On Saturday afternoon, Margaret finds herself once again sitting by Ivan’s side, driving to the coast. They have been in the car for an hour already, and in the distance now, under the low grey sky, the sea forms a shifting slate-blue line on the horizon. When she collected him from the bus station last night, Ivan seemed withdrawn, and in the car he didn’t speak much. At the cottage she asked him if everything was alright and he quickly answered: Yeah, I’m sorry. I’m very happy to see you, believe me. They were taking their coats and shoes off in the hall. Do you know the expression ‘a sight for sore eyes’? he asked. Smiling, amused, she said yes. Well, that’s you, he replied. Folding her gloves up into her handbag she asked why his eyes were, metaphorically speaking, sore, and after a pause he said: Different reasons. Nothing big. He was still unlacing his sneakers. Thank you for collecting me again, by the way, he said. I’m sorry to ask. I could have got a taxi, but I guess with the town being so small, the driver might know your house. She found herself surprised by the remark, by what it conveyed about his awareness of her situation, and for a moment said nothing. Finally she just said: There is that, I suppose. He left his shoes side by side on the shoe rack, neatly. It’s cool, he said. If you don’t mind collecting me, I mean. I’m grateful. She said it was no problem. He straightened up to his full height then and kissed her on the lips. The overhead light was switched on, bright and buttery yellow. She looked up at him, his clear almost lustrous skin, his long dark eyelashes, and before she could say anything he had touched his hands to her hips and kissed her again, tenderly. A sight for sore eyes, he repeated. I know it’s a cliché. But it’s so relevant to the situation, you have no idea. Now he sits quietly at her side, looking through the CDs in her glovebox, while she navigates the familiar bends of the coast road.
Have you ever had a dog? he asks.
Actually no, she answers. Although I like them. Did you have one growing up?
He clicks the glovebox shut and sits back in his seat, rubbing his jaw. Yeah, I still do, he says. Well, it’s tricky. Because he lived with my dad before. And you know when you’re renting, landlords can be pretty strict about pets, so I can’t take him to live with me. My mother is looking after him right now, but she’s not a great fan of dogs. Actually she hates them. So it’s not a permanent thing. I’m just having a lot of trouble figuring out where he can go.
Margaret glances over at him, and then returns her attention to the road. Oh, I’m sorry, she says. I didn’t know that. That sounds like a tricky situation.
I know. You’d really think the whole thing would be easier. Like there would be a service where you could give your dog into care for a short time. I don’t think there is, though. Unless you know of one.
She says she doesn’t think so, but she’ll ask around. Turning off the main road and down a gravelled lane towards the shore, she says: What kind of dog is it?
He’s a whippet, Ivan replies. Like a smaller greyhound. I can show you a picture, if you want.
Please do.
He takes out his phone and starts scrolling, while she parks the car in the small flat gravel area overlooking the beach. Here, Ivan says. She looks down at his screen now to see a photograph of a slender black dog in a sunlit garden, its posture upright and graceful, eyes large and liquid dark.
Oh wow, Margaret says. How elegant.
Looking down at the picture, Ivan agrees sadly: He actually is really elegant. Yeah, I miss him a lot. With his finger and thumb he zooms in on the dog’s face, a long narrow face with a white crest between the eyes. His name is Alexei, Ivan adds. He can give the paw and everything, I taught him that. And he doesn’t even bark, he’s silent. Maybe if he’s really excited he gives one or two little barks, but that’s it.
Margaret watches Ivan looking at the photograph. Does he like to run? she asks.
He smiles down at the screen. Oh yeah, he says. You should see him. Let me get a video, I’ll show you. Returning to the photo library, Ivan starts scrolling again, while Margaret takes the keys from the ignition and finds her sunglasses in her pocket, although the day is overcast. Look at this, he says. He taps the play button. On screen, apparently in the same garden from the photograph, the dog is poised on all fours, his ears pricked up, watching something off-camera. The sun is shining, and the grass in the garden is vividly green, the sky blue overhead. In the background of the video, she can hear Ivan’s voice saying: Okay, you can go. Then, from off-screen, a tennis ball appears in the air, making a long bending parabola over the garden. In one movement, the dog takes off in pursuit, his powerful body compressing and then flashing out full-length, soaring, hardly touching the earth.
Laughing, Margaret says: He’s so fast, oh my God.
With the tennis ball in his jaws, the dog races back across the grass, and the camera moves briefly to show a bearded man in a grey cardigan bending down to pet the dog’s head. The footage comes to an end then, the last frame frozen on screen. Oh, Ivan says. That’s my dad, actually. By the way. I forgot he was in the video. Margaret, unthinking, reaches to touch Ivan’s arm. It’s okay, he says. It’s nice. He really loves Alexei, as you can see. No, it’s nice, it’s a happy memory. Ivan goes on looking down at the screen. Anyway, I really need to figure out what to do, he says. My mother is talking about giving the dog away. If she would really do that, I don’t know, it seems extreme. But she definitely wants him out of her house.
Could your brother look after him for a while? Margaret asks.
Ivan takes such a long time to answer this question that she wonders whether he has heard her. He goes on staring down at the screen of his phone, half-darkened now, still showing the faint image of his father with the dog. Then he answers: No.
Ah, she says. He’s renting as well, I suppose.
Again, this question triggers a long silence. She watches Ivan, who is still gazing impassively down at his phone, running his tongue over his braces. Finally he locks the screen and pockets the device, answering: Right. Nothing further appears to be forthcoming, and after a few more seconds of quiet they get out of the car. The cold northerly sea wind blows Margaret’s hair back over her face as she swings the door closed. She takes her straw bag from the boot and together they walk towards the steep stone staircase leading down to the shoreline. It’s really beautiful here, Ivan remarks. They make their way down the steps together now, the worn stone treads crusted with sand and dried pieces of seaweed. Without turning around, he asks: What do you think, is it too cold to swim?
Watching the back of his head as he walks ahead of her, she answers: I don’t mind. I’m used to it. You decide.
I don’t mind either, he says. We can try, if you want.
Taking an elastic tie from her wrist she wraps her hair behind her head to keep it off her face. Ah, she says. Very brave.
Hand on the iron stair rail, he turns now to look back at her. Why, because it’s cold? he asks. I don’t mind that. But it’s not dangerous, is it?
Are you scared?
Shyly he smiles now. Not for myself, he says.
Smiling back at him she replies: Don’t worry, it’s not dangerous.
Down on the empty shore the cliffs stand tall and sheer around them, and the wind whistles, the sea beats down on the flat reflective sand. Not afraid for himself, he said: as if to say, without saying it, that he was afraid for her. Some sort of masculine protective instinct, she thinks; foolish, of course, but then men and women are foolish about each other. The tender chivalry he seems to feel towards her: it gives her a strange sensation to think about that. Maybe he doesn’t need to know about her life, she thinks. And if he wants to tell her about his life, she’s happy to listen. Is that so wrong? To spend a little time together, liking one another, even very much, and nothing more. Over the rocks at the end of the beach, saltwater crashes with a hissing fracturing sound, and sea spray rises glittering against the grey sky, droplets suspended trembling in the air before they fall. Are we going to try our luck? she asks. Ivan answers: Yeah, okay. Let’s do it. Is there somewhere I can change? Or maybe, if there’s no one here, I don’t know. Rooting in her bag she takes out an old green beach towel, handing it to him, and he thanks her. Under a smaller pink towel she changes herself, with some difficulty, tugging the glossy synthetic swimsuit up her legs and over her shoulders with one hand, holding the towel wrapped around her in the other. Discreetly they each avoid watching the other. If it’s too cold, we’ll just come back, she says. We don’t want to get hypothermia. With a nervous laugh, putting his folded clothes into his backpack, Ivan agrees they don’t want to get that.
Smiling with effort into the hard wind, they walk together down to the water’s edge. Under her bare feet Margaret feels the cruel thin cold of the water and closes her eyes as the sensation crawls up over her toes and ankles. Her teeth start chattering. Don’t go too quickly, she says. Let yourself acclimatise. Beside her Ivan mutters: Oh God. Moving further into the water, the cold becomes perceptible in her nerve endings only as a penetrating shock, bordering on pain. Slowly she continues up to her thighs, her hips, and she’s swallowing, stuttering involuntarily aloud. Fuck, says Ivan beside her. Opening her eyes she sees the dark fragmented sea surface grey-green and the sky above grey-white. At her breasts now the water forms a line pure and piercing. Breath gasps hard in and out of her throat. If it’s too much, we can go back, she repeats. Behind her, Ivan says: No, I’m okay. Are you? She says yes. Up to her shoulders, the delicate skin of her throat, her chin. Closing her eyes, she immerses her face and head. Seeing nothing, hearing only the gigantic noise of the sea pounding her eardrums, she feels all over her body now an almost unendurable assault of cold. Stiff, uncoordinated, she tries to move her limbs, forcing her blood to circulate. Her eyes screwed shut underwater, something brushes against her: slick, like the cold smooth hide of a seal, Ivan’s body. She raises her face to the air again, breath heaving, and opens her eyes. His lips pale, his skin white and pearlescent wet, shoulders above the line of the water, teeth chattering. She can hear in the bones of her skull the sound of her own teeth also. Out of sight and weightless her arm floats itself to him, tips of her fingers she feels at his navel. Are you okay? she asks. He nods his head, swallowing, dark eyelashes dripping. Do you want to try swimming? she says. With effort they both swim a few strokes, parallel to the shore, hardly breathing it seems, everything grey and lapping up over them, crashing down. For a time, under the water, she experiences a numb kind of radiating pleasant sensation, but breaking the surface for even a moment lets in a new rush of bitter abrading cold. Salt stinging in her sinuses, limbs aching, eyes and nose scalded, running over. Finally, she raises her head to call out: Okay, enough for me. Ivan, beside her, nods again without speaking.
Wading back slowly to the shore, lifting her stiff waterlogged limbs, Margaret feels immensely heavy and ancient, numb, exhausted: solid artefact dredged wet from the sea floor. Following after her, Ivan says nothing. As they reach their belongings, she hears how heavily they are both breathing, how loud the noise of their breathing even over the sound of the sea. She hands him the same green towel from her bag. His face is no longer white, but flushed pink and healthy-looking, his lips parted, panting. They dry themselves roughly, quickly, peeling off underneath the towels their wet swimsuits, tender damp skin exposed again to the hard wind, and then dress once more with what gorgeous relief in their dry warm clothes. An old plastic bag she unfolds for their wet things, puts hers inside, and offers it to Ivan. After adding his own, he looks down at the wet black tangle of their swimsuits together inside, still breathing very hard, she can hear. Are you alright? she says. He nods again. That was fun, he says. Or actually it was horrible, but now I feel great. She smiles, towelling her hair. Right, she says. Same for me. He’s nodding his head still, looking at her, his face pink cold almost sunburned-looking. Yeah, you’re amazing, he says. You’re honestly the most amazing person I’ve ever met. Can I kiss you? It’s okay if you prefer not, since it’s kind of in public. Although I don’t think anyone else is here. Holding the towel in one hand she finds herself saying: That’s alright. I don’t mind. Touching her with his hands, drawing her close to him, he kisses her lips. Why with him is it like this, she wonders. The touch of his hands to her body, his voice when he speaks, his particular looks and gestures. Parting her lips she tastes the salt wet of his tongue. Feels his hand in her hair. The miracle of existing completely together in this way for even one moment on God’s earth, she thinks. If never again in her life another, only to be here now, with him. Drawing away from her, he says politely: Thank you. Touching her lips she answers: Oh, well, thank you. I must say, I don’t want to embarrass you, Ivan, but you kiss very nicely. I don’t know if I’ve ever enjoyed being kissed so much in my life. He starts laughing his kind of goofy laugh, looking down at the ground. I’m happy, he says. Me neither. Although, the first time we kissed, I was really nervous. What with the braces and everything. I was scared you wouldn’t like it. They start to walk back up the stone staircase together, Margaret buttoning her jacket. Well, I did, she says. Gallantly he takes her straw bag and puts it over his shoulder. Yeah, that gave me confidence, he answers. I remember that. It was special. The way we were talking about our lives at first, and then when we kissed, the way you liked it. He breaks off here to laugh again. I’m being really embarrassing, he says. I’m sorry. I think the cold water made me kind of delirious, can that happen? She says she feels that way too, a little. Retying her hair more securely behind her head, she asks if he would like to get dinner somewhere before they go home. For a moment he looks at her in his quiet observing way, and then he answers: Yeah. I would like that a lot.
On the way back, they stop at an old country hotel in Knocknagarry. Margaret doesn’t think anyone will see them, it’s too unlikely, there’s no use being paranoid. And indeed, when they enter, the dining room is almost empty: a young family near the entrance, an elderly couple by the closed piano. Margaret and Ivan are shown to a small table, set with white linen, heavy silverware, a lighted wax candle. In her exhausted satisfaction after swimming, she smiles at him without speaking, and he smiles back. They order, the waitress brings their food, and they eat. When Margaret rests her arm on the tabletop, Ivan reaches over and touches the back of her hand lightly with his fingertips. No one else takes any notice, the staff, the elderly couple, the young family with their noisy children, and why should they. Margaret is reminded of the way she felt when she first met Ivan: as if life had slipped free of its netting. As if the netting itself had all along been an illusion, nothing real. An idea, which could not contain or describe the borderless all-enveloping reality of life. Now, in her satisfied exhaustion, with her hand resting on the white linen tablecloth, the touch of Ivan’s fingertips, the candle dripping a slow thread of wax down its side, the glossy closed lid of the piano, Margaret feels that she can perceive the miraculous beauty of life itself, lived only once and then gone forever, the bloom of a perfect and impermanent flower, never to be retrieved. This is life, the experience, this is all there has ever been. To force this moment into contact with her ordinary existence only seems to reveal how constricting, how misshapen her ideas of life have been before. When the waitress returns to ask if they are enjoying the meal, Margaret does not move her hand, and neither does Ivan. Politely they both answer that the meal is very nice, while on the table the tips of his fingers brush her thumb. After they finish eating, they pay together and leave through the lobby, Margaret taking her keys from her bag to unlock the car.
That was nice, Ivan says. I like those old type of places.
Opening the driver’s-side door, yawning, Margaret answers: I do too.
On the drive back to town, they sit in companionable silence for a time, Margaret watching the road and Ivan looking out the passenger window. Between them she seems to feel a deep animal contentment that goes beyond words. In the darkness they drive together past houses, villages, supermarkets with lighted windows. Finally Ivan says aloud: Can I ask you something?
She pauses, without knowing why, and then replies: Sure.
Well, I’m curious to know more about your marriage, he says. But we don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.
Hands on the steering wheel, she swallows. Having told herself, having known. And what: to say nothing. Thank you, I’d rather not. Is that even possible. Trying to resist something heavier and stronger than herself somehow, she feels. What about it? she asks.
I guess I wonder what happened. Like, why you broke up, for instance. But you don’t have to tell me.
Feeling of breath passing down her throat, and up and out again. I think, when it comes to things like that, she says, marriages breaking down, there are probably always a lot of reasons.
That makes sense, says Ivan.
She wets her top lip with her tongue. In this case, there was one particular issue, she adds, which made things very difficult. But I’m sure there were also other things.
I understand.
Silently once more her breath fills her lungs and empties out into the closed interior space of the car. Trying to speak in a measured tone of voice she says: My husband— The man I was married to, I’m sorry, his name is Ricky. I won’t go into the whole story. But he has a drinking problem. Not just, you know, drinking a little bit too much. I mean he has a very serious problem.
Ivan is quiet for a moment, and then he says only: Oh.
Mindlessly she nods her head, watching the empty road before them. I don’t want to sound like I’m blaming him, she says. It’s an illness, I can see that now. I couldn’t always accept that before, but now I can. I understand, it’s not his fault. She dips her lights at the sight of an approaching car, and then returns her hand to the steering wheel. I wish I had been able to help him, she says. But he just kept getting worse. You know, in and out of hospital all the time. It was very chaotic. And frightening, to be honest, it did frighten me. Turning the headlights back up, Margaret adds: I’m sorry. I don’t want to make myself out to be some kind of saint. I’m not, at all. In the end, I just couldn’t live like that anymore.
Ivan sits unmoving in the passenger seat, looking at her. I’m sorry, he says.
Distractedly she pushes her hair back off her forehead. It’s such a horrible mess, she says. I feel guilty even telling you about it, to be honest. I didn’t want to. Or I mean, I wasn’t going to. I don’t know.
You have nothing to feel guilty for.
She is conscious of the soothing effect of these words on her conscience, a false soothing or a true soothing, she can’t tell. Everything about Ivan in this moment – his tone of voice, the quiet way he watches her when she’s speaking, even the mere fact of his still, calm physical presence so close beside her – gives her a powerful feeling of consolation, too powerful. Thank you, she murmurs.
Do other people know? Ivan asks.
For a long time they didn’t, she says. But it’s gone beyond that at this stage. Half the bars in town won’t serve him anymore.
Quietly Ivan answers: Ah, okay.
She slows the car down as they approach the roundabout outside Frenchtown. But I suppose not everyone knows how bad it’s been, she adds. You know, they haven’t been there with him like I have. And he can be very skilful in how he presents himself. He’ll say he’s changed, he’s not like that anymore, I’m just dragging up the past. And then people don’t necessarily want to get involved. My mother would say, you know, you have your story and he has his, I’m not taking sides. Which I do understand, in a way. It’s not that I want anyone to turn against him. That’s the last thing I would want, honestly, because life is hard enough for him as it is. But it’s difficult, when you’ve been through certain things, and people in your life don’t necessarily believe you. Or they just don’t want to know.
Ivan is silent for a moment. That is crazy, he says then. You have your story and he has his? About someone who’s an addict? That’s a crazy thing to say, excuse me.
She lets out a high nervous exhalation. Well, she says, I can only give you my side of the story, remember. If you were hearing this from him, it would all sound very different.
In a sort of frowning intelligent voice Ivan answers: Obviously, since he’s the one who has acted badly, he has the incentive to lie. What incentive do you have?
Tightening and loosening her hands on the steering wheel, she answers: I don’t know. I suppose when a marriage breaks down, maybe there’s an incentive to make the other party look responsible. I’m sure that’s part of it. Not that I’ve been going around town complaining about him, by the way. I’m just talking about my own family and friends. But maybe I want them to think it wasn’t my fault.
Because it wasn’t, says Ivan.
Her shoulders jerk upwards in a kind of shrug. I don’t know, she repeats. I do feel guilty, I can’t help that. I wish there was something more I could have done. It’s the kind of thing you do worry about. You know, if I had seen the signs, if I had tried to intervene earlier, I don’t know. I don’t want you to think that I blame him. He’s not a bad person, he’s just very unwell. He’s not hurting anyone other than himself.
Again Ivan pauses before he replies. I know what you’re saying, he says. But it must have been very hurtful for you, as well.
She has a desperate apprehensive feeling now, wanting somehow to ward off, before it’s too late, the sentiment he is expressing, and why, because it’s too comforting, too close an embrace. Swallowing, she says: Of course. But you have to remember that it’s an illness. You know, my friend Anna would say, it’s almost like a kind of psychosis. If you were married to someone who started having psychotic hallucinations, you wouldn’t blame the person. Maybe if they refused to get help, you would have to leave, okay, but you couldn’t really say it was their fault. If you see what I mean. It’s natural, when things go wrong, you want to blame someone. Yourself, or the other person. But in this case, there isn’t anyone to blame.
She can see Ivan frowning, dark line of his brow drawn. Well, okay, he says. You know more about the situation than I do, obviously. If he’s going around telling people that he’s changed and it’s not true, I think that shows a malicious side. But I don’t want to argue. If you’re saying he’s not a bad person, I believe you.
Yes, a dangerous feeling, she thinks: the relief that reaches out to her from his words. To sense herself wavering on the brink of that relief. Helplessly, hardly even hearing her own words, she goes on: I used to pray that he would stop. I mean, I really would pray to God. Not that it ever worked.
For a time, Ivan falls silent. Briefly she rubs at her nose with her fingertips. Then he says quietly: Yeah, I used to pray sometimes. That my dad would get better. Which never worked either, obviously. It does put a question mark over the whole thing, the way people can get sick, and God does nothing to help them. It’s hard to understand. But I don’t think it means there’s nothing there.
Through the darkness, the headlights throw out a long beam of silver light, illuminating the road surface as it disappears beneath them. You believe there is something? she asks.
I try to, yeah, Ivan answers. Some kind of order in the universe, at least. I do feel that sometimes. Listening to certain music, or looking at art. Even playing chess, although that might sound weird. It’s like the order is so deep, and it’s so beautiful, I feel there must be something underneath it all. And at other times, I think it’s just chaos, and there’s nothing. Maybe the whole idea of order just comes from some evolutionary advantage, whatever it is. We recognise patterns when there are no patterns. I don’t know. I’m not explaining myself very well. But when I experience that sense of beauty, it does make me believe in God. Like there’s a meaning behind everything.
Listening to him, she feels herself nodding her head again. Uncertainly she says aloud: I don’t really think of God in that way. In terms of beauty. I suppose my idea of God is more to do with morality. What’s right and wrong. She pauses, and then adds: It’s not something I feel very sure of. But I do take it seriously, at the same time, or I try to. I want to do the right thing.
While she speaks, she can sense in her peripheral vision that he’s watching her attentively. I get you, he says. To me, it seems like it might all be related. Like, I don’t know, to find beauty in life, maybe it’s related to right and wrong. But I haven’t thought it out too fully. Sometimes I just have a feeling. Like a sense of being loved by God, almost. But it’s not really something that can be explained.
She lets out a trembling kind of laugh. Well, if there is a God, she says, I’m sure he loves you very much.
He lowers his eyes. Yeah, I can feel that sometimes, he says. Like when I’m with you, I can. If you don’t mind me saying that.
Her voice sounds strange to her, lighter or thinner than usual, when she replies: I don’t mind, of course not. It’s a nice thing to say.
They sit in the car together not speaking. In darkness they pass silent houses, television screens flashing blue in the windows. People have been very kind to her, she thinks. Last year when Ricky started ringing the office, trying to talk to her, and Linda learned to recognise his number so she could answer the calls herself. No, I’m afraid Margaret’s in a meeting at the moment. I’ll let her know you were in touch. Take care now. Doreen dialling upstairs to murmur in an undertone: He’s on his way up. Giving Margaret time to hide in the staff toilet, keeping her breath low, overhearing his voice. She never seems to be in. She still work here, does she? Crying in Anna’s kitchen while Anna fixed her a cup of tea. He’s very sick, Margaret. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. Yes, people have been kind, even if they haven’t always understood. It’s not as if Ivan is the only person in her life who has treated her with dignity and respect: on the contrary. She only met him, what, two weeks ago. And yet his power to calm her with his words, with his presence, is so intense and strong, seemingly equal to, even greater than, the powers of people she has known for many years. It does put a question mark over the whole thing. The way people can get sick, and God does nothing to help them. Yes, she thinks, yes it does. To remember that God is not the nice man Jesus, who liked everybody and went around healing the sick; that God is, on the contrary, the one who makes people sick, who condemns people to death, for incomprehensible reasons. Jesus the healer, the listener, teacher, friend of sinners, seems in Margaret’s mind to be practically on the brink of murmuring: Sorry about my dad … Jesus is easy to love and God much harder. Jesus also has his own reality, his place in history, whereas God is like a dim point of light in a dark room, visible only as long as you don’t try to look directly. In the corner of Margaret’s mind he is there, the sense of his presence, but when she tries to catch the sense it vanishes into nothing. If there is a God, what does he want from her? For what reason has he introduced such a person as Ivan into her life? Surely it can’t be right for them to keep seeing each other in secret, telling lies to their family and friends, entangling themselves in deceit and dishonesty. But would it be right for Margaret to end things now, never to see Ivan again? Alone, he would return to the life of which she knows little, his thoughts and feelings closed to her forever. Is that the right thing, what God would want? She seems to feel obscurely that the day she met Ivan, they brought into existence a new relationship, which is also a way of being. And their fidelity to that way of being has taken on now a certain moral quality. Ivan’s grief, his extreme youth, his liking for her, these facts exert their own pressures on the situation, yes, but only because of the basis of this relation. Some other young man, becoming for whatever reason infatuated with her, would not exercise any special claim on her as a result, would be entitled to nothing beyond the ordinary tact and politeness she owes to anyone. To Ivan, plainly, she owes more than that. But what exactly? Loyalty, understanding, some measure of honesty. At least that much. And maybe, in the eyes of God, much more: maybe everything, her pride, her dignity, her life itself. What she tried and failed to give to someone else, once.
Finally she says aloud: When I was your age, Ivan, I was still very young. I don’t know if it would have been a good idea for me to get involved with someone so much older than I was. Especially if the person had been married before, and we were seeing each other in secret. I’m only speaking hypothetically, but I think I might look back later on and feel that this person had taken advantage of me.
She senses Ivan looking at her again as the car draws nearer to the lights of town. A haze of orange luminescence hangs in the dark sky, his face silhouetted against the window. Okay, he says. I get where you’re coming from. But I think it’s different.
What’s different? she asks.
Well, I think you’re comparing a scenario you made up in your head with a situation that has real people in it. You know, you’re imagining some creepy older guy, maybe someone who went around preying on young girls or whatever. But that’s not the situation we’re in.
She feels herself shrugging, desperate. Why not? she says. Because I haven’t had a younger boyfriend before? I don’t see what difference that makes. I don’t want you to be looking back when you’re my age and thinking about all the suffering I caused you.
She can see Ivan looking down into his lap, and he lets out a long low breath like a sigh. If you don’t want to see me anymore, you can just say, he says. You don’t have to make out that it’s for my own good. I would prefer if you were honest.
I am being honest, she says.
She sees his head shaking. Okay, he says. If that’s what you think of me, what can I say? It’s embarrassing. You’re saying I’m so immature that you could be taking advantage of me the whole time and I wouldn’t even realise. And you wouldn’t realise either, we both wouldn’t, until whatever, years into the future. It doesn’t even make sense, I’m sorry. Taking advantage for what purpose?
She feels a hot unpleasant tingling in her nose and throat. Maybe for my own vanity, she says. To make me feel good about myself.
Once more he looks over at her, as she indicates to turn left off the main road. What does that mean? he asks. You don’t care about me, but you’re flattered that I like you?
She completes the turn, switches off the indicator, and drives more slowly now along the smaller winding road to the cottage. Of course I care about you, she says. But yes, to speak truthfully, I am flattered that you like me.
And what’s wrong with that? he asks. It’s not like I’m so innocent, I have no ego. Obviously it’s nice for my self-esteem if you think I’m attractive, or whatever. If you do. Why should that be bad?
She parks the car outside the cottage while he’s speaking. Lifting her hands from the steering wheel, she wipes at her eyes. I don’t know, she says.
Out of politeness, or perhaps pain, he looks away, out the darkened passenger-side window. You’ve had enough sadness in your life already, Margaret, he said. You don’t need me making you sad as well. And I don’t want to, believe me.
Confusedly, she answers: I just want you to be happy.
He looks down at the handbrake between them. Well, if that’s the case, there’s no problem, he says. Because you can make me happy very easily. If we can keep seeing each other, I’ll be happy. Glancing up at her, he adds humorously: That’s maybe a bit manipulative, but it is true.
Exhausted, feeble, feeling a powerful desire to be embraced by him, to feel herself held in his arms, she takes off her seat belt. Okay, she says. I’m not going to stop us from seeing each other. Shall we go inside?
In the kitchen, she unfolds the clotheshorse and hangs up their damp swimwear while he puts on the kettle. Her impression of the day they have spent together seems dimly to envelop her, succession of images, slender black dog racing across a green garden, taste of sea salt on her lips, glittering warmth of the hotel dining room. Idea of God as an aesthetic principle, you have nothing to feel guilty for. He makes the tea as she draws down the kitchen blinds. Depth of consolation she finds in his presence. Why this, why anything. Moving behind her now, he kisses gently without speaking the back of her neck.
On Wednesday evening, Ivan is over at his friend Colm’s flat with some of the others, watching a Champions League game, Tottenham playing Sporting Lisbon. When he arrived earlier, some amused remarks were made about how no one has seen him lately, he’s never around at the weekend, etc., which he, secretly pleased, pretended not to hear. Now the football is on and people are eating crisps and talking about other things, controversies from the internet, someone they know moving to London. While one of the players is down injured, Ivan goes out to the kitchen to get himself a bottle of beer, and inside, he finds Sarah pouring herself a glass of water from the tap. Hey you, she says. We missed you at Liam’s last weekend. Ivan nods his head to show that he’s listening, while he takes a bottle from the vegetable crisper and closes the fridge door. Because his friends had seemed concerned at first by his absence from successive weekend social events, texting him with nice messages saying they hoped he was okay, he may have dropped some small hints about the true explanation, not wanting them to worry, but also not really wanting to explain the whole thing. Looking at him now, Sarah adds: Everyone’s saying you have a girlfriend. Ivan pauses for a moment, opening the cutlery drawer and taking out a bottle opener. Then he says: Okay. Sarah has a funny expression on her face, watching him. And have you? she asks. Opening the bottle, he answers: No comment. Playfully she gives him a little shove on the arm. So mysterious, she replies. When they go back into the living room together, she says in a loud announcing voice to everyone: You were right, he has a girlfriend. They all start laughing, talking, trying to get his attention, while Ivan sits back down in his seat, ignoring them, although he actually does think they’re being funny.
What’s her name? Colm asks.
Ivan takes a drink from his bottle, pleasant cold effervescence expanding in his mouth. After swallowing, he answers: I have no idea what you’re talking about.
They all go on chattering and laughing, and someone throws a scrunched-up piece of paper at his head.
What’s her FIDE rating? says Emma.
Ivan goes on feigning ignorance, looking at the television, trying not to smile, and eventually they all settle down and start talking about something else. Everything conspires to put him in a happy mood: his friends, the football, the enjoyably cold beer, the kind of glowing internal feeling of his secret, which is not really a secret, the way everyone is cheerful and throwing paper at his head. The gathering takes on in his mind a fun celebratory feeling, like a birthday, and he can see himself sometime in the future telling his friends about Margaret after all, and they’ll be pleased for him and making silly jokes. Will they care that she’s older than he is, or was formerly married? No, they attach no significance to meaningless social conventions. Will they be impressed at how beautiful and elegant she is? Probably not that either, since they’re not really the sensitive type of people who crave beauty in their lives, but that’s okay too.
After the football ends, one-all with a last-minute Spurs goal ruled offside, people start heading home, saying goodbye, and Colm asks Ivan if he wants to stay on for their usual friendly game. The others play a little bit of chess too, online blitz and that kind of thing, but Colm and Ivan are the only two serious titled players who still compete at classical tournaments. Not that Ivan has been competing recently: not since April, when he lost three consecutive games in Limerick and then literally the next day found out that his dad’s final round of cancer treatment had been unsuccessful. Since then, Colm has earned the International Master title, IM Colm Keenan, and Ivan is still just an FM, even though he has a positive record against Colm in classical, four to one with five draws. When they first met, on the Irish junior circuit ten years ago, Ivan was considered the far better player, the strongest in their age category, practically a ‘star’. He got FM when he was sixteen, two full years before Colm did. There was always mutual respect between them, mutual liking and friendship, but also a tacit acceptance of Ivan’s superiority over the board. Colm was the one who had more of a social life, even played sports, while Ivan was the one who was better at chess: everyone knew that. When Ivan found out in June that Colm had made IM, he texted him to say congratulations, and Colm texted back: Thanks bud. Your turn next. And he added a thumbs-up emoji. Ivan well remembers receiving this text, the mixed feelings that it provoked in him, painful jealousy, self-loathing, sickening despair. Now, waiting by the window while Colm sets up the board on the dining table, Ivan cannot say that the memory of the text message has completely lost its sting, because in truth it still does sting, but it’s more tolerable, a normal emotion that anyone could feel, nothing that makes him want to start crying or throwing up. At the weekend he was telling Margaret how badly he had played at almost every competition for the last two years, and she made a gentle frowning face and said: Oh, but your dad must have been very sick then. Which was true, of course. It’s not as if Ivan never made the connection before, he just doesn’t like to make excuses for himself, using his dad as an excuse for playing bad chess, practically blaming his dad, and anyway a lot of people play the best games of their life while some personal tragedy is going on in the background, that’s a matter of historical fact. Nonetheless, when Margaret said it that way, Ivan could see there was sense in it, despite his former objections. It was actually difficult for him to get into the competitive mindset when his dad was very sick and dying. Even to get his college degree seemed like a lot of work, since he was driving up and down to the chemotherapy sessions every second week, and he felt tired all the time and depressed, and then he felt guilty for being depressed, since he should have been trying to make happy memories for his dad, not sad ones. Looking back, okay, maybe it wasn’t too surprising that his chess had suffered. All his friends had told him not to be so hard on himself, but he always thought that was just the kind of thing you had to say to someone who had lost almost one hundred rating points over three years. Now he thinks he probably has been too hard on himself, which isn’t at all what his dad would have wanted. No: his dad loved him, and wanted him to be happy, he knows that. And if he can be happy now, it’s not betraying his dad’s memory, as he has sometimes felt, but in fact abiding by his strongest wishes, his wishes for his children’s happiness.
So go on, Colm says, who is she?
Looking out the window across the river, Ivan can see Liberty Hall, big and sturdy, with the crinkly roof on top. You wouldn’t know her, he replies.
Ah, says Colm. I get it, she goes to a different school.
Smiling, Ivan answers: Right, I met her at Irish college.
It’s not that girl who replies to all your tweets, is it?
Ivan returns from the window and sits down at the board. No, he says. And that’s not just me, she does it to everyone.
Colm holds his two closed fists outstretched and Ivan chooses the left one: black. Colm opens with the English, his new thing, and they go into a Reversed Sicilian. Through the opening, Ivan feels a pleasant mental lightness, a sparkling feeling, intelligent moves just rising effortlessly to the surface of his mind. He thinks about the way Sarah shoved his arm in the kitchen, and how stupid everyone was acting, because, he could tell, they were happy for him, and he also was happy; and while he entertains these thoughts, the position on the board grows clearer and clearer before his eyes. Colm plays a small inaccuracy coming out of the opening, pushing f4 and allowing Ivan to capture in the centre, and Ivan not only recognises the weakness this creates in Colm’s position but seems to understand instantly how best to exploit it. The mistake is like one little window left ajar, and with ease, with almost no effort, Ivan finds he can lever the window all the way open and climb right inside. Feeling all the time the same free lightness of touch, he forces a resignation in twenty-three moves. It’s all very friendly: after shaking hands, they talk over the inaccuracies together, Colm should have captured on d5 that time rather than playing f4, and then he missed a few attacking chances later, Nf6 and so on. Colm isn’t sour about losing, he enjoyed the game. After they tidy the pieces away, Ivan gets to his feet and starts getting ready to leave.
You coming to the norm event in December? Colm asks.
Ivan is zipping up his backpack. I registered, he says. But I don’t think I’ll go. I should email the guy.
Colm gives a little shrug and says: Whatever you think.
Ivan pauses, considering, and then asks who else has registered. Briefly, the two of them discuss names. Although Ivan had previously made up his mind not to attend the norm event at Christmas, and the idea of going had passed out of his brain, such that he had even forgotten that the event was still happening, he begins at this moment – under the influence of the elegant little miniature he has just won, and also the bottle of beer, the absurd header ruled out in added time, the company of his friends – to reconsider.
I’ll think about it, he says. I don’t want to miss the last bus, alright? See you again.
Out on the quays he walks alone to the bus stop, hands in his pockets. To attend the event after all, and possibly even make his second norm: the idea is sorely tempting. To play beautiful chess again, to regain the respect and admiration of his rivals, maybe to call Margaret from his room that night saying hey, guess what, I just won a chess tournament. Overheard no doubt by Roland and Julia in the next room, and why not, since he has to overhear all their conversations, and everything else as well, why shouldn’t they overhear him bragging on the phone about his accomplishments. Crossing the bridge with these thoughts in his mind, life itself seems to glow all around him, and he finds himself thinking again about the weekend, when he and Margaret were swimming in the sea together, and everything was beautiful. The green water, the grey-white daylight, coarse sand, vast and silent cliffs, all complete and perfect in themselves. In nature, he thinks, there is no such thing as ugliness. It’s like he tried to tell Margaret in the car, beauty belongs to God, and ugliness to human beings, although he couldn’t explain himself very well. They had just had dinner together, in that old hotel, and Margaret had let him touch her hand on the table, not minding who saw them, as if he were her boyfriend. Ivan had never been with a woman in that way before, in front of people, and there was a certain special feeling to it, even if no one was really looking: a feeling of self-respect, somehow. In the car afterwards, he asked her about her marriage and she told him. He understood everything better then, why it was so hard for her to talk about, why she didn’t want anyone to know she had started seeing someone new, and he could see how guilty and confused she was feeling. To watch a person you care about become very sick, right in front of you, just getting worse and worse, and there’s nothing you can do: Ivan understands all too well the feelings that go along with that. Between himself and Margaret in that moment he felt a closeness that could never be joined by anyone else. Looking at her he wanted to say: I love you. Instead he swallowed and said nothing, not because it wasn’t true, but because he knew it would make things more complicated. What she wants is for the two of them to spend time together with no commitments, to have interesting conversations about life, to show each other affection and understanding. She doesn’t want to receive insane declarations of love from someone she only met a few weeks ago. Ivan understands completely. Still it can be difficult to hold the words back, and there’s a feeling of sadness with it, for some reason. Vaguely it seems to relate to his father, though he’s not sure exactly how. It was the last thing they said to each other before he died, I love you. A different kind of love, obviously, completely different, and yet the words are the same, with something of the same meaning. As if Ivan feels inside himself a moving force, coming from inside himself but directed outward, wanting to find a home for itself elsewhere. At the bus stop now across the river he can see Colm’s building, squat and featureless, stained with patches of grey. Does it make sense to think this way, in terms of moving forces? Like the feeling Ivan had for his father has nowhere to go anymore, like it’s lodged inside him, unexpressed. In the weeks since his father died Ivan has not heard these words from anyone, I love you, or said them to anyone either. Does this explain his intense longing to hear and say them again, to relieve the pressure of this confined force inside his body? Even to think of Margaret with love gives a little relief, to allow the feeling of love into his thoughts, like a flower opening outwards inside his mind. When he showed her the video of his dog running in the garden, and she said he was elegant. He remembers the day last summer when he made that video, when his dad was still living at home, still well enough to go for walks every day, to play with Alexei in the garden, and the sun was shining. Afterwards they went back inside, back into the kitchen, which was cool and airy with the window open, and Ivan cooked dinner for both of them, he remembers, it was pasta that he cooked. Thinking about that day, the dog running for the tennis ball, the pasta that they ate together, the feeling wells up inside him painfully. Wanting to say and hear the words again, that can never again be said or heard. To return to the house once more, and not find it dark and empty, but airy and bright again with open windows. To spend an afternoon together, playing with the dog, eating dinner, doing nothing, only being together, just once more.