Ten past seven Monday evening he’s just crossing O’Connell Bridge, late as usual. Red tail-lights in the blue dark, silhouettes of buildings. Bus making a yawning left at the quays as he waits to cross. Wanting to tell her about the judgement: phrases he already has memorised to recite back. Such a concatenation of careless errors must call into question the extent and quality of the Minister’s review of information. Crossing at the lights, he makes his way up Westmoreland Street, hands in his coat pockets. Desire almost to begin whistling to himself, opening theme of the Concerto No. 24. The Minister acted unreasonably in this regard and arrived at a clearly erroneous conclusion.Message he received from Ivan this morning, tell her about that too. Hey. Sorry again about yesterday. If you still want to see each other, how would this week suit? I understand if you’re annoyed. Really got a laugh out of her last night, the story. Dark horse, she called him. They were eating together, takeout from the Japanese place she likes. I think he’s starting to look like you, she said, did I tell you that? Seeing him at the funeral, it made me think. He’s so grown-up-looking. Laughing out in shock Peter heard himself. Are you serious? he asked. I thought he looked atrocious. Lying stretched out on the sofa for her back, dipping her tempura carefully in the little bowl of sauce. The suit, you mean, she said. But I just meant in his face, I could see a resemblance. He’s getting very handsome. Raised an eyebrow, though really he felt pleased. Handsome: well, maybe. Hard to imagine all the same who the girl could be. Teenage chess enthusiast, poster of Magnus Carlsen over her bed. Funny to think of Ivan playing the seducer. Flat monotonous voice on him. And the braces, diabolical. Not remotely annoyed, Peter wrote. Looking forward to catching up. How about dinner on Thursday night? Approaching the gates now, his stride lengthens, brisk, cheerfully impatient.
Since last week, their unspoken arrangement. Morning he waited at the hospital while she had the procedure. Nurse came in to tell him when they were finished with her. Recovering from her sedative under the bleach-white lighting she looked thin and tired. Tea they had given her in a plastic cup, and dry toast. Now, you know she can’t drive for forty-eight hours, the nurse was saying. Felt overcome looking. Small and frail in her patterned gown. Remembering everything. She, his father. Clinical air quality, sterile light. Yeah, he said. They took a taxi back to her apartment. All went well she told him. Took turns that night brushing their teeth, filling water bottles at the tap. In her room he found her in bed already. Neatly on her chest of drawers he folded his sweater. Got into bed beside her, turned off the lamp. In quiet and darkness the sweet slow measure of her breath. Since then he has spent his days working, attending meetings, drafting reports, and in the evening he calls round to her apartment for dinner. Small and clean her kitchenette under the yellow glow of the fan light. Books and papers in the living room, old comfortable sofa. Over the fireplace, Braque lithograph she picked up in Paris, Nature morte oblique. While they eat he asks her advice about work, she talks about a paper she’s reading on philosophical logic and natural language. Something about a liar who says all of his hats are green. Does that mean he has some hats, all of which aren’t green? Or maybe he has no hats. Would it still be a lie, if he didn’t have any? Afterwards, television, cloud of steam from the kettle boiling. Nights he no longer has to spend trapped in claustrophobic solitude, self-medicated, panic attack or am I dying how to tell. Instead the deep replenishing reservoir of her presence. A chaste kiss, cold mint taste of her mouth. And in bed the low familiar conversation before sleep. Latest available translations of the Gospels, literary merits thereof. What Jesus meant when he made that remark to the Canaanite woman about giving the children’s bread to the dogs. It’s challenging, Sylvia said. It’s hard for me, because I don’t understand it. Her sincere and transcendent love of Christ, his ironic sort of joking but then at times terrifyingly real and serious fear of Christ. After weeks of sleeplessness he wakes now only to hear her turning on the coffee machine in the morning, low pummelling sound through the wall. Peace so intense and complete he could weep. Just to inhabit lightly the space that is cleared for him by her tactful silence. Questions she doesn’t ask. Hasn’t heard a thing from the other, hasn’t texted her either. Icing each other out. Why are they even annoyed with one another, he hardly remembers, or wants to. For the best, he thinks. Let her come crawling. The usual game, not to break first. While she’s out spending his money on ketamine and eyelash extensions. Is there someone else, he wonders: guy in her room the other night lighting a cigarette, how do you two know each other. Doesn’t bear thinking about. Whole thing patently insane. In the meantime he’s getting some sleep for once. Eating three meals a day, answering emails. Even laying off the Xanax. Just as well, now that his dealer’s not speaking to him. Suffering, yes. Tormented often, regretting everything, sick at heart. Endurable however. Can be borne, has to be. Call it what it is. You’re grieving, she’s always telling him. Closes his eyes at times as if in prayer: and it’s peaceful somehow. Recalling senselessly the old familiar words, worn smooth by childhood repetition. Blank tokens now, long since expired, exchangeable for nothing. Consoling merely to weigh and handle once again, yes, thy kingdom come.
Taking the staircase two at a time he at last reaches the room, late, and short of breath. Cluster of bodies around a draped table of hardbacks, voices talking. New anthology of contemporary critical perspectives. One glance discloses her, standing by the window, slim and immaculate in black cashmere. Amber tone in her lifted gaze. Without approaching he smiles at her and she, listening absentmindedly to the conversation going on around her, returns the smile. Tacit acknowledgement of a certain shared privacy. The others, her students, colleagues perhaps, friends. Competing all for her attention, he thinks, while she magnificently listens and inclines her head. Resplendent among her disciples. He makes his way across the room towards her and seeing his approach she turns to him: arresting the attention of the others before she even speaks. Hello, stranger, she says. Voice low and smiling. Have I missed your speech? he asks. Light gesture of her fine white hand. Oh, it was nothing, she says. Never mind that, let me introduce you. Her students, a teaching assistant, all young women. Peter’s an old friend of mine, she says. Looking up at him she adds: He could have been a very fine academic, but sadly he decided to become a human rights lawyer instead.
At that he laughs, easily. Ah, you’re flattering me, Sylvia, he says. Not that I object. He breaks off, and adds with exaggerated politeness: Or should I call you ‘Professor’ in front of your students?
Innocuously she answers: First names I think are fine. Though let’s not go any more informal.
With the same easy amused feeling he replies: In public? I would never. Turning to the students he says: You’re all in the English department?
Their laughter giddy, almost frightened. Too awed it seems to speak aloud. He and she collaborate instead to supply the dialogue: stories of their old debating triumphs she pretends to find embarrassing. Undergraduate antics remembered, presentations on books they had never read. Yes, you would bring that up, wouldn’t you? You’re making me look bad in front of the young people. Enjoying herself, he can see. He also. Their power to captivate, dusted down again, given a little run-out, why not. Feel them staring. His own desirability enriched by its close but mysterious relation to hers. Cerebral her glamour and at the same time sensuous: fine lustre of her golden hair, small and soft her breasts under dark cashmere. Vision of a life before him, to walk over from work through the dim blue evening, tired, satisfied, and to stand by her side in an overheated seminar room. Her consort and protector. How she holds herself gently apart from everyone but him, how they in the discreet gestures of their mutual privacy set themselves apart together. Around half past eight she turns to him in all simplicity and says: Shall we head off, do you think? And he has to restrain himself from laying a hand on the small of her back as he answers: Yeah, let’s.
Down the steps and out onto Nassau Street, Dawson Street, exhaust fumes and streetlights, they’re laughing together. That was fun, he says. It’s nice to be around you at these things, I get some of that reflected glow. Hands in the pockets of her tweed coat, her breath a wreath of mist. Oh, you don’t need any reflected, she says. You’re very magnetic. Did you get that judgement this morning? Leaves like dried paper underfoot. St Stephen’s Green. Reminded of his victory he gathers her arm against him, small firm pressure, and starts telling her: concatenation of errors, extent and quality, the Minister acting unreasonably. Her delight, her quick intelligent questions, walking with their heads together in absorbed discussion, their usual shorthand. Did he— Yeah, they were— But you must both have been— Right, exactly. Oh, they must have been sickened. I wish I’d been there. Pleasure of his success redoubled, deepened, meeting with her approval and pride, yes. Together they climb the bright staircase of her building. Clink of her keys in the dish and he takes his shoes off in the hallway. We still have some of that ragu from the weekend, she’s saying. If you’re hungry. In the kitchen he boils the pasta while she sets the table, and sitting down together they eat. Talking, tearing pieces off a loaf of bread with their fingers. Debriefing on the daily papers. Did you see that horrible piece about. Oh Jesus, awful. How do they publish that stuff. Still talking by the time they’re getting ready for bed. Feature in The Irish Times about the rising popularity of cosmetic procedures. Perfectly attractive young women. Nineteen, twenty-year-olds. Huge expense. Not to mention the risks. Ominous sign for the culture it must be. Gender relations, I don’t know. Seated on the side of the mattress she’s taking out her hairpins. I mean, it’s a normal experience, she says. You’re unhappy with your body. Your breasts aren’t perfect, whatever. That used to be considered normal.
Finds himself smiling, watching her. Shaded light of the bedside lamp. You think your breasts aren’t perfect? he says.
With a look of repressed amusement she replies: I was speaking sociologically.
Ah, I see. My mistake.
In her striped cotton nightdress, bare arms, she gets into bed beside him. The room is cool, almost cold, the duvet crisp and soft over their bodies. It’s not something that keeps me awake at night, she says. Not having perfect breasts. I’ve made my peace with it.
I think they’re perfect, he says.
Free and handsome her laughter. How would you know? she asks.
I’m just giving my subjective opinion.
Casting your mind back, are you?
He’s laughing now too, foolishly, looking at the ceiling. Well, feel free to refresh my memory, he says.
Amused, indulgent, her look. Don’t you have a girlfriend? she asks. Even if you’re not speaking to each other.
Turns over to face her. The fine delicate filigree of lines at the corners of her eyes: moving he finds and beautiful. Oh, I don’t know, he says. I think that might be on the way out.
You still haven’t heard from her?
No, he says. But it’s not strictly monogamous anyway, you know.
I should hope not.
These words, this tone of voice. Her hand on his arm he recalls, you’re very magnetic. And as if carried forward quite naturally by the same momentum he reaches his fingertips under the quilt to brush her arm. How intriguing of you, he says.
She gives at this a funny embarrassed smile, still lying on her back: but doesn’t draw away. Well, you have been known to kiss me goodnight, she answers. Which might be enough to make some people jealous.
Damp softness inside the crook of her elbow he touches. Oh, they always get jealous of you in the end, he says. I suppose I talk about you too much.
She’s quiet a moment, allowing him to trace with his fingertips a whispering line from her elbow to wrist. Don’t you tell them there isn’t anything to be jealous of? she asks.
He pauses. Weighing his terms. Parrying briefly, waiting move, he answers: Well, I’m not a very good liar.
Still the same uninflected voice. You know what I mean, she says.
Meeting her now, he answers simply: No, I’ve never talked about that with anyone.
For a few seconds she gives no reply. Then she says: Why not?
It’s your private life. I don’t have any business discussing it with other people.
She goes on looking overhead. In a gentle tone, she replies: I’m only asking out of curiosity. I’ve never really talked about it with anyone either. Obviously my friends know I’m in pain a lot. They might suspect there are difficulties. Emily probably has an idea. But I’ve never told her outright. It’s hard, because it’s a big part of my life, in a way, but I find it very difficult to discuss. You’re the only person I’ve ever really told, as such. And obviously it’s not something we talk about.
Watching her, careful, he answers: We could, if you ever wanted to.
She gives a kind of shrug. I don’t know if there’s much to say, she replies. It’s not getting any better. Which for a long time I thought it might, or I hoped it would. I suppose I still find it difficult to accept that that part of my life is over.
He goes on watching. Pulsing sensation in his throat. Cautious he thinks, and cautiously says: Does it have to be?
A little pause, not looking at him but straight up at the ceiling, frown in the crease of her forehead. Well, what most people are talking about, when they talk about sex, she says, that’s not something I can do anymore. Not in any kind of normal way, or not without a lot of pain. So yes, in that sense, it is over.
His fingers at her hipbone. Above all not to be tactless. I understand what you’re saying, he says. But sexuality, speaking broadly, it’s more complicated than that. I mean, it’s not just the one physical act.
She breathes out between her lips as if considering. In theory, she says. But practically speaking, people have expectations about what an intimate relationship will involve. She breaks off here a moment, teeth at her lower lip, and then adds: I suppose it’s my personality as well. You know, if I can’t do something properly, I don’t want to do it at all. Maybe that’s part of the problem, I don’t know. I think I would find it humiliating, having to negotiate all that with another person. I would feel I was offering something very inferior.
Palm of his hand resting low on her belly under the hollow of her navel. Soft warmth through the cotton nightgown. Quietly he says: But just from your own perspective, there are still certain things you find— pleasurable?
Strangely she laughs at that. Her ear he sees pink, her throat. Yes, she says.
Low kind of aching sensation he feels, her closeness, heat of her flushed throat. Right, he replies.
Lowering her eyes, speaking in a shy humorous voice. I mean, I have the full range of sensations, she says. On my own, I can still— you know.
For a moment he closes his eyes. Hot scalding feeling in his eyelids. Aha, he says. And opening his eyes to look at her he adds: But then, I would go so far as to say, that part of your life isn’t really over at all.
Shyly in the dim enveloping radiance of lamplight she’s smiling. The back of his hand she touches with her fingertips under the quilt. When you’re resting your hand like this, she says, it’s nice.
Quietly he watches her. In that way? he asks.
Nodding she says only: Mm.
Warmth of his hand low on her belly, between her hipbones, heavy. It turns you on? he says.
Very quietly she answers: A little bit.
Hot pleasant throbbing sensation, deep. Me too, he says.
Turning her face away, hiding under her hand, but her voice still smiling. You don’t have to say that, Peter, she says.
His palm resting warm on the soft shallow dish of her belly. What, you don’t believe me? he asks. You can find out for yourself if you’d like, but I won’t insist.
She falls silent a moment. Then in a low dark voice says: Would you like that?
Flood of luxurious pleasure he feels, deep, heavy. Ah, he says. Yes, if you’re offering. I would like that very much.
Covering her eyes with both hands, she groans, guttural sound he loves. I don’t know, she says. I’m sorry. Her voice constrained, she adds: To want what I can’t have, you know, it’s difficult.
Low on the flat of her belly he stills his hand. Wrongfooted, a little, or just cautious. Well, I know there are certain things we can’t do, he says. But that’s okay, there’s no pressure. Even just to talk, it’s nice.
Moving her fingers and he realises she’s wiping tears away. Crying. The shock of it, wrench of pain inside himself: tenderness, distress, compassion. Sylvia, he says, don’t. I’m sorry. Don’t get upset.
Glistening wet her eyes and face through her fingers, nodding, unheeding. Her voice thin as thread. I just want you to remember me the way I was, she says.
Terrible feeling. Tight in his throat. Oh God, he answers. Jesus.
Shaking her head, her hidden face. When they. Yes: the way she was. Perfect, everything. The life they wanted. Her pride in that remembrance worse than touching. Pity he feels and despises himself for feeling. Her pain, the impassable territory between their bodies. Sees her receding behind its monumental heights. Remember me the way I was. Hard to breathe thinking. Dashing tears from her eyes now, however she seems more angry than sad. With herself, with him, both probably. Exhausted he hears himself apologising and she also, crossly, not looking. No, no, I’m sorry. Never mind. No, it’s my fault. It’s alright. Her head shaking. I’m just tired. Let’s forget about it. In a dull deadened voice he asks if she wants him to leave and she clips back: No, of course not. Don’t be dramatic, Peter. Angry at herself for crying, he thinks. And at him for touching her, drawing from her certain soft words and looks, now regretted. She props herself up to turn off the lamp and in the darkness lies down again on her back.
Look, she says. I know you’re grieving, you’re finding it hard to cope. I want to help. But there are certain things I can’t do for you. And you know that.
Feeling heat in his face that could be either shame or indignation he answers: I wasn’t asking you to do anything. I thought we were just talking.
She allows her tone to rise, high and tensed. I don’t even know what you want, she says. Whatever I do, it’s not enough. It has to be the one thing I can’t do, suddenly that’s the only thing you want. It’s like you’re trying to make me suffer, just because you’re suffering.
He passes a hand down slowly over his face. Well, you’re making yourself very clear, he says. I wasn’t trying to make you suffer, but obviously I have, and I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.
Defeated by the inexorable calm of his dejected apology she has nothing to say. Turns over on her side with a tug of the duvet. And what is there for him to feel. Tired, very. Ashamed of himself, as usual. Everything spoiled and debased, which earlier seemed golden. Triumph, partnership, the private treasure of mutual admiration. A nice evening, almost. In the dark he lies quietly for long enough that she can pretend to be asleep. Gets up then to find the foil sheet of tablets in his wallet, swallows two with a handful of water from the bathroom tap. Crying she said to him: I want you to remember me. Too painful to contemplate. Staring into the sun somehow: agony intense enough to annihilate. Even without looking he finds it brightens. For a little while, in bed beside her again, he too feels like crying. Pointless, and anyway he wouldn’t dare. Slowing and congealing the formless language of his thoughts, until released into medicated sleep.
By the time he wakes she’s gone already. Bar of white daylight fluorescing under the blind. Back to his flat now, he thinks. Alone again in the claustrophobic silence of his failures. Why did he have to do it: deluded optimism, maybe. Thinking after all these years it could be smoothed over with a little conversation. Or just self-sabotage. His life in danger of becoming tolerable for a minute, why not go out of his way to aggrieve and distress the only person who could put up with him. In the end however perhaps inevitable. Couldn’t go on that way, virtuous partnership, sharing meals, discussing theology. Lying in her bed alone after she goes to work, imagining certain scenarios. To undress her, and she’s happy, laughing, her white throat. The wet warmth of her mouth. Idea of that, yes. Get in the shower then and go to work. See her again in the evening for dinner. What did you get up to today? Oh, nothing much. No, it was absurd. Brute force of his appetite had to confront eventually the fact of her living body. Stop making excuses, come here. I want you to remember me, she said: to be loyal she meant to that remembered woman, her happiness, beauty, promise of a future. Forever warm and still to be enjoyed. Forsake therefore the injured and angry person she has become. He too of course. Himself as he was then, the young idealist, aflame with righteousness. That person she wants perhaps, not this. And yet she said she liked it: his hand resting. Palm heavy between her hips, the catch in her breath. Took her by surprise perhaps, the feeling: to be touched again, desired, caressed. When last did anyone in tenderness lay a hand on her, he wonders. Her high cold austerity, her palisade of personal space. Too much excitement, panic, spilling over inescapably into tears. His existence an affront to her dignity it seems. And what about his dignity: consigned again to pleading and fumbling at her. Just give me your hand, it’s only going to take a minute. Oh, leave me alone, can’t you? Her high rare refinement, her disgust at his crudeness, the obtrusion of his body. Each in the end angry and humiliated. Better for both of them if he. Yes. No. What was it she said? Don’t be dramatic, Peter.
Swings his legs out of bed finally and plugs his phone into the wall. In and out of the shower, thick soft bath towel, wet footprints on the kitchen tiles making breakfast. Late morning light through the Turkish curtains. After eating he rinses the dishes, hers also. His clothes hanging over the back of the chair in her room. Clean underwear in the zip pocket of his bag. Powers up his phone and pulls his socks on waiting. Home screen finally. Lifts the device and starts scrolling through notifications. Work mostly. New text he sees from Janine’s number. Strange. He thumbs to open.
JANINE: Check the news. Shes in Kevin St. They took her phone
He scrolls up, must have missed something. No. Last text received in July: She says to tell you were in workmans!! Sent to the wrong number this morning, he thinks, must be. Pointless to reply. Hasn’t heard from her in nearly a week. You’re always seeing each other. Her friends sniggering at him. Looks at the message a few seconds longer. Two taps, hits send.
PETER:?
Instantly Janine starts typing and he waits, sitting on the mattress.
JANINE: Hey we got evicted this morning. Security people trashed the place and then the guards arrived and Naomi got arrested
JANINE: Pretty sure shes at Kevin St station but no one has heard from her bc she has no phone
Sound of his own breath leaving his mouth in the silence of the room. Letter they asked him to read and he didn’t. Closes his eyes and opens again. Finally the resigned padding of his thumbs on the screen.
PETER: That’s terrible news, Janine, I’m sorry. I’ll head over to Kevin Street now. Do you know why Naomi was arrested? And is she ok?
JANINE: Yea I dont think she got hurt or anything. No idea why they arrested her, it was so chaotic
JANINE: Dont tell her I text you lol. Your the only lawyer I know
PETER: Thanks. I’ll be back in touch as soon as I’ve seen her.
PETER: In the meantime, are you ok? And everyone else?
JANINE: Yeah we’re fine.… well we’re homeless but otherwise 100
The 100 emoji. He stares down at his phone until the screen goes dark in his hand. Letter he never read. Dont tell her I text you lol. He drops his phone on the bed and buttons his shirt up, muttering aloud for no reason, heard by no one: Fuck, fuck, fuck.