On Sunday evening, Ivan is driving through Kildare town, with a large takeaway cheese pizza laid flat on the passenger seat, and the dog lying asleep in the back. Everything has gone according to plan, and in just a few minutes, he will arrive home, to his dad’s house, with his things, with the dog’s various accoutrements, ready to get settled in. The day before yesterday, he’d had to go out to the house to pick up the car, and while he was there he had a look around inside. That was sad, there’s no point denying how sad it was, to see their home that way, abandoned and cold. The curtains hanging lank and grey at the windows, and a film of blue-grey dust on all the surfaces, the low hall table, the lips of the skirting boards. Every room had the sad cold feeling of death, a dead person’s house, Ivan thought at the time, which was, after all, exactly what it was. To suppress or dispel this feeling, he went around purposefully turning the lights on and off in all the rooms, and then doing the same with the taps, the radiators, flushing the toilets, even trapping a spider in a piece of kitchen towel and releasing it into the back garden. Opening and closing the windows, things like that. When he got back, he thought, he would have time to do some cleaning, to make the house look more homely and normal. Afterwards, he got in the car, drove back to Dublin, picked up the dog from the flat, and then drove to Leitrim to see Margaret.
Arriving at the cottage on Friday night, Ivan got out of the car just as the front door came open, an oblong of yellow light, and Margaret was standing there, in silhouette at first, and then, as he reached her, plainly visible, smiling, in her red woollen jersey, and he took her in his arms, saying: Hello. Laughing, she looked up at him, they kissed, a warm contented kiss of simplicity and happiness. Where’s the little Alexander? she asked. Oh, Ivan said, he’s in the car. One second. Together they went out onto the gravel, Margaret in her slippers, and it was raining lightly, and Ivan opened the back door of the car to let the dog out. Alexei trotted right over to Margaret, tail wagging, and she crouched down over him, petting his ears and head, saying: Aren’t you beautiful? Delightedly the dog licked at her hands, her wrists, while Ivan took his things from the car. Inside, in the hallway, Alexei ran circles around Margaret, getting under her feet, making her laugh. He’s just overexcited, Ivan said. He’ll calm down in a minute. Or I can tell him to stop. Flushed with pleasure, watching the dog frolic around the floorboards, Margaret answered: No, he’s great. He’s so handsome. A little aristocrat. Looking up at Ivan, she asked: Would you like to eat something? I have dinner on. They went into the kitchen and the dog followed after them, paws making a tick-tacking sound on the tiles. Margaret lifted a dish from the oven and left it on the cooktop, shutting the oven door, and asked Ivan how the drive had been. The kitchen was filled with the rich savoury smell of cooking, braised pork, onions, and her low voice was asking him thoughtful questions, and the dog was padding around the room cheerfully. I wish I lived here, Ivan wanted to say, but he didn’t. Instead, he said the drive was fine, and they sat down to eat, soft shredded meat with rice and vegetables and salad, and Alexei lay stretched out under the table, his tail beating now and then against the floor. Margaret said she was sure that everyone was talking about her in town, but no one had said anything to her face yet. She tried to laugh, she said it would be the scandal of the month, and that people would move on eventually. She looked tired then, Ivan thought, but also very beautiful, and he loved her with a love that was powerful and even dangerous. If anyone ever said anything to hurt her, he knew that he would be capable of wreaking extreme violence on that person, although it was obvious she wouldn’t want him to do that, but he knew the capability was there inside him, to protect her at all costs. Even the idea of an unkind word, an unkind glance, directed towards Margaret, it didn’t matter by whom, the idea opened down into a deep well of vengeance, to the point that Ivan was practically picturing himself with some kind of sword in hand, ready to strike down the detractors, not that he had ever handled a sword or would want to in real life, being by conviction a pacifist, but there was something true in the feeling nonetheless.
When they were getting ready for bed that night, Margaret taking off her little necklace at the dressing table, she asked when his chess competition was coming up. He told her it was the week after next, running from Monday through until Friday. While she brushed her hair, he explained in more detail the format of the event, and she asked if there would be any spectators. Ivan said not really. Some people’s parents or friends might be there, he said. But spectators, like random people, no, there wouldn’t be any interest. Classical chess is very slow. And if you don’t play, you wouldn’t really understand what you were looking at anyway. Margaret nodded her head, rising from the dressing table, while Ivan was sitting on the end of the mattress watching her. Standing at the laundry basket, her back to him, she started to unbutton her blouse. But sorry, he said, why do you ask?
No real reason, she said. I’ll be in Dublin one of those days, for a work thing. But no, I was just curious.
Quickly Ivan said: Oh, I didn’t know. Which day? You know it’s my birthday that week. Sorry, not that I even care, just to mention.
She looked back at him, smiling. You never said, she replied. I’m going to be there on the Friday. What day is your birthday?
Tuesday, he said.
Twenty-three. You’re getting old.
He laughed, feeling light, bashful, happy. I know, he said. You want to see each other when you’re in town? You don’t have to come to the chess thing, obviously. Although it would make me look really cool if you did.
At that she gave a sheepish smile, folding her blouse into the laundry basket. Well, I doubt that, she said.
But she also seemed pleased, and he noticed that she didn’t definitively say no. In his mind he couldn’t help imagining the scenario, Margaret being there at the event, arriving perhaps just in time to see his opponent resign. Rising from the table then, victorious among defeated rivals, Ivan would see her, and what would she be wearing, another one of her light thin blouses perhaps, it felt good to imagine the details, her hair pinned back behind her head or thrown loosely over one shoulder, the little necklace at her throat. He would go to her, of course: and would she let him kiss her? The image was so intense it was kind of sexy, kissing her in front of all those people, allowing everyone to presume, and correctly, that they, which was true. To kiss her, yes, in front of everyone, to be seen with her in that way. Not standing alone as usual after his game had concluded, watching one of the other boards, chess notation passing at high almost hallucinatory speeds through his brain, some of it maybe nonsensical, moves that weren’t even in the position, his head like an overheated computer with all the fans whirring. To see her there instead, yes, to go to her, and they would talk about where to have dinner, putting on their jackets: it was like a dream, beautiful. To exchange a simple kiss, heedless of the eyes of others, watched or not.
Now, parking up on the driveway outside his father’s house, Ivan notices with a strange feeling that one of the upstairs lights is on: the light in what was once Peter’s room. Ivan did check that bulb on Friday morning, along with all the others, but he was certain, almost certain, that he had turned everything off again before he left. Getting out of the car, he takes his backpack, balances the pizza box flat in one hand, and takes the dog’s leash in the other, letting him scramble down from the back seat. Inside, in the hallway, after Ivan shuts the door, but before he can do anything else, before he can reach for the light switch, or put down the pizza, he realises, he knows, that something is different. And this realisation, this foreknowledge, prevents him somehow from feeling frightened when from upstairs he hears a voice calling out: Hello? It’s a woman’s voice. He stands in the hall not afraid but dumbfounded, a huge blank neutrality of shock breaking out over him, unable to speak, unable even to formulate coherent thought, as the light in the landing comes on overhead and someone appears at the top of the staircase: a young woman, a girl. She’s holding her phone upright in her hand, like she’s in the middle of a video call. Oh my God, she says. Wait one second, this is crazy. Let me call you back. This remark is addressed to the screen of her phone, which she taps, and then holds loose in her hand at her side. To Ivan, she says: I’m so sorry about this. I think I know who you are. She’s wearing a tiny crop top with a big knitted cardigan. You’re Ivan, aren’t you? she asks.
Swallowing, Ivan answers: Right, but who are you?
She gives a wild little laugh. Oh my God, she repeats. I’m so sorry. I think your brother tried to tell you I was here, but you weren’t answering your phone. I’m a friend of his.
Oh, Ivan says. Okay.
Yeah, I got evicted from the place where I was living. And Peter said I could stay here while I was looking for somewhere else. I’m sorry he didn’t tell you. I think he did try, like I said.
Right, Ivan repeats.
For a moment they stand there facing one another down the staircase, under the pendant landing light. She looks, he thinks, like the kind of girl who would under normal circumstances never acknowledge his existence. Her nails, for instance, are painted a dark kind of shimmering purple colour, and she has a nose piercing, and her face has the fresh scrubbed look of someone who usually wears a lot of make-up but isn’t wearing any right now. I’m Naomi, she says presently.
I’m Ivan, he answers. As you know.
Alexei, still on the leash, but obviously excited by the unexpected presence of a stranger in the house, now lets out a kind of playful howling bark, bowing his head down at the bottom step. Ivan looks at him and says distractedly: Oh, sorry. He’s friendly, he’s not aggressive.
No, he’s super cute, the girl says. I thought he was living with your mother.
Disorientated by the level of information this person seems to possess about him and his life, Ivan answers: He was. But, uh, he’s with me now.
Again they lapse into silence. The hand Ivan is using to hold the pizza box is growing sore and overly hot. The girl has her arms crossed over her chest. Do you want me to leave? she asks. I totally understand if you do, it’s just awkward for tonight, because I don’t have a car or anything.
Ivan is once again wrongfooted by her words, feeling that he has at no point succeeded in picking up the thread of this conversation. Oh, he says. No, you don’t have to leave. It’s just, from my point of view, I don’t really have anywhere else I can go right now. With the dog.
But you shouldn’t have to go anywhere. It’s your house.
He swallows again, unable to produce in his brain a single meaningful thought, and says: Well, I might go and put down this pizza.
Oh right, she says. Totally.
Ivan lets Alexei off the lead and he instantly trots up the stairs to greet the girl. After repeating that he is going to put down the pizza, Ivan goes through the door at the back of the hall, to the kitchen. He rests the pizza box on the dining table and then stands, uncomprehending, staring down at the orange-and-red printed pattern on the top of the box, showing an image of a chef in a toque hat kissing his fingers. It’s cleaner, he thinks: the house is cleaner, than it was on Friday morning. Someone has gone around with a vacuum, at the least, and probably a cloth and a basin of soapy water as well. Who, he wonders. The girl, it must have been. For some reason the idea makes him feel faint and dizzy. He can hear Alexei bolting back down the stairs now, and sees him entering the kitchen, his ears pricked, lively, with a sort of confused but happy look. The girl follows after him, apparently unfazed. Not knowing what to say, having absolutely no idea in his head whatsoever, Ivan hears himself saying aloud: You want some pizza? She gives a little smile at that and answers: Oh my God, that’s so nice of you. I will take a slice, but only if you’re sure you don’t mind.
From the overhead cupboard Ivan takes two plates and lays them on the table. The girl sits down and they each take a slice of pizza and begin eating, while the dog wanders around the room cheerfully. What to tell Margaret, Ivan thinks. How to write a message explaining the situation. How to even describe the situation in his own mind.
So your brother tells me you’re like, a chess genius, the girl says.
Ivan, chewing, gives no answer for a moment. Then, swallowing uncomfortably, he says: I’m not, at all. I play chess, but I’m very far from being a genius. I think Peter uses that word too lightly.
She’s smiling, helping herself to some of the garlic dip. Well, I’ve never heard him call anyone else a genius, she says. He seems to think most people are idiots. Ivan tears a piece of crust into two smaller pieces, trying to think, trying to create in his brain one single phrase of thought. With her mouth full, the girl says innocuously: He never mentioned me to you?
Oh, says Ivan. Well, we don’t talk a lot. Actually, we don’t talk at all.
Recently, I know, yeah. But I mean before, when you were talking. He never mentioned anything about me then?
Inside his head a sensation like radio static. Recently, I know, she said. And what else does she know, he thinks, what else might Peter have chosen to tell her. Hm, Ivan says. I’m not sure. If he did, I might not remember.
Eating again, she says: It’s cool. I didn’t think he would have.
The dog goes out the open double doors into the living room and climbs up on his old spot on the sofa. Gradually a thought begins to form in Ivan’s mind, which is that this girl is, now that he thinks about it, obviously, not just a friend of Peter’s. But if she’s more than a friend, Ivan thinks, why is she all the way out here in Kildare and not staying at Peter’s flat in town? And, after all – the thought strikes him with sudden intensity – what age can this girl be? He finds himself looking at her closely now across the table, her pretty face, with the silver ring in her nose, her little crop top: and only when she looks back at him does he return his attention quickly to the pizza. If she and Peter are only friends, why would she ask Ivan whether he had ever mentioned her? Why would Peter be confiding in her about the fact that he and Ivan haven’t been speaking recently? And yet if they’re more than friends, what on earth is going on? What about the dinner, about Sylvia, I’m still in love with her, what to make of all that? In an unintentionally energetic tone of voice, Ivan says: How do the two of you know each other, if you don’t mind me asking?
She’s toying with the pizza slice in her fingers. Hm, she says. We met, I don’t know. On a night out, at a New Year’s thing.
Are you a lawyer as well? he asks.
God, no. I’m in college, kind of. In final year.
Nodding his head, Ivan feels the beat of his pulse growing harder and faster. Okay, he says. You’re like my age, then.
She has folded the slice lengthwise to take a bite, and now with her mouth full again she answers: Yeah, why? Do I look older?
Ivan rises to his feet, not knowing why, and goes to the sink, on the pretext of pouring himself a glass of water. No, he says. That’s why I was curious, how you and Peter became friends. From the age gap.
Behind him, she gives a little laugh. Well, I was just saying that to be polite, she says. We actually used to go out together. But we broke up. Like a few days ago, that’s why I’m here.
Buzzing sort of feeling in his head and brain: like an empty glass jar with a bluebottle trapped inside. He pours the water and drinks it down, standing at the sink. After swallowing he says: Ah, okay. Then he thinks to add mechanically: Sorry about that.
That’s Peter for you, she replies. I mean, we were together for nearly a year, and he never even told you that I exist.
Ivan turns back to face her, watching her dip a piece of crust into the pot of garlic sauce. Remembering again the night of the dinner. Do you think any normal woman. Standing at the countertop, his head strangely light and empty, Ivan replies: Yeah, he never tells me anything.
She’s wiping her fingers now on one of the little paper napkins they give you. You ever hear of this person Sylvia? she asks.
Ivan is silent for a moment, the evident complexities of the situation crowding around him in an oppressive way. But whose complexities, he thinks? Not his. Why should he have to be tactful and sensitive? On Peter’s behalf? Why? Finally he answers: Right. He was together with her for a long time. She’s like, basically part of our family.
Naomi nods her head, looking down at her plate. Is she pretty? she asks.
Ivan pauses. You haven’t met her? he asks.
She shakes her head.
Oh, he says. Well, to me she’s kind of like a sister, so it’s hard to describe, if she’s pretty or not.
She just nods and says nothing.
He waits a moment, watching her, and then he says: Obviously I don’t know the situation. In my experience, Sylvia is a very genuine person. I wouldn’t say the same for my brother, but for her, that’s what I would say.
Naomi gives a kind of absent smile, touching her nose with her fingertips. Don’t worry, she says. I have nothing against her. I’m just curious.
With an agitated feeling, which could be pity, or annoyance, revenge, or something else, even worse, Ivan hears himself saying: I can show you a picture, if you want.
She looks up at him, an intrigued smiling look. Yes please, she says.
And why not, Ivan thinks, making his way through the double doors into the living room, why not. The dog lifts his head mildly, blinking, awoken from sleep, as Ivan takes from the bottom shelf of the bookcase a glossy red photo album and goes back into the kitchen. With the buzzing growing louder in his head he sits down at the table and opens the half-empty book, leafing backwards through the unused plastic pockets to the most recent photographs, while Naomi watches on. He covers just slightly with his arm so that she can’t see him flicking past some images of himself, at the age of sixteen, receiving the FIDE Master title, shaking hands with various chess people. He had terrible skin at the time and really long hair. Before that, pictures from a family wedding, and then Peter’s college graduation ceremony. There, in front of the stone columns, black robes tossed back by the wind, the two of them, Peter and Sylvia, together. Ivan’s head humming very loudly now, he turns the album for Naomi to see, pointing out with a finger the photograph in question. That’s her, he says. Both of them, obviously.
Naomi is still holding the paper napkin crumpled in her fingers. Impassively she gazes down at the photograph for a time. Oh, she says. Then after another moment she adds: Jesus, he’s the image of you.
Disconcerted, Ivan says nothing. He had expected her to be more interested in the picture of Sylvia. Also, his belief was, or at least it had always been said, that Peter was considered handsome, as far as these things went. Not knowing what to say, Ivan says weakly: Well, he didn’t have braces.
With a laugh she looks up at him. You’re funny, she says. When are you getting them off?
Soon. In the new year.
She’s looking back down at the photograph again. So that’s Sylvia, she remarks. Without saying anything else, she turns back another page of the album, and pauses a moment. Then, turning the book towards him, she asks: Is this your family?
In the background, the same stone columns, the cobblestones underfoot, and in the foreground, the whole group together. Peter and Sylvia in the centre, in their billowing robes, and Christine in a pale-blue skirt suit, standing at Sylvia’s shoulder, and beside Peter, their father wearing suit and tie, which was something he always hated, getting dressed up like that. And there, in front of Peter and their dad, a little boy, only twelve years old, very pallid and timid-looking, which is Ivan himself. Yeah, he says aloud. That’s us.
Turning the album back in her own direction, looking over the image again, she remarks: Your mother is elegant. I like the suit.
Mm, Ivan says.
Peter doesn’t like her, does he?
Uncertainly, Ivan pauses again, and then says: Well, they both have strong personalities. Deep down I guess they do love each other, or whatever.
Naomi looks thoughtful again, nodding her head. Touching lightly the transparent plastic film over the photograph with a fingertip, she says: And this is your dad?
Right, he says.
I can see it, she replies. The resemblance, a little bit. Raising her eyes to look up at Ivan, she adds: I’m really sorry. I know you must miss him.
I do.
With her eyes once more drawn to the photograph she says: It sounds like he was a really good father.
Ivan feels touched, uncomfortably, by these words, and finds himself looking down at his fingernails. Peter said that? he asks.
Yeah, he thought the world of him.
Ivan swallows and says nothing.
Still looking at the photograph, Naomi says: She’s different from what I pictured. What is she now, a professor or something?
Realising that she is once again talking about Sylvia, Ivan replies: Right.
I guess this is from before the accident.
With the recurring strange sensation of being unable to think clearly, to formulate clear thoughts, he answers disjointedly: It would have been. Like a few years before. Because they broke up after that.
She goes on gazing down at the image. But he’s still in love with her, she says.
Once again, the complexities of the situation strike Ivan as pressing, and he begins to feel that they are not Peter’s complexities alone, but also this person Naomi’s, and Sylvia’s, and perhaps he shouldn’t have intervened to show her the photograph after all. His motivations in doing so were not, after all, entirely clear, and may not have been wholesome. She doesn’t look upset, however, just pensive. After a moment Ivan says: It’s not really my business. But it sounds like maybe Peter hasn’t been that nice to you. And I’m sorry for that, if it is the case.
She shrugs her shoulders. Men are dogs, she says. No offence. Peter’s not the worst.
He swallows. Well, I disagree, he says. But okay, it’s your opinion.
Glancing up at him, she says: You disagree that men are dogs? Or you disagree that your brother isn’t the worst?
Awkwardly he tries to give a little laugh. Hm, he says. Both.
Oh, there are worse guys around than Peter, believe me, she replies. I could tell you stories, Ivan. There are men out there who make your brother look like a prince. You mind if I have another slice of pizza?
He tells her to help herself, and she closes the photo album and moves it to another part of the table, away from the food, before taking a slice of pizza from the box. Sitting back in her chair, she chews contemplatively, and Ivan, beginning again to feel hungry, also takes another slice. After some time spent eating in silence, he ventures to say: Did you do a lot of cleaning? Around the house, I mean. I just notice it looks a lot better than when I was here before.
With her mouth full of food she grins at him. That was your brother, she says. Pretty much the whole day Friday he was cleaning, I just left him to it. You know him, he’s a neat freak.
In some surprise, Ivan pauses. Friday, the same day he himself was here. They must have just missed each other. Then he answers: Yeah, I guess he’s always been like that. Things annoy him easily. Like, if they’re out of place.
Naomi makes a face then which is like a private smile to herself. So true, she says. People included. Why did you block his number, by the way?
He looks at her, sees her funny weird smile, and then looks back down at his pizza slice, glistening under the ceiling light. That’s between us, he says. He knows why.
Something to do with your girlfriend?
As he suspected, he thinks, she knows everything, Peter has told her everything, he has betrayed Ivan’s trust in order to confide in this person, this girl, whose existence he has been keeping secret for almost a year. And without looking up Ivan answers: With respect, it’s private.
She’s eating again, wiping her lips with her hand. You’re still seeing her? she asks. I don’t know anything about it, except she’s older. And she lives down the country somewhere.
Irritated now, not even at her, but as if through her at his brother, Ivan retorts: You’re right, you don’t know anything about it. And she’s not even that much older, she’s barely older than Peter.
Thirty-six, right?
Ivan blows out between his lips, getting up abruptly from the table, pacing to the patio door. It’s private, he repeats. He shouldn’t have told you that. And anyway, he’s a hypocrite, because you’re the same age I am.
From behind him, the girl says: What, he thinks she’s too old for you?
It’s nothing to do with him, Ivan says. He has no right to comment.
Ignoring this remark, she goes on: Yeah, he’s weird about stuff like that. He thinks he’s too old for me as well, he says it all the time. Or he used to anyway, before he got rid of me.
These words occasion in Ivan another strange feeling, unpleasant, and he shakes his head. Whatever, he says. That’s his thing.
You know he’s a mess at the moment, she says. Not that it’s an excuse, but he’s seriously not doing well. Ever since your dad died, I’m sorry. He hasn’t been right in the head.
In a heavy pressured silence Ivan stands at the patio door, saying nothing, wanting not to have to speak at all. Finally he turns from the door, saying tersely: No, I didn’t know that.
The girl is moving her head from side to side, looking down at the half-eaten slice of pizza on her plate. Yeah, she says. I’m kind of worried about him, to be honest. He has said some things, I don’t know, that would make me concerned. But I don’t want to freak you out. I’m sure he’s okay. He probably just drinks too much. Glancing up at Ivan she adds: And he’s upset that you’re not speaking to him, obviously. He brings it up a lot. When he’s drunk, especially.
As Ivan listens to these words, the bad sensation intensifies, hard and compressing. Right, he says. Okay.
She goes on looking at him, a direct look, and her eyes are calm and deep. After a moment she says: You know he really loves you.
Ivan feels himself exhaling sharply, feels the breath exiting through his throat and mouth as if knocked out of him by force. Embarrassed by this, by everything, flushed, angry, he says: That’s actually none of your business. Like, who even are you? I’ve never heard of you before in my life. This is our family you’re talking about. And you’re literally just some random girl.
She’s still looking at him, the same deep look in her eyes. Fair enough, she says.
He forces his gaze down at the floorboards, inhaling slowly, willing himself to let the feeling cool away and dissolve before he speaks again. Finally in a thin detached voice he says: Look, I have some stuff I have to do. Work and all that. So I might go and do that now. You can stay, obviously. Needless to say. I’ll be in my room.
For a moment she says nothing. Then she answers neutrally: Okay.
Okay, he repeats. Cool. And if you’re speaking to Peter, I don’t know if you are, but don’t tell him that I’m here. Like, don’t mention that you’ve seen me, or say anything about me at all. Alright?
Chancing a glance at her, he sees her shrugging. Whatever, she says. It’s like you said, it has nothing to do with me.
Right, Ivan says. Well, goodnight then.
Looking away from him, she answers coolly: Yeah, goodnight.
Finally Ivan leaves the kitchen and makes his way upstairs, with a sense of dragging his drained and exhausted body behind him. From the living room, he can hear Alexei hopping down from his spot on the sofa and coming along the hall to follow him up the steps. And this sound, the familiar little footfall of the dog’s paws, following, his innocent nature, his inability to understand anything, and yet always trusting, this sound fills Ivan with a terrible almost shameful pity. Upstairs he opens his bedroom door and lets Alexei in before him, lets Alexei jump up on the bed and stretch out playfully with his tail curled, as if the weekend has been wonderfully enjoyable for all concerned, making new friends, going on car journeys, and so forth. As if he doesn’t know, which he probably doesn’t, that Ivan’s father is never coming home again, as if he is still cheerfully waiting to greet him whenever he returns. Getting onto the bed himself, Ivan puts his arms around the dog’s little body and breathes in his mute animal warmth. Alexei, having no idea why Ivan might be upset, lies there politely, allowing himself to be enfolded in his arms, understanding nothing. He’s a mess, the girl said, meaning Peter. He’s not doing well at all. It’s something Ivan doesn’t want to think about: doesn’t even feel he should have to think about, considering Peter’s words, the disrespect, and, in particular, the flagrant hypocrisy that has just been uncovered. The fact that Peter himself, while pouring scorn on Margaret’s good character, had and knew himself to have at that very moment a girlfriend of Ivan’s own age. Ivan is supposed to be concerned for the mental well-being of someone who has shown him such rank contempt? No. But then why do these words exert this pressure on him, the girl’s words, he’s drinking too much, he’s not right in the head. She was trying to make Ivan think about something that he does not want to think about, that he even intentionally blocks and pushes away from conscious thought. The presence, behind Peter’s smooth careless facade, of a certain darkness, a certain suppressed despair or rage at the world. The sense that although he is always surrounded by supposed friends, Peter is in fact a very lonely person, disturbingly lonely, that he suffers from troubling and unhealthy thoughts. The unspeakable fear, yes, that he might be capable of acting on these thoughts in an irreparable way. Like when the girl said she was worried about him, that he sometimes said things, and Ivan automatically thought and at the same time refused to think about what she might mean. The possibility, the idea, of what Peter might do, what he might be capable of doing, planning to do, or even at this moment actually carrying out. This in itself is, of course, no reason for Ivan to reconcile with his brother: simply because of a groundless and irrational fear that something bad might happen if he doesn’t. And yet, it lends to the conflict between them an unsavoury flavour somehow, an unresolved aspect that makes Ivan uncomfortable, sensing more and more the encroaching presence of thoughts and memories he would rather shut out. Like when he was a child, the way he looked up to his brother, idolised him. The way adults would listen when Peter was talking, practically hanging on his words, their father so shyly proud of him, and Christine pretending to be exasperated, calling him a little devil, saying he would be the death of her. He was the captain of his school chess club, he was the one who taught Ivan to play. It was Peter, who had never read any opening theory in his life, who could literally only play the Evans Gambit, who probably only joined the chess club for a girl or something, it was all because of him, everything, all the years of exultation and misery. And after Christine moved in with Frank and they had to spend every weekend in Skerries, the way Peter would stand up for Ivan, and remember what foods he didn’t like to eat, and stay inside playing chess with him when the others were in the garden. At dinner, making little jokes only the two of them understood, so they would be cracking up together at the table while everyone else ate in silence. Myslím, že nepochopili vtip. But before long Peter had to go away to college. Alone with his step-siblings there was never anything for Ivan to laugh about. They only liked sports and outdoor activities, and Christine started saying it wasn’t good for children to sit inside too much. Long periods of time would go by with no visits from Peter. Then one day he brought home a new visitor, which was a girl, his new girlfriend, and her name was Sylvia. They were in their dad’s house then, this same house. Peter and Sylvia stood by the fireplace talking and smiling, and Ivan stared at them wordlessly, overawed. They looked very tall, the two of them, and beautiful, like film stars, and relaxed, happy. Ivan had never seen his brother looking so relaxed and happy. After that Peter came home more often, always with Sylvia, and the house would be noisy with conversation and laughter and footsteps racing up and down the stairs. Ivan used to confide in Peter then, telling him about problems at school, and Peter would always strongly take his side and even get annoyed on his behalf. Every year at Christmas, Peter and Sylvia would bring Ivan up to Dublin for a day to go shopping, and at lunchtime they would sit in the tea rooms on Grafton Street together, under the stained-glass windows, and Ivan would drink a hot chocolate with cream. The smell of coffee and hot butter he remembers, the crowded clamour of voices and crockery, and everyone’s faces shiny and flushed from the cold outside. That was before. After the accident, it was different. Sylvia went into hospital, and then a different kind of hospital, and Peter came to live at home for a while. It’s no good thinking about that now, going back over all that. Yes, in retrospect, Ivan can see, with the eyes of an adult, that Peter was not coping very well at the time. But in the real chronology of events, Ivan was only sixteen. He had his own problems, his chess, his school, and so on. His painful infatuation with that girl Kelly Heneghan who didn’t seem to know he was alive. Frankly, if he had to admit the truth, Ivan found his brother’s presence in the house uncomfortable. Peter barely spoke to anyone, barely made eye contact. For hours at a time he would just sit staring into space, doing nothing. And he cried, okay, not openly, but you could hear him crying in his room. It was awkward. Ivan had his own life to worry about. What was he supposed to do? In the evenings after school, he started avoiding Peter’s company, excusing himself early from dinner, slipping out of the room whenever Peter entered. Obviously the situation was sad, with Sylvia being in hospital and everything, Ivan was sincerely sad for that, but the doctors said the recovery was going as well as could be expected, and it’s not like Ivan could solve the problem. It was just something he didn’t want to think about, honestly. What good would come from dwelling on it, worrying about it all the time? And the whole thing dragged on and on. Even after Peter moved back to Dublin, he would come home periodically and lie in his room for days on end, not talking, not even eating meals. For a year it was like this, on and off. The brother who had looked out for and defended Ivan was gone, and in his place was this unnerving kind of ghostly presence, practically haunting the house, making everyone feel bad. One of these nights, Ivan woke up thirsty and went downstairs to get himself a glass of water, yes, fine. And in the kitchen he found Peter sitting alone at the table. It was late, maybe three o’clock in the morning, and he tried to creep back out, but Peter had already seen him. You don’t have to run away from me, he said. I’m not a monster. Ivan stood frozen in the doorway, saying nothing. Why even think about all this now? Peter was crying then, openly, with tears running down his face. I’m just really scared, Ivan, he said. I don’t know what to do. I don’t have anyone to talk to. That’s what he said, I’m scared, I don’t have anyone to talk to, that’s how Ivan remembers it. And instead of acknowledging that he had heard these words spoken, Ivan just turned around silently and went back up to bed. It was a conversation he didn’t want to have. Peter was like twenty-six, Ivan was only sixteen or seventeen, it wasn’t any of his business. He was just a child. Wasn’t it, in a way, actually wrong of Peter to put him in that position? Soon after, Peter went back to Dublin for good, and things returned to normal, more or less normal. In fact, not normal at all, because Peter and Sylvia, who had been practically married before, were broken up, and Peter stopped coming home, stopped sending Ivan funny messages and chess puzzles, started taking holidays with his new lawyer friends. He didn’t like his family anymore, any of them, it was obvious. He avoided them, and in a way they avoided him too. You could tell their dad was relieved that Peter wasn’t coming home so often, not that he didn’t love him, but just that the situation had become so awkward. Ivan never told his parents about what happened that time, Peter crying and saying he was scared. He never even really thought about it again, in fact he deliberately avoided thinking about it, with a sense of embarrassment, and worse than embarrassment, something like shame, resentment, whenever it came into his head and he had to bat it away again. Peter was such a difficult person, always making life difficult. The two of them started getting into fights whenever they saw each other, about anything, nothing at all. Peter laughing, dismissive, rehearsing the most stale liberal talking points, calling Ivan a creep or an incel. I’m sorry, but you don’t relate to people on a normal level. I’m trying to have a human conversation and you’re talking like a robot. Ivan shouting at him, screaming, you’re not even smart, you’re actually fucking stupid, slamming doors in his face. Inside his own bedroom then, taking books from his bookshelves and throwing them at the wall, just to relieve the feeling, his brother’s smirking superiority. Pictures on social media of Peter on holiday with his rich friends, drinking cocktails, always with some insanely perfect-looking girl beside him. And the pictures would have hundreds of likes, maybe thousands. While Ivan was at home alone with all the lights off, entering depressingly niche search terms into pornography websites. Okay, maybe he was a creep, maybe he was an incel. Maybe he didn’t relate to people on a normal level. It was better than being an arrogant narcissist at least. Better than arranging his whole life around going to parties and getting blowjobs from brainless rich girls. Right, but was it actually better than that? No, of course not, of course it wasn’t. At eighteen, nineteen years old, Ivan felt a crushing desire to arrange his own life in this exact way, going to parties, getting blowjobs, he would have given anything, he would have pretended to have almost any opinions he could think of, in order to make this happen to him. Which Peter knew very well, and thought was hilarious, because they hated each other. When he brought home that Italian girlfriend, who wore her blouse half-open at dinner and no bra. Throwing her head back laughing at Peter’s jokes. Kill me now, actually just kill me. Their mutual hatred, yes. It goes back to that, Peter’s behaviour, and Ivan’s response, lack of response. From all of this, the disappointment, the contempt, fury, coruscating hostility. Desire to inflict pain on one another. Ivan has never again seen Peter crying, has never seen him showing any emotion at all, even when their father died, even afterwards, at the funeral, nothing, just the same polite distracted smile. Like their father was nothing to him, death was nothing, he was bored, he had no feelings. The eulogy he gave, so polished, full of clever observations and jokes, making everyone laugh indulgently, but expressing no sincere emotion at all. Underneath Peter’s smooth demeanour, Ivan has always known there is something else, but he has not wanted to know that, to allow that knowledge into contact with his life. Like Peter’s strange behaviour at the dinner, his words about Sylvia, I’m still in love with her, and now the fact of this college student, his ex-girlfriend, who knows all about Ivan, all about everything, and she’s saying that Peter isn’t doing well mentally, all of this suggests not only hypocrisy but something wrong, Ivan thinks, something actually not right. At this juncture, wriggling out of Ivan’s grasp, Alexei gets up on his feet and shakes himself, his ears flapping back and forth. Gripping the quilt with his claws he stretches, yawns, and then hops down off the bed and curls up underneath Ivan’s desk instead. He understands nothing, he’s just a dog. Probably he was getting too hot with Ivan clasping onto him, that’s all. For a few minutes Ivan lies on the bed not knowing what to think, what task to feed into his brain, to go on analysing past events, his own mistakes and regrets, the wrongs he has done to others, or the wrongs done by others to him, or the confusing events in his life that seem to involve both kinds of wrong, or to think about his father, or about the girl downstairs, or about Margaret, the tournament next week, the light thin blouse she might wear. But no: his mind is too sickened to think about anything. Finally, sliding his phone from his pocket in silence, he opens the app and begins without further consideration to play a game of chess.