Wakes with a pounding headache. And where is he, window on the wrong side of the bed, fragrance of fabric softener, ceiling too low. Mouth full of some sour fluid, throbbing pain in the cavity between his brain and skull. Spare room he realises, Christine’s house, and remembers. Closes his eyes again. The candlestick. And Ivan, his lip bleeding, terror in his eyes. Feels for his phone under the pillow, nothing, and then gropes on the nightstand, nearly knocking the lamp. Dead. Cold weight in his hand. Gets up, pulls on yesterday’s clothes, to think, not to think. Downstairs, the fragrant glistening silence of an empty house. No one home. And what had he expected: Christine at the stovetop making him a bowl of porridge, cooing, chattering, scolding, distracting him a little longer from the disaster he has made of his life. Instead he’s alone in an empty kitchen in Skerries and the time on the oven clock reads: 10.52. Christ, can he really have slept, what, eleven hours, twelve. Exhausted, disorientated, he tries to find a charger for his phone, looking around the outlets at random, checking the same one twice, nothing, uses the bathroom, no toothbrush, coffee machine he doesn’t like, should he shower here or go home, try to eat something or don’t bother, quarter past eleven now, still unshowered, unshaven, head pounding. Better perhaps that no one’s home. Spared Frank’s complaints, what’s he doing here, how long is he staying. Darren with his obsequious devotion to his faceless corporate employers. And Christine, her divided loyalties, her false good cheer, trying to smooth things over, yes. She has her own family, her own role, with all its various demands. She cannot be always available. That lesson has to be learned sometime, and why not at sixteen, or at six. A mother is not an endless thing. She has done what she could. How long he tries to think since the last time he was alone with her. As last night, watching television, just the two of them. And when next, if ever. Leaves the house by half eleven with the nothing he arrived with, phone a dead weight in his pocket, and it’s raining again, oh well.
Train rattling over the coast. Dark sea torn by brittle white breakers, gulls floating black against grey sky. Every option exhausted. Nowhere left to hide from himself. Back to the flat, trapped alone again in the incessant repetition of his own thoughts, sick, paranoid, drugging himself to sleep. Unwelcome, unwanted anywhere, unloved. No, no, he can’t, he can’t do it. Go looking online he thinks, easiest, painless, fastest most painless, easy foolproof. 12 simple pain-free methods that can’t go wrong. Hasn’t he apologised in advance to practically everyone, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, hasn’t his life for the last year, last seven years, been a series of abject apologies, never good enough. You’ve been determined to humiliate me she said. And is that true after all, is that what he wanted. To destroy her. Force himself into her privacy, tear away all her careful pretences, expose her terrified and defenceless like everyone else. Or did he only mean to get close to her, in his lumbering way, knocking over and breaking everything in his path, to feel her nearer and nearer still. Flaring hot the memory of her saying: Maybe deep down you really wish I was dead. And against the thought he hears himself muttering involuntarily on the train the word: No. To deny what? The truth of what she said. Or the fact of her having said it. To deny that he was there at all, that it happened, that she, and he, the candlestick, that anything has ever changed between them, that any time has passed at all. That they are no longer identical with themselves. His partner, his helpmate. She offered him friendship, a kind of friendship, yes, but he needed more. Or perhaps she offered him more, screened behind a veil of friendship, and he tore at that veil, foolishly, frantically, believing he could get to her. What have they been doing all these years, what did they think would happen. How dare you. You’re jealous. You’re saying some stupid things.
Carriage pulling in at Malahide, hiss of opening doors. Few stragglers with umbrellas getting on. Salt smell of the air, fresh, and the doors slide shut. And if Naomi had been at the house last night, he thinks, if it had worked out the way he planned. Would she have been happy to see him? To have him come crawling after all, admitting defeat, pleading with her. Perhaps they too would have fought, you know what your problem is, you’re a headcase, you need help. Or she may in the end have greeted him without surprise, offhandedly, rolling herself a cigarette on the arm of the couch. Oh hey, what’s up. Can you pass me my filters? Watch TV together, talking about nothing. Feel the temperature of his blood return to normal. A human being again. And in bed, the warmth of her sleeping body in his arms. Yes, she, his nemesis, his accomplice, his little plaything. That he has come to love her, such an absurdity: like a stage fight where it turns out the knives are real. Probably thought she could get the better of him, teach him a lesson, without getting her fingers burned. Have some fun, make a little bit of cash. Just a game. Too clever for her own good. Now she’s worse off than when she started, no money, nowhere to live, rejected, cast aside. What she feels about the whole depressing experiment he can’t imagine. If she had been there. To delay however briefly his next encounter with the meaninglessness of existence. Naomi, I love you. Her open mouth, wet, receptive, the taste of nicotine on her tongue. You can do whatever you want with me. And he has, that is exactly what he has done, whatever he wanted. As if attempting to reach the end of his desires, to find out what is there at the end. Discovering instead with horror that his desires even when instantly and gorgeously gratified only make him increasingly unhappy and insane. Wanting too much. To love, to be loved. By her, yes, but not only. And anyway by now she probably hates him.
Discarded coffee cup rolls with an empty sound between two unoccupied seats. Woman reading a folded-up newspaper, mottled damp at the edges. Everyone he loves has had to suffer, he thinks. She, the other. Christine, you’ll be the death of me. And Ivan, of course, Ivan he has patronised, bullied, belittled. His brother, the watchful child, all-seeing, he has assaulted and wanted to kill. His father. Impressed by him, intimidated. I’ll leave that to you, Peter, you know more about these things. If you say so, I’m sure you’re right. Making himself small, and smaller, until no longer there. As if it was him, his own fault, taking up too much space. I’m sorry. Everybody I love has to suffer. There’s something wrong with me. I don’t know how, I don’t know how to live. Out the streaming wet windows, the backs of houses, suburban gardens, chimneys loosing coils of black smoke. Thought rises with unutterable relief: if it were all over. Yes. Just to get to the end and be finished. The calm that comes over him, to think. Great deep all-enveloping calm that cannot be taken from him. Relish of allowing himself to contemplate, yes, he can feel it, pure and clean, to rest, only to rest at last. Almost believing now, and feeling consoled by his belief, all obligations dissolved, no more emails to send, no bills to pay, nothing left for which to apologise, he finds he can go on sitting politely on the train, unwashed, wearing yesterday’s clothes, feeling a sort of empty wavering relief inside the hollow of his body. Taps out of Connolly Station and it’s tipping down, of course it is, that doesn’t matter now.
Walks home bareheaded, rain-drenched, half-delirious. Noisy and confusing the city, exotic alphabet of lights and faces. In his building at last unlocking the front door of his flat he seems in his confusion to hear someone speaking. Opening the door it grows clearer, yes, a voice, hers. Inside, he sees her standing there, in his living room, radiant among all his dreary sterile furniture. Sylvia. Long tweed coat fastened at the collar and she’s looking at him. The expression in her eyes, looking, yes, at him, her intent meaningful gaze and for no reason it seems she says aloud: He’s here, he’s here, he’s just come in. Having no idea what’s going on, what she’s saying, why, only the fact of her presence, real or hallucinated, he says: What? And still she looks intently at him, still searching, as if trying to convey to him some message, and at the same moment from the door of his room Naomi emerges, yes, she’s holding something lighted he can see, his laptop maybe or hers, and is it real, is anything. Fine filigree before his eyes he thinks as if of light itself. Hears Naomi’s voice saying: Where have you been? And Sylvia more quietly: Peter? Dim encircling halo around the outer edge of his vision moving inward enclosing and someone is mumbling something which may be himself saying, Oh no, I’m sorry, and then he can’t see anything, only lights behind his eyes. Hot feeling inside his head if it is his head still because he is dead, dying, or it was all a dream, waking into darkness. Together he thought he saw them standing there and could hear them speaking, beloved voices, weakness in his limbs he felt, in his knees, and Peter someone was saying Peter are you okay oh good lord is he okay. Jesus Christ.
Afterwards Naomi says that was insane and thank God she was here. Because I would have lost my head completely at that. The way you went down, it was like a sack of potatoes, I’m sorry, no offence. But it was, wasn’t it? And Sylvia in the kitchen boiling the kettle says yes he did go down pretty heavily and she was afraid he was going to hit his head which thankfully he didn’t. He at this point Peter lying on the carpet and there are cushions under his legs. I never would have had you down for a fainter, Naomi says. Cross-legged on the floor beside him. Ankle socks with the stripe. Sylvia returns from the kitchen carrying a tray of tea. Pattern of marigolds. He always has been she remarks. I’m actually fine he says. Oh he says he’s fine, says Naomi laughing. He looks fine, doesn’t he? And clambers limber off the carpet out of sight. He was out for ten seconds, twenty seconds max, they explained that when he woke up. Because Ivan had left a note for Naomi saying Peter had been looking for her and she tried to call him last night but got no answer and then again in the morning no answer and she even came into town to see if he was at home but the buzzer rang and no one picked up. Then it was nearly eleven and she was starting to panic because he had been ‘behaving erratically’ and she thought Sylvia might know where he was so she went online and found her college email and then Sylvia who had also been trying to reach him said she had a spare key for the flat and they could go up and see if he was there which is what they did and were doing when he walked in and collapsed on the carpet. Probably dehydrated Naomi says. Like you literally never drink water. I’m surprised you don’t collapse more. She’s sitting at the table he can tell from the directionality of her voice though he can only from here see the ceiling and part of the far wall. Clink of teaspoon also he hears. I don’t know, says Sylvia. I think it might have been the shock of seeing us in the same room together. Allowing his eyes to close he lets out something like a groan hearing them both laughing. Help, says Naomi. My girlfriends have unionised. Okay I’m getting up, he says, I’m getting up now, I’m fine. For the love of God, says Sylvia, stay where you are for a minute please. We don’t want any more melodrama. And she asks him if he’s eaten anything. No he says. Well that’s not good either she replies. Naomi offers to bring him down a biscuit and crumble it into his mouth and then they’re laughing again hilariously. I am literally fine, he says. I’m going to get up, this is silly. Sits up too quickly and his head hurts. See them now together at the table Sylvia in a silk blouse buttoned at the wrists and Naomi in a yellowish quarter-zip fleece. Yes and they look very beautiful there laughing, eating from a packet of chocolate digestives. Which looking he begins in his head to feel a certain warmth and to see colours faintly in or behind his eyes and without speaking he lies down again with his legs on the cushions. My girlfriends are unionising. I think I’m going to die. You’re lying down again, are you alright? I’m good, very much so. I’m just enjoying the floor. We were about to ring your mother. What, when I fainted? No, before. That was going to be the next move. From the alliance. We thought you might be there. A completely innocent explanation. Simply having dinner in his mother’s house and staying the night in the spare room, who could think of anything more innocuous. Phone ran out of battery because he hadn’t brought a charger. Nothing sinister at all. Absolutely no reason to worry. And falling down on the carpet like a ton of bricks, that was no reason to worry? But that was from the shock remember. And he’s dehydrated, hasn’t eaten. Lying there on his back while they go on talking and eating biscuits he can hear them. The one voice rich low golden and the other with the clear high purity of a bell. Like a child he thinks himself. When sick and frightened to hear the reassuring sound of adult voices. Naomi again is saying thank God Sylvia was here because she knew exactly what to do. Well, I only knew from before. It hasn’t happened lately. At the vaccine centre a few years ago, I suppose that’s the last time. What, you’re afraid of needles? says Naomi. Defensively he hears himself answering: It’s not that I’m afraid, it’s a neurological reaction. Both of them laughing again and even he reluctantly smiling. It is actually different, he says, but whatever. I’m going to sit up now. Gingerly this time and slow. Takes his coat off, leaves it folded over the arm of the sofa and sits reclining head throbbing and Sylvia brings over the cup of cooling tea. Thank you he says. I’m sorry about all this. That’s alright. I’m glad you’re okay. Everything that isn’t said and can’t be. Oh that’s Janine, let me get this. Hey, no, it’s cool, we found him. I wasn’t really missing, he says as she closes the bedroom door. Well you can see how the mistake was made, says Sylvia. Sitting at the table again and she’s opening her laptop. I hope you’re not missing work because of me. No, I’m not in until this afternoon. If there’s anything you feel like eating. Or if you want me to go. Please don’t. Air filling his lungs and then recycling back out into the room. I suppose it would have been a lot less awkward if I’d introduced you before. You know, you’d be surprised. It really wasn’t awkward at all. Sound of her fingertips tip-tapping on the laptop keyboard indescribably beautiful he thinks and closes his eyes. Door scraping along the bedroom carpet. Janine says she’s glad you’re alive. Great, thank you. Tell Janine I appreciate it. I’m sorry, I’m grateful, thank you for everything.
Later she asks him if he’s having a nervous breakdown.
I don’t know, he says. Maybe.
You should go off to one of those clinics in Switzerland, she says. Get them to reset your brain for you.
How rich do you think I am, he replies.
Sitting again on the sofa but he has showered by now, changed his clothes, and outside the window it’s getting dark already. Raining. Way the water holds the light in falling. Her legs resting in his lap.
I was seriously worried about you, she says. I’m not even going to tell you where my mind went.
He says nothing.
You know if anything happened to you, that would be horrific for me, she goes on.
I don’t really want that responsibility, he remarks.
He’s looking out the window still but he can see her shaking her head. Yeah, well, tough, she says. How are you thirty-two and you’re like, I don’t want the responsibility. You think you can vanish into thin air and it won’t affect me?
Yes I would like he thinks to live in such a way that I could vanish into thin air at any time without affecting anyone and in fact I feel that for me this would constitute the perfect and perhaps the only acceptable life. At the same time I want desperately to be loved. Aloud he says: Whatever, I don’t know.
You think I don’t have feelings?
For me? he says. I think it would be better if you didn’t.
Why, you don’t care about me? If something happened to me, it wouldn’t affect you?
Feels himself flinching at the question and says: Don’t talk like that. Of course it would. It’s too upsetting, I don’t want to think about it.
Her head she goes on shaking. Long and glossy blue her black hair. You know what you remind me of, she says. You remind me of a child. Did you ever try to play a game with a child, and they start laying all their toys out exactly where they want them. And they’re making up all these rules, and they get annoyed if you don’t follow along. That’s you. That’s actually how you treat people.
Automatically and too quickly as if not to hear he answers: No it’s not.
Yes it is, she says. Look at how you acted with me. Every time we saw each other, you put me back in my little drawer afterwards and closed it shut. Be honest. We were together nearly a year, how is it your brother never heard of me? You didn’t even tell me when your dad died because you didn’t want me showing up at the funeral. You treated me like a doll. Literally, you even bought me outfits.
Hot feeling in his hands, in his scalp. As soon as we started seeing each other, you were asking me for money, to buy you things, he says. That didn’t come from me.
Almost laughing, cheerful now, she says: Yeah, I’m not saying I’m the innocent. I was partner in crime number one. Maybe we both thought we could get away with it. Just messing with each other’s heads without getting our feelings involved. What do you want me to say, I’m sorry? We were both playing games. And yeah, I wanted to win, and so did you.
He looks at her. Intelligence in her eyes flashing. Okay, he says.
Drops her head back reclining against the armrest. But I didn’t know about your situation, she says. Like, I knew, but I didn’t know. You get what I mean. That was kind of hard on me. Maybe I would have acted differently if I knew before.
You mean you would have played the game differently.
Shrugging movement of her shoulders. Maybe, she says.
Maybe that’s why I didn’t tell you.
Places a hand behind her head resting. I like her, she says. Your friend, Sylvia.
Again he thinks of saying nothing. Then exhausted says only: So do I.
I guess she’s the love of your life, she says. And you were just using me.
Well, I thought we were just using each other. But my feelings got involved.
Funny look on her face smiling to herself. Same, she says.
I’m sorry.
Looks at him without lifting her head. Are we still broken up? she asks.
He too shrugs, knowing nothing.
I’m just wondering if I have to get the train, she adds.
Oh, he answers. Well, whatever. You can stay here, if you like.
For a time she falls silent. Then with her legs still resting in his lap she says quietly: I was really scared before. When you weren’t picking up the phone, I was scared. But I don’t think you would do anything really bad. Would you? I don’t think you would in reality, even if it goes through your mind, I don’t think you would do it.
Swallowing, hard, and he tries to clear his throat. No, of course not, he says. There’s nothing to worry about.
Promise?
Yeah, I promise. Of course.
For a time they sit in stillness, saying nothing, and he closes his eyes again. I love you, she says finally. As stupid as that is, coming from me. Like it probably just makes everything worse. But anyway. Whatever. I love you too, he says. Sky outside darkening into night. She says if she’s going to stay they should think about ordering dinner and he says sure. Watches her on her phone looking at online menus. Dark her lips slightly parted. Mouth he has how many times kissed. Nothing for it now he’s promised. She knew of course what he had been thinking. Always knows. Maybe we both thought we could get away with it. To be loved, yes, for no reason, with no imaginable reward. Sudden proliferation of grace. It probably just makes everything worse. Which in a way it does, worse, more complicated. Tethering him down into the world, barring the emergency exits. Stay and suffer. I promise. Of course.
Cancels his meetings next day. Calls in sick to college. She goes out to her lectures and he makes himself eat breakfast, swallows down a glass of water. Alone in the apartment with the radiators clicking. Greyish-white walls. Are you having a nervous breakdown or what. Screen lights with a message from Sylvia: Do you feel up to going for a walk? Nothing strenuous. But no worries if not. Closes his eyes into the image, the idea, fresh air, yes, cold, wind sweeping, to walk, to breathe. Yes please, he replies. Stephen’s Green? Out of the house then in his coat still damp from the day before and no umbrella. Mercifully no rain. Not to think, not to think, only to be near her, breathe each other’s breath for a while, decide nothing. At the south gate he sees her, waiting. Faintly golden the colour of her hair like wheat, and she’s holding two coffee cups, umbrella hooked over her arm. She sees him, starts to smile, waiting for him to cross. That feeling, he thinks: all he has wanted, all his life. To walk towards her, to reach her, to accept from her extended hand the warm paper cup of coffee. Thank you, he says. She says he’s welcome, and they’re smiling at one another, weakly, absurdly, or trying to smile. Shall we walk? she asks. He nods his head, please, and tentatively she lays her hand on his arm, and he repeats for some reason: Thank you. Bundled in their winter coats they pass together through the stone gate. Bare the trees and hanging low their slender leafless branches. Decanting now and then a handful of cool gathered rainwater onto the gravel. Along the avenues they make their way, saying nothing at first, only sipping coffee. To be there, just to be there at her side. She clears her throat, starts to tell him about a lecture she has to give on the historical context of literary modernism. As if to ask his advice. Only being kindly of course. Something about fascism he says and they go on walking, talking about fascist aesthetics and the modernist movement. Neoclassicism, obsessive fixation on ethnic difference, thematics of decadence, bodily strength and weakness. Purity or death. Pound, Eliot. And on the other hand, Woolf, Joyce. Usefulness and specificity of fascism as a political typology in the present day. Aesthetic nullity of contemporary political movements in general. Related to, or just coterminous with, the almost instantaneous corporate capture of emergent visual styles. Everything beautiful immediately recycled as advertising. Sense that nothing can mean anything anymore, aesthetically. The freedom of that, or not. The necessity of an ecological aesthetics, or not. We need an erotics of environmentalism. Stupidly making each other laugh. Turning here and there along the laneways at random, doubling back, retracing. Startling once a clutch of pigeons from the grass, heavy soft beating of wings as they lift themselves aloft. Her voice, which also is soft and heavy, talking about the last time she saw Ivan, the logic puzzle she asked him about, the green hats again. And Peter holding his empty coffee cup in his hand tells her about seeing Ivan the other night, the fight they had, the cut on his lip. Pained the look on her face. Oh God, she says. Where was all this, out in Kildare?
Yeah, he says. You knew he was staying out there?
With her eyes averted, she answers: Not before, but Naomi told me.
Embarrassed, he swallows, looks away again. Right, he says. Sorry.
Quickly, without looking, she says: Don’t apologise, please. It’s none of my business.
Neither of us believes that anymore, he doesn’t say. No such hygienic partition exists: and you don’t even think it exists, and neither do I, and neither does she. Conceptual collapse of one thing into another, all things into one. Instead he says meaninglessly: I don’t know.
I liked her very much, she remarks. Naomi, I mean.
Pain in his chest to hear, to think. Mm, he says. She said the same about you.
That was kind of her.
Passing together through the central open space of the Green. The stilled fountain, empty benches, empty plots of soil. Maybe you don’t want to go over all this, he says. But I just want to tell you, it wasn’t what you said. An exit strategy, it wasn’t. What happened between us the other day. I know I’ve hurt you, and you don’t have to forgive me. But you should know I love you, and I loved being with you. I was very happy then. There was no other reason. And actually, I’m not sorry. I am sorry for a lot of things, but not that.
Quietly she only answers: No, I’m not sorry for that either.
Oh, he says. Well, I’m glad.
Reaching the little bridge, they stop and stand looking down at the black water. I don’t think I’ve been very honest with you, Peter, she says. Or even with myself. You know, I don’t think I really wanted you to go on with your life, without me. I always said that I wanted you to, but I didn’t. And deep down I think you knew I didn’t. It was impossible, the situation I put you in. Telling you to do one thing but wanting you to do something else. And now you feel you owe me all these apologies. For what? For meeting someone else, falling in love with someone else, which is exactly what I told you to do. I’m the one who should be sorry. I’ve been cruel. You said it yourself, I’m jealous. And it’s true, I am.
Disorientated he stands listening, saying nothing. Blank impression at first as if difficult to understand. Jealous he called her, and she is. And he knew perhaps, must have known, and said it for that reason. Jealous, you’re jealous, because she’s healthy and happy and young, the way you were, when we. When life was. After a time with a strange empty light-headed feeling he says: No, you haven’t been cruel. It’s complicated. I don’t think either of us knew what we were doing.
White and trembling she turns her face towards him. I’m sorry, she says.
So am I, he answers.
They look at one another a moment longer. Both of them believing themselves so clever, so capable. Always a step ahead, a move ahead, of each other, of everyone else. What a mess they have made, he thinks, yes, both of them. An impossible situation. Which they both have colluded to draw out and prolong over how many years. With what aim, with what end in mind, neither he supposes ever knew. Their love for one another, yes: which has survived its own death.
You were right about Naomi, he says. I mean, it was a stupid idea, trying to get rid of her like that. It was cowardly.
Turning her back to the water and resting against the stone balustrade of the bridge, she takes her gloves from her pocket. It wouldn’t have lasted, she answers. Your heart wasn’t in it. That’s why you had her staying out at the house.
Feels himself as if disinterestedly shrugging. Maybe, he says. Not consciously.
You’re in love with her.
I know that, he says. I admitted that already. Don’t be accusatory about it.
Palely smiling she replies: I’m not.
They look at one another again, tired, and tender, affectionate again. Pitying themselves and one another. The old fond familiarity in her look, without which he thinks he could not live. Yes. When he saw her waiting for him at the gate: to encounter not only her, the beauty of her nearness renewed, but also himself, the self that is loved by her, and therefore worthy of his own respect.
You’re grieving, she says. I know you’re confused. And I haven’t helped with that. But I think we both have to let each other go.
He goes on watching her. Fine lines around her eyes in the grey winter daylight. Pain inside his body he can feel or is it somehow outside. What does that mean? he asks. Naomi and I should get back together. Okay, and what then? I suppose I’ll just try and delude myself that I don’t have feelings for you anymore.
Averting her eyes she says quietly: Even if it’s the case that we still have feelings for one another, surely it makes sense for you to be with someone who can make you happy.
He hears his voice growing less controlled. But what if there isn’t one person? he asks. If I have to go back to pretending you and I are just good friends, I will go out of my mind. I can’t live like that anymore, I can’t. It isn’t even fooling anyone. And yeah, maybe if I were with you and I couldn’t see Naomi, maybe that would feel bad as well. You know, I’m too fond of her, it’s probably true, I would miss her. I would want to see her. That’s the way it is.
Finally she does look up. Dark and searching the look in her eyes. Then what do you think the solution is, Peter? she asks.
I’m telling you that I don’t know, he answers. Maybe there is no solution. What do you want me to do? Pretend to have a different problem that’s easier to solve? I’m just trying to be honest for once in my life. I have no idea what to do.
She goes on looking at him and says at last: Well, maybe we could come to some kind of arrangement. Between the three of us. It’s not unheard of. What do you suppose Naomi would think?
He looks away, has to look away, in agony. His life, the widening black emptiness from which he has no escape. It’s not realistic, he says. Things like that never work in real life.
Maybe not in a conventional sense, she says. But maybe we’re not in a conventional situation.
He puts his face in his hands. Like a child with his toys Naomi said, yes, and so he is, terrified like a child, furious, uncomprehending, nothing in its right place. Jesus Christ, he says. I don’t know. This is all my fault. Everything, the whole situation, everything is my fault. I honestly think you both would be better off. I’m sorry.
For some time she says nothing, allowing him to hide his face, hot in the palms of his hands, ashamed of what he has said, what he hasn’t said. I understand you’re feeling overwhelmed, she says. But you and Naomi will work it out. And I’m where I always was, I’m not going anywhere.
Rubbing hard with his fingertips at his forehead he answers without knowing what he’s saying: I just want this year to be over.
It will be, she says. Very soon.
But that won’t bring him back, will it?
No, it won’t.
Descending down over him the feeling, horribly. To think of all his failures, catastrophe he has made of his life, litany of irretrievable losses. Everything that has gone from him, everything he can never have back again. His youth, his happiness. That man, who was himself, who was his father. Sick, the idea is sick, a frightening joke. Nothing can make sense of it. He wants to hurt himself, yes, he wants to die, and would have, maybe, if she hadn’t been here to meet him, lecture on literary modernism, if the other hadn’t come looking for him, I won’t even tell you where my mind went. Trapping him, confining him inside, while the room goes on filling with smoke. Stay and suffer. You have to. She touches his arm now and he feels himself almost angrily seizing at her, desperate, forceful, and in a thin fluttering voice she’s saying: Peter, I’m sorry. I know I haven’t helped you, I’ve made everything worse. I didn’t know what I was doing. Frightened she sounds: and he also is frightened. Clutching at her, her living body, he presses his face blindly into her hair. She has been cold, cruel, vain, yes, he thinks, she, Sylvia, she has lied to him, tried to manipulate him, she has made everything worse. And he too has been dishonest, cowardly, pretending to believe her lies, and his own. She has hated him all along for leaving her, he knows that, and he has hated her for telling him to go. I forgive you, he says. Do you forgive me? Hears the trembling little smile in her voice, answering: I forgive you, of course. Everything. I love you very much, and I forgive you, completely. The touch of her hand at his face, the same and not the same: both the same and not. To reunite him with himself he thinks she means to. To feel himself continuous with his own past, to accept for the rest of his life the permanent encircling shadow of everything he has lost. To stagger on, ashamed, vanquished, demanding nothing, forsaking all his pride and self-conceit. Grateful that his losses have as yet gone only so far and no further. That God in his unknowable wisdom and mercy has left him this much. The cool touch of her hand at his face. The flash of chewing gum, the black tights. His mother, his brother, safe and well. Cold wet windswept streets. Books he hasn’t read yet. Opening theme of the Concerto No. 24. His friends, students, colleagues, their kindly and familiar voices. There he is. Hello stranger. What has not yet been lost, what still at least for this moment remains. To do what little good he can with his life. To ask for nothing more, to bow his head, pitifully grateful, God’s humble and grateful servant. Can he imagine anything less like himself? And yet here he is, defeated, relieved, forgiving everything, praying only to be forgiven.
In a strange frail calm the days pass. As if recuperating slowly from some long illness. Tired, distracted, he misplaces things, forgets what he went to the shops for. Falls asleep on the sofa with the cup of tea still in his hand. Woke the other evening to find Naomi had done the washing-up. Touching actually, how proud of herself she was, although everything tasted of dish soap the next day. In the mornings he goes to work, reading, teaching. Nights she goes out with her friends he calls around to Sylvia’s for dinner. Emily making the salad, complaining about the council, while Sylvia fills a carafe from the tap. Together they walked over from her apartment to the union meeting the other night, her hand on his arm. A philosophical problem. When they go out together, to be mistaken for what they aren’t. Or rather: to be mistaken for what they are. And how is that possible. To see a man and a woman walking together: to name in the mind their relation to one another, as it were automatically. Which is to select from the assortment of existing names the one that seems appropriate to the particular case. To say to oneself that in relation to the man, this particular woman must be a friend, or else a girlfriend, or a wife, or sister. An act of naming which stands open to correction, but correction only in the form of replacement: that is, the replacement of one existing name for another. If you are mistaken in thinking this woman my friend, that means merely that you have chosen the wrong term from the assortment, and therefore that I can correct you by supplying the appropriate one in its place. The decisive movement in the conjuring trick has been made, says Wittgenstein, and it was the very one that we thought quite innocent. Because the name you give to a presumed relation between a man and woman may be both correct and incorrect at once. Each name including within itself a complex of assumptions. You say to yourself that a certain woman is my girlfriend: and intrinsic in this act of naming is the supposition of a number of independent facts. That this woman and I go to bed together, for instance; that neither of us goes to bed with anyone else; that while we are in bed certain particular acts take place, and so forth. And if you are corrected about the nature of the relation, you will therefore reasonably conclude that after all we don’t go to bed together, certain acts don’t take place between us, and so on. Here saying ‘There is no third possibility’ or ‘But there can’t be a third possibility!’ – expresses only our inability to turn our eyes away from this picture. Is she or isn’t she. Are they or not.
Social as well as philosophical of course: the problem. All very well if Emily knows or suspects, or if Janine, or Max, Leah, even Gary, maybe. But what about people in general, the public, the whole of Dublin talking. And with that idea in mind he almost wants to forget the idea, throw both of them over and find some nice normal girl instead, someone without any radical intellectual commitments or bizarre sexual proclivities, yes, someone normal. Get married, give Christine a few grandkids. Overhear the other legal wives saying pleasantly: She’s so nice. To spend his life making conversation with such a person, working to finance the lifestyle of such a person, would, of course, represent a kind of spiritual death for him. But perhaps that would be preferable to the kind of social death that awaits him now. What will he tell people, what will he say. What does he think he’s doing. Not to hold anything above anything else, to keep everything equal: a delusion, not even a fantasy, a burdensome quasi-administrative task at which he can only repeatedly fail. Encountering in everyday situations new irreducibly complex dilemmas, thickets of intersecting desires and preferences. Having to meet the needs of the moment, every moment, forever. But why. Why should it be so difficult. He likes her, likes the other, and they both like him. To hold a little space for that. Surely everyone knows and accepts privately that relationships are complicated. Forget anyway about what people think. If it were anyone else after all. He would be the first to say what harm, no one else’s business, good for them. Why should you care, what are you so insecure about. No one is taking your beloved monogamy away, don’t worry. Laughable the old-fashioned attitudes people have, think the sky is falling in because some girl has two boyfriends. Everyone rushing to pick her apart and make fun of her, something palpably anxious in all the jokes. Yes, he would be the first to take the empty seat beside her, of course, be friendly, he enjoys that kind of thing. Always on the side of the losers, the scorned, the unwelcome. Different however. Because he has never actually had to be one of them. There has never been anything about him, about his personhood, which could make the big men uncomfortable, the seniors, judges, cabinet ministers. He’s not a woman, not gay. White, able-bodied, college-educated. Foreign surname, okay, but even that minimal tension is dispersed when they hear him talking, nice newsreader accent. Isn’t that what he enjoys. Taking the side of the downtrodden, the marginalised, not out of self-interest, nothing to do with him, but from pure conviction. To be himself unaffected, to have no skin in the game. To need, for his own part, no defence, no justification. Noblesse oblige. Okay, he didn’t grow up rich, didn’t go to private school, didn’t mix with their sons. But to be a little outside the circle, it’s not the same as being an outcast, a laughing stock, is it. No, and he has never been that. In fact he has held himself superior, his manners, his taste, he has considered himself above it all, impeccable, supreme. To reveal himself now as one of the outsiders after all. Catch the looks exchanged when he enters the room. Seat left empty beside him. Castration anxiety, Sylvia suggested. Joking or was she. Well, it’s true, I wouldn’t want to be a woman, he said. Who would? No offence, but the level of disrespect, I couldn’t take it. They were in her office then, she was sorting a batch of essays. Is that the sum total of your gender identity, she said, you’re just desperate for everyone to respect you? He said he would have to think about it. Then added: I mean, maybe.
Impossible to interpret he thinks. You know you’re seriously making a big deal out of nothing. My friend Megan is in a throuple basically. Please never say that word to me again. The complete cosmic joke which for her is life. Not one single serious line in it. Doesn’t he, though: feel happy, that is, to contemplate his journey home in the evening, letting himself into the building with two pizza boxes balanced in the other hand, noise of the hairdryer when he comes in the door. Oh, hey babe. Pizza, amazing. Wait, I have something really funny I wanted to show you. Or the walk instead to Sylvia’s apartment, to talk about work, read aloud entire paragraphs of legal argument, worst judge in Ireland, I’m sorry. Lying in bed later with his arm around her, the weight of her head resting. Her eyes half-open, her mouth. That’s interesting, tell me more. How to live up to all this: which seems at times the only question. Feels he has at once too much power and too little, enough to make a mess of everything, not enough to sort it out. Is he humiliating them both, she, the other, inflicting on them some terrible exotic pain, for his own selfish satisfaction. Is it shame he feels, that hot blood pounding in his ears, or only embarrassment: the minor trifling embarrassment of an awkward situation or the true shame of a moral wrong. How is it possible to know. What can life be made to accommodate, what can one life hold inside itself without breaking. For him they will make the grand attempt in any case, he thinks, yes, and maybe for reasons of their own, curiosity, pleasure, pride, desire, and also the principle, the possibility, the ideal of another way of life. An experiment bound almost certainly for one kind of failure or another, and yet attaining for these few hours and days to a miraculous success, a perfection of beauty, inexchangeable, meant not to be interpreted, meant only to be lived and nothing more.
Friday evening Christine texts him. A link to the Chess Ireland website, talk about a throwback, and the headline is: FM Ivan Koubek on track for second IM norm. Clicks through and finds a photograph of Ivan and a few lines of text, posted the night before.
23-year-old FM Ivan Koubek will have a chance to earn his second of three IM norms at the Winter Tournament taking place this week in Clancy’s Hotel, Dublin 1. After a phenomenal performance so far he will enter the tournament’s final day at the top of the leaderboard. We at Chess Ireland wish him all the best and hope to see him secure a second norm. Good luck Ivan! For more details about the tournament so far, click here.
Taps for no reason the picture to enlarge. Ivan’s serious face frowning over a chessboard as usual. Tried to call him on Tuesday, wish him a happy birthday. Number was still blocked. 23-year-old FM. From the gallery of the Law Library now he texts Christine back: Did he have a game this morning? She replies: Yes he won. Even if he loses his last game now he will still make norm! xxx. Getting on for six o’clock. Idly he opens the maps application, types in Clancy’s. Just out of curiosity, never heard of the place. Off O’Connell Street it says, over by the pro-cathedral. No distance, walk it in fifteen. Closes out of the map, wakes his laptop screen. Cursor blinking in front of him. The Sectoral Employment Order again. Downstairs before him the main floor starting to empty out, people heading away. Friday evening in the run-up to Christmas. Lights twinkling. Homely festive feel to the place this time of year, collegial, friendly. Mulled wine and charity fundraisers. He would have been there of course he thinks. Dad, he would have been there tonight, at this place Clancy’s, see Ivan getting his norm. There taking photographs the last time, the FM title out in Rathfarnham, while Ivan embarrassed tried to turn his face away. A long time ago. Yes, and never to be had back again. Just as one day this evening will seem also, long ago, never to return, tinged with the sweetness and melancholy of that feeling, bright warmth of the gallery against the darkened windows, people waving to one another out the door. And he too is heading away now, he too is waving, there’s Elaine saying goodbye, and Val, take care.
First taste of the cold city air and he’s crossing over to Chancery Park. Everything in shades of deep liquid darkness, the sky, the street, the grass enclosed behind its railings. December evenings, safe at last from the onslaught of raw daylight, the city reveals its hidden face of sublime velvet blue. Row of terraces he passes, Christmas trees in the windows glittering. Hands in his pockets against the cold. And for what. Just to congratulate him. Not to make a scene, not to draw attention, just to be there, say congratulations, go away again, that’s all. First birthday without his father, come and gone. Tried to call him, he did try. And Sylvia texted of course, got back a nice response she said. Won’t make a nuisance of himself but someone should be there, he shouldn’t be on his own. Take a left up Jervis Street, rows of bicycles, black empty branches of trees. Headlights sweeping. And onto Mary Street, all the shops open, lights and music spilling out into the cold misted air. End of another year. Sound of voices, faces passing, laughter. Bad idea on the other hand perhaps to insert himself. In any case it might be over already, he hasn’t even checked. Waiting at the lights to cross O’Connell Street he opens the link again, for more details click here. Live games starting 2 p.m., ten rooms listed with the names of participants. Glances up, pedestrian light still red, and back down again. Most of the games finished now with their scores displayed, 1–0, ½–½. Near the bottom of the list he finds it: IM Philip Fielding–FM Ivan Koubek. Link still open. Taps and the board appears on screen. Ivan with the black pieces. Move 52 and he’s up, count them, two pawns. The light turns and with the other pedestrians now he’s crossing under the constellation of hanging lights and passing the Spire crossing again. Clock over the jeweller’s shows the time nearly half past six. Streetlights garlanded in glowing mist. Down one of the side streets and turn left, check the map again, and yes, there it is. Capital letters above the door spelling out: CLANCY’S HOTEL.
Through sliding glass doors he enters. Fan of warm air from overhead, bright interior of the lobby, high-gloss marble-effect tile. People sitting around with suitcases, staring at their phones. Printed paper sign he sees reading: Chess Winter Tournament: Conference Room 2. And underneath, the pawn emoji, and an arrow pointing over towards the lifts. Getting hot now already in his overcoat, face and ears still tingling from the cold outside, he follows the sign, finds the room. On the door, another printed page, with the details of the tournament and the words: Silence Please. Games in Progress. One corner peeling away from the blue tack. Past him a porter rolls a clicking trolley of luggage. Empty sofa opposite the door, black leather. From his pocket he takes his phone, taps, checks again the game. Move 55 and still two pawns up. Go in there now and Ivan will look up from the board and catch sight. Furious. Or worse, frightened. Last time they saw each other, cowering on the floorboards with his lip bleeding. Number still blocked. Wouldn’t be right really, interrupt his game. Hello, me again. Don’t worry, I’m not going to hit you this time. Instead he sits down half-perching on the sofa watching his phone waiting. Go in when it’s finished. Move 56 now and the white king is in check, knight on c3. Position looks good but you need a computer to tell you really, little bar at the side that shows. Before him the door swings open and he glances: two young men filing out, backpacks slung over shoulders. Other players probably, games finished. On the bright yellowish walls of the corridor an incongruous assortment of framed pictures with strings of tinsel adorning the frames. Wonder whose job that was. Hotel work around Christmastime: a nightmare maybe, or half-decent, you don’t know. Call centres he worked in himself, studying for the bar, and a bit of freelance tutoring, private-school debating coach. Like Ivan teaching chess to groups of bewildered and witless ten-year-olds. Yes, what the two of them have in common after all, impatient, ambitious, hard on other people, hard also on themselves. Finish this game he thinks, get the second norm, and then go and celebrate. He deserves that. Good end to a dreadful year. Just say congratulations. I won’t stay. He would be so proud.
A woman in a long loose mackintosh passing he sees and pausing now at the conference room door, as if to read the printed sign. A woman, yes, white and pink her complexion like a flower, dark hair pinned loosely behind her head. Catches the eye, her beauty, among the luggage trolleys and strings of tinsel, the high-gloss tile flooring. Small practical leather bag she wears over her shoulder and rummages inside now, then looks up once more at the printed sign. Oh no, he thinks. Turning just as he turned, away from the door, not wanting yet to enter. As if seeing in a mirror, himself but not. And she looks at him. Both knowing somehow, each knowing the other knows. For a moment they wait in stillness, she standing there, he seated swallowing unspeaking. Then without thinking without knowing what he is doing he rises to his feet and extends his hand to her, and beautifully a smile breaks out over her face, coming to him, taking his hand in hers. And how like a flower he thinks her as if after rain that fresh cool quality. You must be Ivan’s brother, she says. Her voice warm and bright, certain sweetness he hears like music. Coloratura soprano. Yes, he says, that’s right, that’s me. My name is Peter. Still with the same smile, gentle, embarrassed, she touches the strap of her bag where it rests on her shoulder. It’s very nice to meet you, she says. I’m Margaret, I’m— a friend of Ivan’s. How much depth he senses in the fraction of a pause she gives, a friend. I’m sorry if I’m intruding, she goes on. He didn’t tell me you were going to be here. Swallows, tries to be bracing and cheerful, voice wavering in his throat. No, no, he says, I’m the one who’s intruding. I didn’t tell him I was coming, I just wanted to drop by and say congratulations. But I don’t want to barge in while the game’s still going on. Looking at him she gives another tentative smile. Oh, I see, she says. He’s still playing, is he? Quickly, too quickly, he holds out his phone, tapping, live feed of the board, saying: Yes, this is his game here, I believe. She glances, self-deprecating face, and says: That’s nice. To be able to follow along, I mean. Not that I can understand it myself. He smiles, pleased, nervous, saying: No, me neither, not really. I wish I could. After a pause he adds: You can go in, by the way. I’m sure there’s an area inside for spectators. I just didn’t want to distract him, while he’s playing. Dark her eyes looking up at him. No, she says. I’m the same. It shouldn’t be too long, should it? Or what do you think? Nervously he laughs. Hm, he says. Hard to know, I’m afraid. Clears his throat and goes on: You’re more than welcome to wait here with me, if you’d like to. Needless to say. A moment longer she looks at him, her expression a kind of complex smile: tender, uncertain, searching, somehow even he thinks apologetic. As if to him, apologising. Then she says: Thank you.
Together they sit down side by side on the sofa and he holds his phone out to let her see. On screen, Ivan has moved the rook to attack another of the white pawns, the h-pawn. How much she knows, he wonders. If she knows anything. Weeks, months ago at dinner, I’ve always hated you. And the other night at the house. His lip bleeding. Could have told her. The intensity of her presence, the felt reality of that, her raincoat, her handbag, so close to him nearly touching. Powerful desire to speak to her without knowing what to say. And a sense somehow that she feels the same, that they are stirring towards one another painfully, unable to express anything at all. On screen Ivan’s rook captures the pawn and it disappears from the interface, swallowed, gone. Reappears as a ghost off the side of the board. Think of something. I believe you’re based in Leitrim, is that right? he asks. She’s nodding her head. Mm, she says. In Clogherkeen, where I’m from. You’re a Kildare man, of course. And he too is nodding, smiling. The painful pleasure of hearing her voice, way she handles the syllables, faintly rural her accent or does he only imagine. That’s right, he says. Although I’m in Dublin, must be, fourteen or fifteen years now. Expressive her eyes even when not looking, he thinks, gentle, somehow amused. I like Dublin, she says. His eyes on the screen. White knight leaping. Yeah, it’s a good spot, he says. Bit of a kip, obviously. Sweetly she’s smiling, sees without looking the sweet white flash of her smile. True, but I like that about it, she says. I’m up and down for work now and then. That’s why I’m around this evening, actually, I had to come up for a conference. He chances a look round at her. Ivan mentioned you work in the arts, I think, he says. She now avoids his eye shyly watching still the screen. Mm, she says. In the arts centre, at home. Putting our programme together. Being modest, he thinks. And what to say. As it happens I’m a pretty cultured man myself. Something of a connoisseur, to speak the truth. Instead he says meagrely: How interesting. Demure, she goes on smiling. And you practise law, she says. If I’m right. He says she is. They lapse again into a kind of closed pressured silence, not looking. Finally she says in a very low voice: I can imagine what you must think of me. And as if scalded, in shock, he answers too loudly: Oh, Jesus, don’t start. I was just going to say the same thing to you. At that she laughs out aloud, and with relief he also is laughing, they both are, in relief, in horror, desperate, embarrassed. No, no, she says. I don’t think anything. I mean, I only think families are complicated. Flushed he feels himself, and trembling, answering: Well, you’re right about that.
She lifts one fine hand to indicate the screen, nails unvarnished, pink and pearl white. I suppose you know all about these norms he’s after, she says.
He swallows, smiling foolishly, saying: The norms, yes. I know about them. They loom pretty large in our family life.
She gives another little kindly laugh. And he has this second one now, doesn’t he? she says.
Right, he says. That’s why I wanted to drop by, just to say congratulations. He’s been years trying to get it.
Absently smiling she studies the screen and murmurs: He’ll be so happy.
Her absent smile, her mouth delicate and flower-like, he thinks. So happy. Phone hot in his fingers and white moves the rook to g7. Our dad should be here, he says. And hearing himself, confused, goes on: I mean, I’m sorry, our dad would have been here. To congratulate Ivan. You know, he was very proud of him. We all are, very proud. But my dad, especially, he would be sad not to be here tonight.
Conscious that she’s looking at him he goes on staring at the screen. I’m sorry, she says quietly. I know it must be very difficult.
Damp his fingers and trembling the phone almost slipping. Thank you, he says. It is hard. I miss him. You know, to be honest, we weren’t always very close. But that’s hard too, in a way. He was a really decent person. More so than I am, I’m afraid.
Glances and sees her smiling, how beautifully, and how sadly. Well, you’re being very decent to me, she says.
From behind the door before them now the sound of applause, cheering, sudden and thunderous, feet stamping, and puzzled they look up, and in his fingers the screen at the same moment darkens, the board greyed out, white text reading: 0–1. Oh, she says. Does that mean it’s over? And he answers: Yes, I think so, I believe so. Fumbling to pocket the phone, embarrassed, his eyes averted, he goes on: You should go on in. I’m sure Ivan will want to see you. Her little handbag clasped in her lap, her eyes dark and deep he thinks, and knowing. What about you? she says. Still with his eyes lowered he gives a kind of strained laugh. Ah, well, he says. I’m not sure he really wants to see me. If I’m honest, I suspect he’d rather not. But it’s alright, don’t worry. I just wanted to be here. And it’s been very nice meeting you. So hard to look her in the eyes and when he does he can see yes she knows after all. Quietly she says: Will you wait? I’m going to go in and tell Ivan you’re here. I feel he will want to see you. If you don’t mind waiting. What do you think? Terribly childish wish he feels for once in his life to do as he’s told. I don’t know, he says. I don’t want to intrude. Down the hall the artificial chime of the elevator. Different porter wheeling past an empty trolley. From inside the room a well of silence and then another burst of applause and she gets to her feet. I’ll go in, she says. Please do wait. Look passing between them. Each a little uncertain, he thinks, a little humbled, to face the other, trying to make the best of it, each liking and wanting to be liked. She does, he realises, want him to like her. The long loose raincoat, strap of her handbag. Jesus Christ. Then lifting a hand to him she turns, pushes on the door, its opened edge revealing briefly a triangle of light, bright, sound of voices, and then swinging shut she disappears.
Waiting then in silence empty-handed. Suspended floating, overwarm, heavy overcoat he hasn’t taken off. Before him the flat grey plane of the closed door. And was it real he wonders. She, the raincoat, flower-like her face, the live stream, captured pawn. You’re being very decent she said. Half in love with her himself by the time she was walking away. How is it possible he could have been so wrong about everything. Sitting there beside him quietly she seemed to embody the inexpressible depth of his misunderstanding: of her, his brother, interpersonal relations, life itself. And yet she didn’t remonstrate. I can imagine what you must think of me. To imagine, Ivan. To credit him that is with such taste. Like the Italian girlfriend he stared at over dinner. One thing to look of course. A woman like that: difficult actually to believe. Beautiful, yes, but not just that. Something more also. The way she held herself. From inside, another round of applause. Visualise the room, the layout, other players, Ivan’s rivals and friends. The arbiter reading the final standings. Consoling to know she’s there now. His happiness. Which makes no sense: or in making sense makes everything else not. A minute passing, three, five. Door opens to release other people, young men. Talking amongst themselves, laughing. Doesn’t want to see him, he thinks. Will she reappear, pained smile, another time maybe. Let him enjoy his victory. Again the inward swing of the door and again a few faces emerge, two, three. Leave before he’s told to go, surely better. And yet he doesn’t leave, doesn’t go, sits simply in his too-warm coat on the sofa facing. Six minutes, seven. Door opening once more, triangle of white light, and it’s him this time. Ivan. The look on his face, staring. How to know what it means. Almost trusting or wanting to trust and at the same time wary. Rising to his feet Peter looks back at him, his brother, the watchful child, so young still, all of life ahead of him, and his eyes are filling with tears, hot, the corridor dimming and growing blurry. Embarrassing himself, and worse, embarrassing him, ruining everything, he tries horribly to laugh, dreadful noise, averting his eyes, and Ivan comes towards him, saying: Hey. Other people leaving and entering through the door behind them, heedless, talking, everything normal. And in desperation, as if not to be seen, to hide his face, he puts his arms around Ivan, embraces him. Congratulations, he says. I’m sorry, alright? Hand on his shoulder he feels, soothing, as you would soothe a child. I’m sorry as well, he says. Are you okay? Drawing away Peter tries again to laugh, or laughs without trying, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. Yeah, I’m okay, he says. I just want to tell you, Dad would be so proud of you. And I’m so proud of you.
You want to go out and get some air? Ivan says. Just outside, we could walk around.
Wiping again his face, rough coat sleeve. To go outside, avoid making a scene, yes. Sure, okay, he says. Margaret’s alright in there on her own?
No problem, says Ivan. Don’t worry.
Out through the foyer, lights dazzling on the blurred tiles, and a voice is calling: Fair play, Ivan, happy for you. Staring at the floor not to be spotted. Yeah, thanks, he hears Ivan answer. Sliding doors before them parting.
Outside, the stillness of dark night air, salt of the river. Weakly he asks: I’m not taking you away from anything important, am I? And Ivan answers: No, no. The others are doing a little speed chess thing, but I wasn’t going to bother anyway. Cool on his face the air, his streaming eyes, and they walk in silence wreathed in mist of breath, undersea glow of the lighted lamps, Marlborough Street. Did you win the whole event? he asks.
Yeah, Ivan says. Eight out of nine.
Good Lord. What’s that, eight wins and a loss?
No, seven wins and two draws. I didn’t lose any games.
My brother, the genius.
Bashful Ivan’s smile. Stop that, he says.
They go on walking. Finds in his pocket a tissue or perhaps just a used serviette and wipes anyway his face. Says for no reason aloud: She’s great. Margaret.
I know, says Ivan.
Desperately he starts laughing, shaking his head, blurred street markings swimming before his eyes. I’ve been such an idiot, he says.
We both have, says Ivan.
I tried to call you, for your birthday. It doesn’t matter. Just to say, I didn’t forget.
Feels him looking, sees him nodding his head. I knew you didn’t, he says. Sylvia texted me. And Naomi as well, sent me a message.
Did she really? he says.
Oh, she didn’t mention? That’s funny. She texted me, yeah, happy birthday. I like her, by the way. I don’t think I was that nice to her, when we met at first. But if I see her again, I’ll be nicer, because I do actually like her.
With the serviette Peter wipes his eyes again. She never said anything about you not being nice, he says.
Well, says Ivan, she was sort of telling me some things I didn’t want to hear. If I could put it like that. And I wasn’t too receptive, at the time.
Laughing again now, Peter says: Yeah, that sounds like her.
With a cautious half-smiling expression Ivan looks back at him, saying: And the two of you are back together, or?
Feels himself lifting his shoulders, his hands, helplessly. Austere fluted stone columns of the pro-cathedral in the dim darkness up ahead. She’s there, he says vaguely. She’s in my life, yeah. Naomi. And Sylvia, I suppose, also, she’s in my life as well, if that makes sense.
Right, Ivan says. I kind of thought that. And I’m glad, because I feel like Sylvia is part of our family. You know, we love her. And actually, we kind of need her, I feel.
Tight his throat swallowing. Mm, he says. I agree.
Delicately Ivan pauses before saying: And they know? That they’re both like, in your life, so to speak. They know that.
Oh God, says Peter. They know that, of course. I’m not that bad, am I? Maybe I am, but I’m trying not to be.
They look at each other and both start foolishly, sheepishly smiling. No, you’re not that bad, Ivan says. Or if you are, I don’t know if you are, but you have good points as well.
I don’t know, he says. I think I could stand to be a lot more like you.
Ivan falls silent a moment, looks over at the wrought-iron railings across the street. Same, to be honest, he says. I think I could be more like you. I used to wish I was. And then I turned against you a little bit. But now I’m coming around to thinking, maybe I wouldn’t mind being more like you after all. Not one hundred percent, but maybe just ten percent more.
Touched, pained, feels again his head shaking, staring down at his feet. No, no, he says. You’re good the way you are.
Not always, says Ivan. I can get wrapped up in my own problems. And I don’t remember that other people have problems. Or I don’t want to remember that. You know what I’m talking about.
Without wanting to, Peter puts his face in his hands, his head shaking. No, he says.
Well, you do know, says Ivan. I haven’t always been that caring towards you. And I just want to say, I regret that. I didn’t think about your feelings. Or I felt like it was annoying for me that you would even have feelings. Because I wanted you to be above all that.
Fingers at his brow, touching, holding. It’s okay, he says. Forget about it. You’re going back a long time ago.
No, says Ivan. I’m not going back any time. Right up until the present, I’m talking about. With Dad, when he was sick. You did a lot for him. For both of us, and I never said thank you. I guess because I didn’t think you would care to hear it, or I didn’t think it would mean anything to you. But maybe for a lot of different reasons, to be honest.
Hot his damp breath returning against his face, fingers rubbing at his eyes. Don’t start that, he says. I’m sorry for saying those things the other night. About you, and about Dad, I’m sorry. He was such a good person. And he would be so proud of you if he were here. That’s why I wanted to be here, just to say that. And to say that he loved you, and I love you.
In a low voice Ivan answers: I love you too.
You don’t have to, he says. I would forgive you if you didn’t.
After a pause, Ivan replies: No, I do. Even though you annoy me a lot sometimes.
With a trembling laugh he looks up at the featureless sky. You annoy me too, Ivan, he says. It’s mutual.
Outside the gates of the church they have come to a stop. Ivan with his hands in his pockets, toe of his shoe nosing the ironwork. She said you were really nice to her, he says. Margaret said.
Ah, well, he answers. She’s easy to be nice to.
A little silence falls. Hands still buried in his pockets Ivan casts his eyes up at the church. You believe in God? he asks.
Oh, says Peter. I’m not sure, I don’t know. I suppose I would say, I try to.
Ivan looks back at him calmly, somehow wisely. Same, he says. That I try to. Although it doesn’t always work, but I do my best.
In his chest a sweet stirring pain like a hand catching holding tight. Mm, he says. Me too.
From between his lips Ivan exhales, cloud of mist forming, streetlight-coloured. You’re going to Scotland for Christmas? he asks.
I don’t know. I don’t think so. I’ll probably just hang on in town.
Head nodding, looking down the street, as if bracing. Cool, he says. Me and Margaret were thinking we might have Christmas together. Like in Kildare maybe, at the house. With the dog being there. But it’s not a big thing, obviously.
Tight catching the feeling and idiotically he smiles. Ah, he says. That sounds very nice. That sounds lovely.
Something like a little cough Ivan gives, and then says: Yeah. Well, she was just saying to me, a minute ago, do you think you would want to join? Like for dinner, on the day of Christmas. Or whatever. No big deal if you don’t.
His eyes again filling with tears, hot, and he goes on smiling. Ah, wow, he says. That’s a nice idea, that’s very kind. I would probably have to check, you know. See what the others are doing.
Well, bring anyone, says Ivan. Whoever would want to come, you should bring.
Streaming his eyes and laughing he touches with his fingers. Hm, he says. That could get a little bit unconventional. I’m not sure what Margaret would think.
Looking at him Ivan says: She’s a really good person.
Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of.
Ivan gives at that a goofy sort of shy little laugh. No, he says. I mean she’s very understanding. She understands everything, literally.
Nodding his head, half-smiling, palms of his hands wiping his face. I’ll check in, he says, I’ll see what the plans are. Okay? I’m very grateful to be invited.
It would mean a lot to me, Ivan says. The first Christmas without Dad, and everything like that. But whatever you want, whatever you prefer.
Unthinking unseeing he reaches, folds again in his arms, his brother, the watchful child, the man. I’ll be there, he says. Thank you. I’ll let you get back to your friends now. Tell Margaret I’ll look forward to seeing her again soon.
Cool, he says. I’ll look forward as well.
His eyes closed. Tightening in his chest and finally he draws away. And tell her thank you, from me, he says. Okay?
Watching him now almost cautiously Ivan answers: Yeah, I’ll tell her. Are you sure you’re alright?
Tries to laugh, lifting a hand goodbye. I’m good, he says. I’m happy. I love you. See you soon. And he turns, hand still lifted, waving back as he walks away. Hears him saying again: I love you too. Down dark Marlborough Street along the tram tracks to the river. Dries his face on his sleeve half-smiling to himself. Looking like a lunatic. To care so much. Grief does that. Tell Naomi what he said, I’ll be nicer. Make her laugh. And Sylvia, we love her, we need her, I feel. All of them loved and complicatedly needed, for better or worse. Inextricable. The tangled web. Have to eat something when he gets in. Call his mother tell her sorry. Everything forgiven. Thou know’st ’tis common; all that lives must die. Everyone in the end of course, even he, Ivan, strange to think. To make meaning of something so fleeting, life. Here and gone. Think of him there inside the closed room tonight with the sound of cheering, people calling his name, feet stamping. That is life as well as loss and pain. This married woman he’s hanging around with, how did that start. Ask them maybe over Christmas dinner. Her horrified laughter. Crossing over now towards the Abbey, brown brickwork, handful of rain he thinks he feels and turns up his collar. Picture them all there together. To imagine also is life: the life that is only imagined. Clatter of saucepans, steam from the kettle. Even to think about it is to live. Hard cold wind blowing in from the sea, blowing his coat back, raising white hackles on the river. Nothing is fixed. She, the other. Ivan, the girlfriend. Christine, their father, from beyond the grave. It doesn’t always work, but I do my best. See what happens. Go on in any case living.