother, by contrast, is a glamorous person who dresses in matching outfits and always wears strong perfume. This sensory association is so powerful in Ivan’s mind that he experiences a mild feeling of unease even walking through the perfume section of a chemist or department store, like his mother might be lurking somewhere nearby, ready to leap out and catch him in the act of shopping.
I texted you about Christmas, she says. You never got back to me.
He lingers by the sink watching her put away the groceries. Oh yeah, he says. What’s the plan, you’re going to Scotland?
Looking up at him she says: You can come along if you like. Or I can stay.
He shrugs his shoulders. Lifts a thumbnail to his mouth and then drops it again, to avoid being seen chewing his nails. He finds it off the top of his head doubtful that he will go to Frank’s sister’s house in Scotland for Christmas, since he doesn’t travel by air, and he doesn’t like Frank or Frank’s children, although the sister Pauline is actually okay. But he also finds it unlikely that he’s going to personally ask his own mother to stay home from Scotland in order to spend Christmas with him: it’s not the kind of thing he would do. The question of Peter’s whereabouts naturally arises, to an almost obtrusive extent, but, for obvious reasons, Ivan isn’t going to raise the subject himself. I’ll think about it, he says.
Your wish is my command, she answers. I don’t know what your brother’s plans are, but I suppose that doesn’t really put you up or down.
After a pause Ivan answers judiciously: No, yeah.
Seeing as the two of you have fallen out again, she adds.
Lurching sensation now in his stomach. Cold and at the same time hot: that Peter told. That she knows already about everything, and this is all a game, the whole thing, the text about his dog, because she already knows, and now Ivan is trapped here almost physically imprisoned in her kitchen and she’s even standing between him and the door. In a toneless voice he asks: Peter said that?
Not that he would divulge the reason, she replies. Go on, what’s he done this time?
While speaking, she hands Darren a box of eggs for him to put away, and Ivan involuntarily exhales in the direction of the kitchen tiles. Nothing, he says.
Blood from a stone, says Christine. I don’t know which of you is worse.
Having put away the groceries, she hangs up the basket from a hook on the wall. Chewing after all on his thumbnail, Ivan can see that his moment of panic just now was unwarranted, because, for all his faults, his brother is not a rat. Though not, like Ivan, wary of Christine, Peter doesn’t really like her, and has often even sided with Ivan against her in the past, from a combination of specific filial antipathy and the sort of freewheeling belligerence he seems to have available to him at all times. In fact, Ivan thinks, if their mother had somehow found out about Margaret first, and had predictably tried to make life hell for Ivan as a result, the person most likely to take his side in such a scenario would be, there’s no doubt about it, Peter himself. Making arguments about personal liberty and the hard-won sexual freedoms of the post-Catholic era or whatever. Yes, Ivan thinks, one of the only consistent principles in his brother’s life is to become unbelievably partisan in every conflict he ever encounters and then to win the conflict using a barrage of extreme verbal force: a horrible personality trait, practically a disorder. But another of Peter’s principles is, admittedly, that he’s not a rat. Ivan drops his thumbnail from his mouth and, with an unexpected little jolt of sensory input, feels the wet nose of his dog once again touch his hand. In response he bends down a little to smooth his palm over the animal’s soft silken head, thinking again about the empty water bowl, scent of detergent, the cream-coloured jacket, the plastic flip-flops, the lack of care shown once again by his family, who seem in this moment of contemplation like actual narcissists, wrapped up completely in pursuit of their own interests, caring nothing for the feelings and needs of those more vulnerable.
Does the dog get left in that room all day? Ivan asks.
Not this again, Christine says. Why don’t you take him off with you if you’re not happy?
Ivan looks down at Alexei, who is sitting obediently on the floor at his feet, gazing up at him with deep dark eyes of absolute trust and love. In this moment, looking into his dog’s eyes, Ivan begins to feel a purity of sensation inside himself, a strong pure clear feeling. There is compassion and decency in this world, he thinks. He thinks about Margaret, about being alone with her, the way she says quietly: I love you. And the lifting sensation he feels at those moments, like being lifted up from the earth, which even now, remembering, is pure inside him and glowing. Her tenderness and compassion towards him, he thinks: and not only him, but people generally. The people at her work who she likes so much, her friend Anna, the husband and baby of Anna, college friends she keeps up with over email, the circle of her care and concern growing outward and outward, including even people who have let her down and hurt her, her mother, her ex-husband, and so on. Her loving and considerate attitude towards others. The way that, when Ivan complains about his own family, Margaret can be very much on his side while still showing a little bit of sympathy towards such characters as Christine and Peter, who after all are just human beings, flawed, okay, but not literally evil. Yes, the world makes room for goodness and decency, he thinks: and the task of life is to show goodness to others, not to complain about their failings. Bending down, he takes Alexei’s body into his arms, cradling him like the little puppy he once was, and when he stands up again Alexei begins to lick his ear and jaw. Okay, Ivan says. I’ll take him. Would you mind putting his things in a bag?
Christine and Darren stare at Ivan together. Where are you going to go? she says. I thought you couldn’t have pets in your apartment.
I’ll figure it out, says Ivan. He’s my dog. You’ve looked after him for long enough.
His mother, frowning, looking almost anxious now, answers: He’s far too big to be carried around like that, you look ridiculous. Why don’t you stay for dinner? Frank can give you a lift back into town.
Although this suggestion is in fact sensible, and Ivan isn’t totally sure how he’s going to get Alexei back into town without the use of a car, he finds it in this moment more important to preserve the feeling, the strong radiating feeling of purity, which has driven him at last to decisive action, than to accept practical advice. No, thanks, he says. If you can just get his things together, we’ll go. Thank you.
Finally, Christine and Darren exchange a glance, as if to confirm quietly that they both agree Ivan is a lunatic, and furthermore that they think he’s too stupid to notice them exchanging this obvious glance right in front of him. But such a trifle cannot aggrieve or harm Ivan in his present state of mind, he thinks: in fact it doesn’t matter at all. Okay, says Christine. Have it your way. We’ll get his things.
The dog rests his thin head peacefully on Ivan’s shoulder while they wait together for Darren and Christine to pack up his accoutrements: feeding bowls, red lead, blue extendable lead, waste bags, fleece bed, sachets of wet food, and so on. Then Ivan attaches the red lead to the dog’s collar, puts the bag over his shoulder, and says: Cool. Thanks. Christine repeats that he’s welcome to stay for dinner and Ivan again politely refuses the invitation. Walking out the door with the lead in his hand, Alexei trotting obediently at his side, Ivan says in a friendly tone of voice: See you again. Christine closes the front door and immediately he can hear her voice through the door, talking in a high exasperated tone to Darren, about Ivan, no doubt: and why not, he thinks. They have each other, their housing development with the big engraved rock outside, their synthetic fragrances, polished marble countertops, and he wishes them happiness and inner peace. Okay, they look at him as a weird unnerving person, in need of some explanatory neurological or cognitive diagnosis, which for some reason never seemed to be forthcoming. But he does not have to look at himself in that same way. And with the sense that, on the contrary, there is nothing really wrong with him, he does not need to nurse any bitterness towards his mother and step-family anymore. He even begins to suspect that he might be the normal one, and they might after all be kind of weird and unnerving: a strangely guilt-inducing thought, which makes him go back to wishing them inner peace and happiness again.
Out of the estate he walks with the dog by his side, back out onto the main street system, and towards the train station, Alexei glancing up at him with what looks like a delighted smile. At the side of the street, Ivan stops and takes his phone from his pocket to type into the search engine: dog on commuter train dublin. An information box appears, indicating that pets are permitted to travel on commuter trains if appropriately restrained. Okay, Ivan murmurs aloud. Then, looking down at Alexei, who looks back up at him panting happily, Ivan says: You have to behave yourself, alright? Walking back through a commercial area on the way to the station, Ivan notices people looking at Alexei, children for example, pointing at the dog and smiling. Alexei, relishing the attention, lifts his paws elegantly, cock of the walk, even holding his head at a jaunty angle while they make their way along the street. A young woman in a purple tracksuit looks down at him as she passes and says aloud: Oh my God, your dog is gorgeous. Alexei responds to the attention by straining on his leash to try and reach the woman, obviously eager to be petted and admired by a complete stranger, and smiling awkwardly Ivan mutters: Yeah, thanks. Only now, attempting for the first time in nearly a year to walk his dog through a busy urban environment, does Ivan remember what an embarrassing little showboat Alexei can be in front of people. Ivan shortens the lead by winding it around his hand, and eventually succeeds in manoeuvring the dog to the station and through the barriers onto the platform. The display board shows that the train is due in seven minutes. Time, he thinks, to consider the next phase of the plan.
Ivan has, in reality, despite his decisive behaviour up at the house just now, no precise next steps in mind. If quiet and well behaved, Alexei could probably stay in the apartment for a short time, but his presence would technically breach the terms of the lease, and Ivan does not want to cause conflict among his flatmates, with whom his relations are already to his mind strained. But okay, he thinks: a night or two at the apartment, considering that the flatmates did sign that card for him when they heard about his dad, two nights will probably be okay. And afterwards? As Ivan stands alone on the train platform, the dog urinating on the base of a lamp-post, the pure clear strength of feeling inside him seems to have subsided, and he now feels a more familiar gnawing anxiety and dread. Maybe this plan doesn’t make any sense at all. He doesn’t actually have anywhere for Alexei to live. And his dramatic behaviour may have made Christine unlikely to take the dog back again, meaning Ivan has not only not improved the situation but actually made everything worse. Suddenly, with a buffeting feeling of shock, he remembers that tomorrow is Friday. He’s supposed to see Margaret at the weekend: what will he do with Alexei then? He looks down at the dog once more, and, seeking an outlet for his agitation, bends to stroke the soft downy coat between his ears. Along the rails he can hear the rhythmic sound of the train approaching, and Alexei turns to look up at him again with loyal and devoted eyes. It will all be okay, he thinks. Margaret will understand: she understands everything. As the train draws closer, threading through the grey of the late afternoon with its lights flaring ahead, Ivan feels strangely as if Margaret is in some way close to him, understanding and loving him quietly without words, and he knows that nothing is wrong. The dark mechanical body of the train comes clicking to a stop, and with a soft hissing sound the doors open. Together, Ivan and his dog enter the lighted carriage, the doors seal shut again, and the train begins its work of bearing them away.