Day of the eviction he’d texted her. Weeks ago now. On the bus out to Belfield then for Introduction to Contract Law, condensation beading grey on the windows of the upper deck. Sent a link to the news story and a three-dot ellipsis. Reply arrived almost instantly.
SYLVIA: Oh God! Is Naomi okay?
Strange feeling of peace that gave him. After her cold angry tears the night before, don’t be dramatic, Peter. Renewal of ordinary discourse: his always eventful personal life, her good sense and dependability, their partnership retrieved.
PETER: Thankfully yes
PETER: They arrested her but she was released without charge
SYLVIA:?
SYLVIA: Why was she arrested?
PETER: Unclear
PETER: I suspect they just wanted her out of the way
PETER: Wouldn’t mind discussing the legal side with you when we get a chance actually
SYLVIA: Yes, let’s do that
SYLVIA: In the meantime, does she have somewhere she can stay?
Typed and deleted. I told her. I couldn’t think. It’s all kind of. Finally his teeth raking his bottom lip he tapped send.
PETER: Yeah, I’ve said she can stay at mine for a bit
SYLVIA: Oh that’s good, I’m glad
Out the window, dried brown leaves eddied through white air. Avenue of trees. Old stately red-bricks with painted doors. Pale bedraggled faces staring out from bus stops. His thumb tips on the screen. Image of Naomi an hour before, lying in his arms, sweat cooling on her skin. Oh that’s good, I’m glad. Never let on that it bothered her: to witness from a polite distance her own replacement. Updated model, full functionality. Not like that, he wanted to tell her. What then. Whole thing getting out of hand. His life, widening black emptiness from which he could only avert his eyes. Frantically inventing distractions. Breathing out between his lips he typed.
PETER: Can I see you this week?
SYLVIA: Of course
Crossing the Dodder then, Anglesea Bridge. Nothing prepared for the seminar either. Supposed to spend the morning putting the handouts together. Above in Kevin Street instead spelling his name aloud. Half of them probably absent anyway, other half on their laptops scrolling their social media timelines. What did it matter. What did anything. It was nice being with you last night. Felt like myself again. Remember me that way. Downstairs the hissing pistons of the mechanised doors, fresh damp air from the stairwell, noise of footsteps. Change dropped clinking into the machine.
Lunch with Gary after a hearing on Thursday morning, talking the case over. Usual pack of lies from IPAT, it’s like they don’t even bother, and the clients had to sit there listening, imagine. Now just wait and see. Judge not the worst, likes to think himself independent-minded. Could go either way. God I hate them all, I really do. After lunch, back upstairs to the gallery of the Law Library, laptop open in front of him, white light from the windows crossing slowly the room below. Reading up for a case on the Sectoral Employment Order. Sixteen tabs open and a draft email full of half-sentences. Just to get some work done: not to start thinking. All this for what. Handing his hard work over to the senior in the end and watching him make a hames of it, probably. Take the blame when it all goes wrong, name hardly mentioned when they win. What did he expect. Fundamentally, everyone either in one camp or the other. Distinction expressed in the answer to a single question: normal parents, or rich? Gary’s alright, Gary’s dad is a geography teacher in some little town in Cavan. And Sylvia’s, a technician with the ESB. His own, the humble assimilating immigrant. Why does your dad talk like that. You’re not from around here I take it. The sad truth is, these Eastern Europeans, they don’t want to integrate. Not that Peter is prejudiced, sorry. Some of his best friends have rich parents. PJ, and the Davis-Clarke girls, Matt Kelly. Didn’t Simon Costigan grow up on an old Anglo estate somewhere in Galway? Highly sophisticated people, some of them. Practically raised on the Linz Symphony and the novels of Colette. Still there is something, just a little hard nub of something, underneath it all, which can never be smoothed away. They are what they are, and he is what he is. Work they get from friends while he has to look out for himself. Unwritten dress codes, rules of speech. Oh, we have a house out there, lovely part of the world. And where did you go to school. Living at home in Ranelagh while he pays half his earnings in rent. What they were born to, he has to work for. Taste, manners, culture. On foreign holidays they slept off hangovers and he queued alone outside museums. In Florence, Botticelli’s Madonna of the Pomegranate. Radiant crowding beauty of angelic faces. Twenty-two or twenty-three he would have been, solemnly pressing the audio guide to his ear, mouthing the Italian vocabulary. Later, in Rome: cool grey afternoon in the empty courtyard of the Doria Pamphilj. Pillars of stone enclosing a grove of orange trees. Overhead in the silence a single opened window. Moved almost to tears. Not to inherit but to earn. Magnificence of classical statuary, yes. Late style of Henry James, sumptuous tactility of crêpe de chine, Sarah Vaughan singing ‘April in Paris’. What they would never understand. Mere privilege he thinks can’t touch what he has so richly acquired. Beauty, culture: yes. Can’t be bought. Reactionary, people call that now. Master’s tools and the master’s house, what would Bourdieu have to say. And perhaps it is just a delusion. Fantasy of making them feel as inferior as they try to make him. He doesn’t want after all for others to be poor, doesn’t even want to be rich. No. He only wants what he has always wanted: to be right, to be once and for all proven right.
That was the night he had dinner with Ivan, or tried to. Paid up afterwards, smiling at the waitress, leaving a stupidly large tip. Walking home in the dark. I’ve always hated you. Naomi was out seeing friends that night, didn’t get back until one in the morning. He was in the kitchen washing up their breakfast dishes when she let herself in. Hey, he called out. She came in behind him, opened the fridge to look inside, letting out a puff of breath. Hey babe, she said. He asked how her friends were doing. Everyone’s depressed, she answered. To be honest, I think Janine’s pissed off with me. I don’t know. She lifted a corner of tinfoil off a plate of leftover pizza. Why? he asked. Glancing over, seeing her inspecting the plate, he added: You can reheat it if you want, I had the other half yesterday. She took the plate from the fridge and peeled the tinfoil away. Thanks, she said. I don’t know, I feel like she thinks I’m abandoning her.
He watched her turning the dial of the microwave. Cropped sweatshirt she was wearing and a yellow miniskirt. What does that mean? he asked.
You know, because I’m living here. It’s like I’m choosing you over her. In her mind, I mean.
He pulled the plug and let the dishwater out of the sink while she went back out to the hall. Heard her taking her shoes off. I didn’t realise she was so possessive, he remarked.
It’s okay, she answered. It’s not the first time we’ve been through it.
Paused, but she didn’t reappear. Then he asked through the doorway: What, you moved in with someone before?
She was silent. Her former relationships until then a managed blank. Never asked, never volunteered. He hesitated, thought of taking back the question, and then from the hallway she answered: Kind of. A few years ago. But yeah, it turned out he wasn’t a very nice guy.
I’m sorry, he replied. I didn’t know that.
She came back inside then in her stocking feet. No, it’s cool, she said. Don’t worry.
They lapsed into mutual quiet. Bell of the microwave dinged and she lifted the plate out, padded away into the living room. Not a very nice guy: that could mean anything. She could say the same about him, probably would one day. Janine would, at least. While Naomi squinted remembering: Who, Peter? He wasn’t that bad. Hey, he actually bought me this jacket. In the silence he wiped down the countertop beside the sink. Cheated on her maybe, though it was hard to think she’d care. Hard of course to see her caring about anything much. Had she loved him, he wondered, this other person. To think of her in love: bizarre, and somehow sad.
Naomi’s voice calling back through the doorway: How was your dinner?
Tired, remembering again the dinner, he squeezed the sponge out in the sink. Yeah, fine, he said. Or actually, not fine. You know, my brother and I, we don’t get along very well.
Poor Ivan, she replied.
Struck him as strangely touching she had remembered his name. Yeah, he said again. He told me he’s seeing someone. When this prompted no response, he added: Apparently she’s thirty-six. She’s separated from her husband.
From the living room, a cackle of laughter. And her voice saying: You never told me your brother was such a legend.
Next day at lunch he’d walked over to her office, two weeks ago now or is it three. Paper bag with the usual two sandwiches inside. She would ask how things went with Ivan of course. I’ve always hated you, he said. And was that true? As a child, surely not: used to idolise him. Family photographs of the two together, Ivan’s small pale face gazing up in wondering admiration. But that kind of feeling for an elder sibling perhaps contained some germ of hatred too. From the time Ivan was in his teens, in any case. After the accident, not exactly a font of consolation was he. Offended in fact by the idea that anyone might experience an emotion in his vicinity. Like I get it, you’re upset, what do you expect me to do. Sixteen or seventeen then, sullen, withdrawn, staying up half the night reading forums, watching video clips. College Professor Destroys Feminism in 3 Minutes. Facts DON’T Care About Your Feelings. The arguments they started to have about politics, about women, excruciating. And now this married woman he was seeing: how had that started? She gave him the story of her life, maybe, poured out her grievances, cried on his shoulder for a bit, and one thing led to another. Having intentionally conceived of this scenario in order to disgust himself, Peter instead felt an unexpected pang of sympathy for the fictitious woman he had just invented. Imagine her crying on Ivan’s shoulder, and one thing leading to another. Dear God. If that was all the solace she could gather at her time of life. Pathetic, of course, but hadn’t he himself often felt pathetic, typing ‘hey, any plans tonight’ into an online messaging interface? Didn’t human sexuality at its base always involve a pathetic sort of throbbing insecurity, awful to contemplate? He tried with effort now to return to his previous feeling about the unknown person: distrust, even condemnation, a middle-aged woman taking advantage of a naive youth. But taking advantage in what way: sexually? And considering that Ivan was nearly twenty-three, what would rise to the level of taking advantage in that sense? She was too old for him, obviously. But if he liked that kind of thing? Peter did finally succeed in feeling some disgust then, but he wasn’t really sure anymore where the feeling was directed: at Ivan, at the woman, or just at himself. Maybe he should have been happy that his brother had found someone who seemed to enjoy his company. Even if she was thirty-six and basically still married. Living in some hole of a town in Leitrim, half-dead for the want of a little excitement. Slim pickings no doubt. Good Lord.
Upstairs in the arts building he knocked and heard Sylvia’s voice answering: Hello? Creaked the door open, small neat room, familiar drab and brown. She was sitting very straight, chair rolled up to her desk. Just me, he said. And she smiled at him, tired-looking, saying: Hello there. Her smile he thought gentle, somehow apologetic, and he felt apologetic too. Atmosphere of awkward friendliness, like when the bill arrives and you both insist on paying. Hadn’t seen her since that night, remember me the way I was. Don’t be dramatic, Peter. The usual routine now, she moved the keyboard off the desk and they laid out their sandwiches on the paper. He hung up his coat. She asked how Naomi was doing and he said she seemed okay. Talked a little about the eviction, the arrest. Various legalities.
You’re fond of her, Sylvia remarked.
He gave an uncomfortable smile. You’re always saying that, he replied. You’re right, I do like her.
You do, said Sylvia.
I’m agreeing with you.
She was looking at him but he busied himself eating, avoiding her eye. And why. Not wanting. Not wanting not. Pointless to deny of course, not because the other would care, but because she already knew. Still there was something he didn’t like in it. Insisting at last a bit too hard. Admit it, confess, confess. You’re the one who won’t let me touch you, he thought. Then briefly allowed his eyes to close, despising himself.
How did you get on with Ivan last night? she asked.
Deep already in self-despising, he even laughed. Ah, not great, he said. Not too well. Told her of course: where they met, what was said. About the house, about work, about rent. Tried to recall what they had been saying when Ivan brought up the girlfriend and then remembered with a strange feeling almost too late that they had in fact been talking about Sylvia. I still love her, he himself had said, or something like that. Jesus Christ. Passing over that particular interlude, he went directly to the denouement, separated from the husband, I’ve always hated you, and the door of the restaurant swinging shut. Oh good God, Sylvia murmured. What do you think I should have said? he asked. They looked at each other again, more directly now, the awkwardness forgotten, and she gave a frown. Wiping her fingers on a paper napkin. I don’t know, she said. I understand the instinct. He’s your little brother, you’ve always been very protective of him. And he’s grieving, he’s vulnerable. But at the same time, he is a grown man.
In stature, sure, he replied. But psychologically?
She gave him a funny look. What do you mean? she asked. He’s twenty-two.
Right, but he’s hardly what you would call normal.
Leaning back in her seat then, an interested sceptical expression in her eyes. And who is? she said. Am I?
What, normal? Of course you are. I mean in terms of social skills. Ivan can’t talk to people, literally.
By which you mean, he can’t talk to you.
Felt his face changing, frown tugging at his mouth, his brow. What’s your point? he said. With me, he’s a dour little weirdo, but when I leave the room he transforms into Cary Grant?
She laughed at that, head lifted. I’m just saying, it’s possible you have an inhibiting effect on his conversation, she said.
Why should I?
Oh, I don’t know. Maybe he doesn’t like talking to people who think he’s developmentally stunted.
Rose from his seat distractedly then and went to the tiny strip of window overlooking the square. Raining. Glass dotted with refracting droplets. Coloured umbrellas bobbing and weaving below. Hm, he said pointlessly.
Have you been in touch with him since? she said.
No.
You could text him.
And say what? he asked.
I don’t know. That you’re thinking about him. Which, evidently, you are.
Close enough to the glass that his breath was condensing. Heard himself saying aloud: Look, I see your point. He’s an adult, it’s none of my business.
In a curious tone of voice she asked: When did I say that?
He paused, thinking. I don’t know, he said. Did you not say it?
No.
Turned around to look at her. Calmly she sat there behind the desk. Well, what are you saying, it is my business? he asked.
Why do you think he told you about it?
I don’t know, why does Ivan do anything?
With knowing eyes she gazed back at him. I imagine he wanted to tell you about this relationship because it’s important to him, she said. And he wants you to be involved in his life.
Exaggeratedly blew out a breath between his lips. Is that right? he said. Because oddly enough, I never hear from him. The only time we ever talk is when I make the effort to get in touch. You have this sentimental idea that he looks up to me or whatever, but the reality is that he doesn’t have the slightest interest. He doesn’t even know what I do for a living. I don’t think he could name a single one of my friends. He doesn’t care. I could be kidnapped and held to ransom and Ivan would just say, well, that’s your problem, it’s nothing to do with me.
Conscious of feeling a little flushed after saying all that. Tried to smile, shake his head, disclaiming the dramatics. She sat there watching him. I didn’t know that, she said after a time. That you never hear from him. Have you ever talked to him about it?
He exhaled something like a strained laugh. What, have I ever gone crawling to my little brother begging him to be my friend? he said. No, oddly enough, it’s never come up.
Maybe he doesn’t realise you would appreciate it, she said.
As I was saying. Lack of interpersonal skills.
They looked at each other again, old familiar look, fond, indulgent, and she started to fold up the greasy brown sandwich paper on the desk. Anyway, you can hardly object to him having an older girlfriend, she said. Naomi is twenty-three.
I knew you were going to say that, he answered. But I’m not thirty-six, am I?
With the side of her hand she was brushing crumbs off the desk onto the folded paper. Oh, come on, she replied. We’re not far off.
That was how she put it: we. He went on standing at the window, looking at her. Come to think of it, he said, maybe that’s why I find the whole thing so disturbing. Some kind of Freudian nightmare about you choosing Ivan over me.
As if reluctantly she laughed at that. No thank you, she answered. One Koubek brother is enough trouble for this lifetime.
He paused, still looking, smiling, and then said: You did say the other day you thought he was handsome.
Lifting her keyboard back onto the desk, pretending not to be amused. Do you want me to tell you you’re handsome, Peter? she asked.
I wouldn’t object.
You’re ravishing, she said. Now go home to your girlfriend and let me get some work done, will you?
Stupidly pleased he laughed. Thanks, he said. Left her to it then. Swamped presumably with the usual uncorrected essays, unanswered emails, departmental meetings, while he with nothing in particular to do wandered down South Leinster Street. Reaching the park he found a bench empty among the low branches of the trees, leaves curled dry and dangling as if singed. Not cold yet, though nearly Halloween. Took his phone from his pocket and started to draft a text message. Hi Ivan. I want to apologise for what happened at dinner. I suppose as your older brother I sometimes forget that you’re an adult now with a life of your own. Your situation at the moment sounds complicated and I’m here if you want to talk about it. Having typed all this he took a moment to review the sentiment, and found it, broadly speaking, generous. Practically even convincing. Was he there, if Ivan wanted to talk? The prospect was not without some moral satisfaction: image of himself listening, sage, unshockable, dispensing sound advice. Being as usual the bigger person. Yes, he thought: why not. Thumbed his way through the text once more and hit send. Instantly a single checkmark appeared beside the message to indicate that it had been sent. Stared down for a time at the screen thinking after all the bench a little damp or was it starting to rain. Traffic passing unhurried outside the gates. No second checkmark.
Three weeks have passed since. Nearly four. Sylvia says she’s heard from Ivan in the meantime, so obviously he’s just blocked the number. Well, if he doesn’t want to talk, God knows Peter has enough to be getting on with. Mistake the solicitor made last week and no one noticed until after. On the phone to the client, ten o’clock at night, trying to sound reassuring. Man practically threatening to kill him. Yeah, no. Absolutely, I understand. But I’m afraid, the fact is, I can’t discuss that without your solicitor present. Meanwhile his accountant sending emails about the tax deadline. Making up the balance from last year, payment a little larger than expected. Quite a bit larger when he looked at it. Wait, sorry, run that by me again. Queuing up at the bank on a grey Tuesday morning to move money between accounts. Cancel a few of those direct debits. Time to find some work. Vultures most of his colleagues, probably telling the solicitors he’s still off on bereavement leave. Koubek, is it? I don’t know, I’ve heard he’s taking it very hard about his dad. I’m run off my feet myself, but I could try to have a look at it for you. Inventing scenarios to infuriate himself. Compensating for his own failings, laziness, poor sleep hygiene, overuse of alcohol and drugs, irrational bitterness, directionless and therefore immobilising fury. No. Nice interesting case is all he needs. Somewhere to aim his outrage. Where’s a bit of sexual harassment in the workplace when you need it? Employees not being wrongfully dismissed anymore or what? His mother ringing him to give out about the dog, Christ, and he lies that he’s working or just rejects the call. Drops by Sylvia’s office with coffee, sits there complaining about work, the dog, Ivan, union meetings, tax deadlines, judges, landlords, the demoralising idiocy of various named individuals. Stop, you’re terrible. How am I wrong? Feeling he gets when one of her colleagues puts their head round the door, asking for something, and he’s sitting with her, the two of them bickering together. What is that: to be witnessed, yes. To be mistaken for someone happier than himself, and better. Ran into her friend Emily one afternoon in Hodges, stopped to chat. Didn’t mention what Sylvia had told him about her latest woes at work. Wondered what she was refraining from saying to him. Heard you tried it on again the other night. When will you get the message. No, instead they talked about a new book everyone liked which they had both thought terrible. Relish of mutual mean-spiritedness and high discernment. She blew her nose in a handkerchief before saying: How are you and your brother getting on? I know it can’t be easy for you. Startled for a second thinking Sylvia had told her about the dinner, about everything: but no, of course, she only meant about their father, it can’t be easy. Yeah, it’s difficult, he said. It’s sad. Dad was sick for a long time, you know. But we miss him. Strangely she hugged him before leaving the bookshop, brief pressure of their bodies, all five foot two of her. To have produced such clichés he felt embarrassed, it’s sad, it’s difficult, and prolonged for no reason his loitering, examining various hardback non-fiction titles he would never buy or read. He was sick for a long time. But we miss him.
After dark he gets home to find Naomi’s clothes all over the place, bath towel discarded on the carpet, noise of the hairdryer on full blast. Perversely relaxing he finds picking up after her, cooking dinner, while she relates some long confusing anecdote about one of her friends saying something to one of her other friends. Exaggerated pleasure she takes in his cooking, eyes rolling back in her head, oh my God, so good. Lie on the sofa together then eating gummies and looking at YouTube. She wants to watch a compilation of snooker shots you’ll never believe, and he wants to watch Alfred Brendel playing Mozart’s Sonata No. 14 in C Minor. Settle instead on an eight-minute video about how elastic bands are made. High out of his mind watching rubber extrude in glistening cylinders through heavy machinery. You know he’s blocked my number. Ivan. I know, you said. You mention it like a lot, actually. Had some friends over the other night for a drink, Gary, Matt, that crowd. She the unspoken centre of attention. Laughing delightedly at everyone’s stories. His friends of course falling for it, imagining themselves special, practically jostling for her attention. After they left she curled up in his lap, tired, while he, privately gratified, finished his glass of wine. Flirting with my friends in front of me, thanks very much. Sinful he always thinks her smile. I only wanted them to have fun, she said. You don’t have to worry about me, I’m a happy woman. Happy, yes. And if she is. In bed that night he wanted her to say it again. Sometimes wonders how much of his capacity for pleasure is just vanity. Please, I need it. Oh God, it feels so good. He loves that. Happy woman. Compliment deeper and more intense, to make her. Tightening kind of throbbing feeling inside him just thinking about it. Are you happy, Naomi, he said. And looking up at him she answered yes. Didn’t even laugh about it afterwards: too weird maybe. Is that what you’re into, Peter, you like the girl to pretend she’s happy? Instead she lay with her head on his shoulder, talking about which of his friends she liked the most. Felt so in love with her then he could hardly speak. Pain in his throat like crying. Am I annoying you, she asked. He moved his hand over her hair, swallowing. Not at all, he said. Go on. Light touch with the cash in the morning, don’t worry about it. Watching him get dressed for work the other day she said from bed: Honestly, very dilf-coded. Alright, he replied, I changed my mind, I’m taking you back to jail. She, the calculating liar, the exploited innocent, yes. Whole thing getting a bit fucking Marcel Proust. Waits until she’s out of the house to vacuum the carpet, wipe down the bathroom surfaces. Haul the laundry up and down from the basement. Not wanting her to see: and why. Awkward to make her thank him maybe. Or trying to maintain the fiction of his own dominance, when in truth she has become effortlessly the mistress of his household, he at times something more like a live-in servant, washing on the delicate cycle her favourite underwear.
Monday evening he and Sylvia had booked tickets for a screening of The Thin Man. Cold solitary walk to Temple Bar, taxis and buses streaming past, coloured lights already for Christmas in some of the shops. In the foyer of the cinema she was waiting, idly reading a printed programme, her luxuriously huge tweed coat buttoned to the throat. Foolish lift of his heart to see her there, her simple self-possession. Hey, he said. And looking up she smiled to see him: smiled, reflexively, at the sound of his voice, the sight of him, yes. Sitting beside her in the dark then, rapid chatter of dialogue, laughter, music, clink of refilled glasses. Flickering silver light over her hair and face. Afterwards they went for a walk together, out along the quays towards the docklands. She told him about a paper she was preparing for an Austen symposium. Enough familiarity to keep up his end of the conversation. Even made her laugh, stupid joke about Darcy having his pen mended. Cold dark winter air, the lights on the water. Literature in the Regency period they talked about. Significance of the Napoleonic Wars. Napoleon, the man. Toussaint Louverture. Bolívar, Garibaldi. Romantic appeal of various historical figures. Eleanor of Aquitaine for some reason he’s always thought. Cultural differences between Protestant and Catholic nations of Europe. When you visit their churches on the continent, the way they always make you listen to an audio guide rhapsodising over Martin Luther, and it’s creepy. But they probably think we do that with the popes. Mutual digression then on the most difficult teachings of Jesus: she said it was turning the other cheek, and he said it was the thing about looking on a woman to lust after her being the same as committing adultery in your heart. Her hand on his arm, she was laughing, the lines around her eyes he thought so beautiful. Oh, I forgot that one, she said. That does seem hard on you. He too was laughing then. The inexchangeable pleasure of her conversation. Just to walk the streets saying things, anything, just the act itself, walking together at the same speed, and talking, purely to amuse and please one another, to make each other stupidly laugh, for no further accomplishment, no higher purpose, to let their words rise and disperse forever in the damp brackish air. Why then leaving her at her door that night did he want so much to kiss her. Simplest of all instincts. Brief contact involving no one else, demanding nothing further. In itself, affecting, a gift at once bestowed and received. What does it mean? Desire by its nature resisting reason. The will to survive, appetite for life itself. These days, yesterday, last night, this morning, I’ve wanted everything. Well, goodnight, he said. Quiet the street and cool under the lamplight. His lips to her cheekbone. Take care. She touched with involuntary fingers her face. Pleased, or confused, replying: Tell Naomi I said hello.
Back at the flat he found her lying on the couch in shiny yellow gym shorts, eating from a family-size bag of Doritos. One earphone in, listening back to an online lecture on her laptop. How was the film? she asked. He moved her legs to sit down. It was good, he answered. I don’t think you would have liked it. She stretched her legs back out over his lap. How’s Sylvia? she said. His hand around her ankle. Prominent the bone there, white, smooth. She told me to tell you that she says hello, he said. Flexing and pointing her toes, the muscles contracting under his palm. Clean the soles of her feet now: because the floors are. Nice of her, she said. Does she mind me staying here? He said no. Has she ever been here? she asked. He nodded. But you hang out at hers mostly? she said. That’s enough questions, he replied. Slyly she was smiling. I guess I’m not allowed to meet her, she said. Even though I’ve met your other friends. His thumb moving over the smooth obtrusion of the ankle bone. It’s not a matter of being allowed, he said. I’m not planning to arrange an introduction, if that’s what you’re asking. She settled herself against the armrest, put her other earphone in. Hand rustling into the Doritos again. Unclear whether you’re cheating on me with her, or you’re cheating on her with me, she said. Absentmindedly he considered the proposition. Either option preferable he thought. Dignity of good old-fashioned faithlessness. Neither, he answered. Sylvia is a very dear friend of mine. And you’re just a homeless college student who lives in my house. That made her laugh. The actual disrespect, she said. Crunching a corn chip between her teeth. Coloured salt dust on her fingertips. He allowed his eyes to close. Their laundry he had taken that morning from the downstairs dryer. His t-shirts, underwear. Her leggings and sweatshirts. Smoothed and folded into two matching bundles on the bedspread. Iconography of a relationship. Tell her I said hello.
Thursday in the Law Library, desk that isn’t even his, while around him falling rain patterns the windows. Decision in that discrimination case this morning. Handshakes all round. Client on the steps outside afterwards, blowing her nose into a tissue, talking on the phone to her husband. Nice woman. Bastards will probably drag her to the Labour Court now. Oh well. Money in his pocket after all. Clammy her hand holding when she looked up into his eyes. I’m so grateful, Mr Koubek, I really am. Not at all, my pleasure. And it was, wasn’t it. To feel for a time his own untouchable righteousness, supreme command, the Olympian, to feel them all stilled around him into silence, his pleasure, yes. White flame bright and trembling. Back in July the tribunal was. His dad in and out of the High Dependency Unit. Well, it’s an interesting case, actually. It’s about work uniforms, different rules for the female employees. Making them wear high-heeled shoes and that kind of thing. Diskriminácia žien. Yeah. We’ll see. Only now they have the decision. Never did see. Oh well. I’m so grateful, I really am. Phone vibrates now against the desk and he checks it. Message from Naomi: do i look cute? Picture attached. He glances around, make sure no one’s looking. Everyone else with heads down making notes or paging through documents. Unlocks his screen then and opens the image, a photograph Naomi has taken of herself in the full-length mirror in his bedroom, wearing a red velveteen minidress. He types back: I take it the job search is going well.
NAOMI: is that your way of saying i dont look cute….?
PETER: I’m at work
Sensing someone behind him he locks the screen. Chris Hadley approaching, poorly cut jacket, sleeves too short. Few years ahead of him, Hadley. Pausing by the desk now for some reason. Phone screen lights up again and Peter reaches quickly to cover it with his hand. Listen, says Hadley, I just wanted to say, I was very sorry to hear about your dad. Screen light bleeding between his fingers Peter feels bad, tries to give a smile. Ah, thanks for that, Chris. That’s kind of you, I appreciate it. Goes away again, but Peter can see the faces around him lifted now, looking. Pretending not to see he checks the phone again discreetly.
NAOMI: ok…….. you left your eyes at home or?
He lifts the phone to type a reply. Part of the image still visible in the thread above, hem of the dress, her bare smooth legs.
PETER: If you want to be fawned over during business hours I suggest you find a boyfriend who is less employed
NAOMI: cool, i’ll do that then:)
He puts the phone face-down on the desk. Has to wake up his laptop, re-enter the password. Find his place in the draft again, half-sentence hanging at the end of a paragraph. Cursor blinking. One more glance around the gallery. No one watching.
PETER: The only drawback would be that you wouldn’t have any money or anywhere to live
NAOMI: yeah youre right
NAOMI: that would be the only drawback
Shuts his eyes briefly. Opens them again and taps his trackpad to keep the laptop screen lighted. Am I insane how to tell. Online free insanity test multiple choice. Does she mean it, he wonders. Only in it for the money after all. Taking pleasure perhaps in being brazen. Showing her friends the messages, laughing. Wishes briefly they were both dead, and then, terribly ashamed, tries not to think at all. Just to sit at the desk and think nothing, empty mind. On the library floor below, people entering and leaving, taking phone calls, carrying boxes of documents. On screen in front of him the cursor silently blinking.
Private Law Remedies in the afternoon. The kids with their serious faces pretending to listen. Baby solicitors. Ten years’ time they’ll be his age, dressed in polyester-blend officewear, braying down the hall at the new trainee. Where are my photocopies, Joanna? Text swimming in front of his eyes to think. I’m sorry, where was I? Statute of Frauds (Ireland) 1695. Suddenness and finality of November evenings. Dark cold midnight by six o’clock. Packs up his laptop in his briefcase, puts on his coat, gloves. Outside, buses trundling frills through standing water. Said he would swing by Matt’s birthday. Thirty-three. Age Jesus was when he. So Barbara says. Is that right? Above in the Hacienda, bending his head to try and hear. And it actually says that in the Gospels, or? Must be getting old, can’t make out a thing she’s saying. Laugh when she laughs. Gold earrings fluttering. I hear congratulations are in order. Wasn’t that your case today? Backwards in high heels. Right, right, he says. Grinning at him. Hope you’re proud of yourself, profiting off our misery. She’s joking. Smile back at her. Damned if you do and all that. Drinks for the birthday boy and then he’ll head off. Is that right about Jesus, do you know? That he was thirty-three. What’s that, mate? Never mind. Listen, happy birthday. Thanks for coming, good to see you. Cold air outside. Dry at least. Used to live around here, before. When she. Hardly know the neighbourhood now, so different. And himself of course: different also. Remembering he takes his phone from his pocket and in the search bar enters: jesus age at death. By tradition yes thirty-three apparently. Before he pockets the phone he texts the other: On my way, let me know if you want anything from the shops. Conciliatory, he thinks. Messaged Ivan again the other day, just on the off-chance. Not delivered of course. Humbling himself to appease him and still rebuffed. Dear Ivan, I take back everything I said. On reflection I think it’s wonderful that, driven mad by grief, our father hardly cold in the ground, you have taken up with a married woman twice your age. Perhaps you should ascertain where she stands on the issue of family planning though, because at this stage the old clock might be ticking. No, never mind. Fog over the river. Lights in the distance suspended in nothingness. No reply, she’s out probably, or ignoring him. That would be the only downside. Cloak of grey quiet lending to the streets a melancholy dignity. Empty the city feels, desolate, dimly beautiful. Ten minutes, twenty, and he’s crossing the canal. Feels his nose streaming, cold. Tired he thinks, staring at a screen all day. Stinging in his eyes. Exhaustion, that’s all. Overhead the beams of streetlamps cast glowing bars through the mist. Finally he lets himself in at the large heavy front door of his building, climbs the stairs, unlocks the smaller door of the flat. Inside it’s warm, unexpectedly, and all the lights are on. Humidity in the air, sweet scent of soap, cocoa butter.
Hey, is that you? her voice calls out. I’m in the bath.
Tingling feeling behind his eyes and nose. You should hope it’s me, he answers.
Faint splashing sound like she’s lifting a limb from the bathwater, while he bends to unlace his shoes. Come in for a minute, she says.
Feel his face and hands throbbing warm again after the cold. Unhurried, he crosses to his room, takes off his cufflinks, tie, gets a hanger for his jacket. Knocks on the bathroom door then and enters. Clouds of scented steam inside, mirror fogged. Surface of the water all dense white froth. Her arms and shoulders glistening pink, her hair heaped up on top of her head.
Did you text to say you were coming home? she says. My phone’s in the other room.
Distractedly he gazes at her soft full mouth, dark eyes, line of the water moving with her breath. Then, belated, answers: Oh, did I, uh— I texted you, yeah. Do you want your phone now?
Smiling she licks her lips. It’s alright, she says. You want to get in?
Hears himself give an uncertain laugh, still looking at her. In the bath, you mean? he says. I’m not sure if there’s room.
Touches a wet hand to her face, affecting amazement. Yes there is, she says. Are you telling me you’ve never shared this bath with anyone before? I would have thought you had girls hopping in here with you every day of the week.
Smiling, foolish feeling, he shuts the door behind him. Me? he says. No, I was actually a virgin before we met.
Sound of her high laughter echoing on the tiles. Same, she says. Get in, will you?
Pleased despite himself. Non-committally he begins to unbutton his shirt. You’re making me selfconscious, watching me, he remarks.
Okay, I’ll close my eyes.
When he looks, she has closed them: grandly, below raised eyebrows. He finishes undressing. Lap of the water, her breasts wet beneath a delicate lace of blue-white foam. One of her knees raised, pink. You want me to get in behind you? he asks. Without opening her eyes she shifts forward. Flat of her back, nape of her neck. Gracelessly he climbs into the tub, water sloshing up to the rim and over, scalding hot on his feet and calves. Lowers himself to sit behind her and she settles back against him, lifts his hand to her soft wet breast. He moves his thumb over the point of her nipple, weight in his palm. He can hear and feel her murmuring: Mm. In the enveloping heat of the bathwater he closes his eyes. This is nice, he says. Thank you. She takes his left hand to her lips and kisses it. Can we get in bed after? she asks. Tracing the shape of her mouth with his fingers he answers: Yeah. Soft her lips and warm. And you’ll tell me what to do? she says. His other hand moving over her round belly. Is that what you want? he asks. With a smile in her voice almost shy she answers: Yes. Under the water he moves his hand between her legs, touching the inner surface of her thigh, silk soft. And you like it? he asks. For a second she says nothing. Then turning or half-turning as if to look back at him, small and delicate her pink ear. What do you mean? she says. Feels himself exhaling, his face hot, his scalp, steam rising scented from the water. I mean, do you like it, he says. I don’t know. Her fingertips finding the back of his hand, tracing. As in, do I like going to bed with you? she says. Don’t be funny. I like it so much it’s embarrassing. Smiling then painfully he feels himself. Well, I’m glad, he says. If you do like it. You know. I really want you to. She goes on touching his hand under the water and in her voice he hears a funny tone. Where is this coming from? she asks. Whenever you put your hands on me, I start talking like a crazy person. Saying you can do whatever you want with me. What do you think, I’m putting it on? He tries to laugh, uncomfortable, shrugging his shoulders. No, he says. I hope not. Her hair lustrous and dark against the radiant pink purity of her skin. Fingers linked through his, wetted, warm. I guess you’re just used to it, she says. I always think, Peter is such a stallion, every time he lays a hand on a woman she probably starts gibbering like an idiot. Half the little lawyer girls in Dublin are probably in bed right now with their ears burning, remembering things they’ve said to you. Laughing now, he’s shaking his head. Do your ears burn, when you remember? he asks. Turns as if to look back at him again. Are you joking? she says. My entire head is scalded. I’m not an easy person to embarrass, but if you went around telling people about that stuff, I would literally have to leave the country. Gratified, feeling somehow pleasantly evil, he bends his head to kiss the side of her face. Don’t worry, he answers. I’m very discreet. She gives a little groan, and he finds with his fingers the hard half-circle at the centre of her collarbone. Anyway, you’d be surprised, he goes on. I don’t have quite the same effect on other women. Turning all the way around now, craning her neck to look at him. Really? she asks. Hesitating a moment, he answers: Yeah. Her eyes widened, lips parted, she affects a look of amazement. You don’t boss other girls around in bed like you do with me? she says. Frowning vaguely, trying to look dismissive, he says: Look, it’s different for your generation. You’re all going around getting strangled and spitting in each other’s mouths or whatever. I’m thirty-two, okay, we’re normal. Delightedly laughing she puts a hand to her face. You’ve never spit in anyone’s mouth before? she asks. Flatly he answers: Like, other than yours? Apparently satisfied she settles back against him, resting her weight, hot and damp. I don’t mind, she says. It’s just funny. I mean, it’s what you like, isn’t it? His hand he rests at her throat, feeling her voice when she speaks, faint beat of her pulse. With you, he says, I like it, of course. And maybe in the past I’ve had fantasies. You know, where the girl is really begging for it, or whatever. But who doesn’t fantasise about that? It never occurred to me I could go out looking for that kind of thing in real life. You know, I’ve been with girls who were a bit more experimental, or whatever. But the thought didn’t cross my mind that I could start bringing my personal fantasies into it. How weird would that be? You go home with a woman and you’re like, great, so now we’re here, you might get down on your knees and plead with me, if you don’t mind. Just act desperate, sort of humiliate yourself. In his arms Naomi is laughing, high and bright the sound. Well, I didn’t need to be told, did I? she says. Irrepressibly, foolishly, he feels himself smiling again. No, yeah, he replies. That’s what’s so nice about you. They sit for a time in silence in the hot water, damp with steam, lather of soap crackling faintly on the surface. Look, I hope you know I’m grateful, she says. That you’re letting me stay here, I mean. And everything else as well, cooking for me, helping me out with things. It means a lot to me, how decent you’re being. In my life, to be honest, people don’t do things like that for me. You know, in my childhood, I didn’t grow up in that kind of situation. And with relationships, I won’t even go into all that, but let’s just say it has not worked out that way. You’re going to think I’m reading too much into it now, and I’m not. It’s not like I think, oh Peter must be really serious about me, he’s in love with me, or whatever. I’m not stupid. But I just want to say I appreciate how decent you’ve been. And I am actually grateful, although I probably don’t act like it. He allows his eyes to close, hot, stinging. I don’t want you to be grateful, he says. I just want you to be happy. At first she gives no answer. Rests still against him, the weight of her, fragrance of her dark hair. Then she says: Wow, I think that might be the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me. He exhales stupidly. Well, whatever, he says. His hand in hers still holding. You don’t want me to be grateful, you just want me to be happy, she repeats. I’m actually touched by that, like emotionally. Smiling, his throat tightening. Hm, he says. Slowly she lifts his hand once more from the water, lifts it to her lips, kisses slowly the tips of his fingers each by each. To think, not to think. After the funeral: crying alone in a locked bathroom cubicle. And now the blocked number, I’ve always hated you. Cold desolate emptiness of the city outside. And in here, in the apartment, all the lights turned on, hot bathwater. Warmth of her body against him, sound of her voice, her laughter. Why didn’t you tell me my picture was cute this morning, she asks. As if having expected the question he answers with no hesitation: Why did you tell me the only thing you wanted from me was money. Her tongue at his fingertips he can feel and somehow almost taste. If your friend Sylvia sent you a picture, I bet you would tell her it was cute, she says. Eyes still closed he answers: Don’t start that. Softly her mouth browsing over his knuckles. I’ll tell you what I think, she says. I think you’ve had your feelings involved with someone else all along. So every now and then, you just act cold with me for no reason. Or randomly stop speaking to me. To make sure I don’t get too attached. Eyes closed, he swallows. Right, he says. Or to make sure I don’t. Half expecting in the silence that follows to hear her again laughing. Glitter of her teeth. To make him come crawling at last, as she has wanted, as she has always planned. Instead she murmurs: Can we go to bed now. Catch in his throat trying to swallow. Mm, he says. You want that? And her head is nodding. Yeah, a lot, she says. Like, a lot, a lot. Rich fragrance of her unwashed hair. And will it make you happy? he asks. Again her head nodding, sweetly, her hand holding his, small firm pressure of her fingers. Yes, she says. I can promise, I can tell you for certain. It will make me very happy. Okay? Please. Opening his eyes damp and stinging. Oddly bright the lights seem, condensation on the tiles. Parcel of her breathing body small and wet in his arms. To make you happy: yes, I want to. Stay, please. Let me. Anything, I’ll do anything, whatever you want.
Next morning she’s out at her lectures and he’s sitting alone at the dining table, answering emails. Rain streaming in rivulets down the window, sound on the roof tiles overhead he can hear. Sorry about the delayed response. I see I’m late responding here, I’m sorry. Apologies, just seeing this now. Beside him his phone starts ringing and he glances: Christine again. Looks back at his laptop, hesitant, and then picks up. Hello, he says. I’m just in the middle of something, can I call you back?
Where have I heard that one before? his mother says.
What?
At the weekend you told me you would ring me back, and you never did.
Oh, he says. Right, I’m sorry. Is there something up?
In a kindly tone of voice she answers: Just checking in. If there’s a time that suits you better, you can say.
Abashed frustrated feeling. Pushes back his chair from the table. No, he says. Now is fine, I was just looking at emails.
How are you?
I’m well. Thank you.
Any news? she asks. How is work?
Glancing back unwillingly at the still-lighted laptop screen, half email unfinished. Good, he says. Busy.
Nice article in the paper today about that case of yours.
Relenting now he reaches to close the laptop lid. Oh yeah, he says into the phone. The hearing was in July, I’ve no idea why it took so long.
God forbid anyone should have to look smart at the office, she says. You’ll have us all in matching grey overalls next.
A lifelong ambition of mine, as you know.
Funny that your women friends are always so well turned out.
Feels himself reluctantly smiling. As a matter of their own free will, yes, he answers. But we won’t relitigate, Christine. I’m afraid you’ll find the courts are on my side.
She laughs into the receiver. Cheeky little devil, she says. How are your women friends these days?
What, all of them?
How many are there?
He pauses briefly. Of my friends, who happen to be women? he says. Plenty.
I see, she answers. Well, in that case, how is Sylvia?
Retracting now he answers in a cooler voice: She’s fine, thank you.
I saw Denise Lanigan the other day in town, she was asking me if you had a new girlfriend. After she saw the pair of you together at the funeral. I had to tell her, no, no, that’s just a good friend of his.
Quiet for a moment. Finally answering: Right.
I think it’s nice you’ve kept so close.
Massaging his brow with the tips of his fingers now he gives no reply, and she also is silent. Three seconds, four, five.
Are you there? Christine asks.
Clears his throat to answer: I’m here, I just didn’t have anything to add.
Have I said something wrong?
No.
The same ritual he thinks each time. She tries to extract from him some valuably hurtful information and he tries to conceal from her any aspect of his life in which he suspects she might gain a foothold. Her fake innocuous queries and his studied evasions. Screens her calls whenever Naomi is home. Why does his mother even want to know: why does he want her not to. Contest for dominance. Story of his life.
Anyway, she says, I want to ask you. What are your plans for Christmas?
Oh, he answers. I don’t know, what are you doing?
Well, we’re supposed to go over to Frank’s sister in Edinburgh this year. You know Pauline. Now, you’re welcome to come along, there’s plenty of room. Or if you like, I can stay in Dublin, and yourself and Ivan can do Christmas with me.
Automatically, and even with an unexamined feeling of relief, he answers: You don’t need to stay on my account, I’ll be fine. But I don’t know what Ivan’s plans are.
She gives a kind of exaggerated sigh into the phone. That makes two of us, she says.
Once more he pauses. Whether to ignore, or take the bait, find out what she knows or doesn’t. With studied offhandedness he asks: Why, what do you mean?
Oh, he’s very busy this weather. No more than yourself. He tells me he’s back at these chess competitions.
Is he, says Peter. Okay, I wasn’t aware.
Scrabbling noise on the other end of the call and something like whining: the dog. Aha, his mother says. Do you hear that? That’s the hound of the Baskervilles speaking.
I don’t hear anything, he lies.
Do the two of you think I’m running an animal charity?
We’re trying to figure something out.
Noise like a door opening and then closing again. Mar dhea, she says. You never even answer my calls. And Ivan is off playing his chess, supposedly.
Feeling of caution, tentative. Rising from his chair he replies: Well, if he’s back doing tournaments, it’s not surprising he’s busy. You know, he’s probably focused, he’s trying to get the rating back up.
Lofty the tone in her voice. He told me last weekend he couldn’t come out to us for dinner because he was at a competition in Cork, she says. And like the loving mother I am, I went looking for the results online afterwards. What do you think I found? There was no competition in Cork last weekend.
Stops lightly at the doorway of his room. But it might have been one of these small invitationals, he says. They don’t always advertise them online.
Doubting he detects in her hesitation. You don’t think he might be lying? she asks.
Why would he lie about attending a chess competition?
More quickly now she retorts: I think you know more than you’re letting on.
Affectation of innocence. Me? he says. I’ve never exactly been au courant with Ivan’s personal affairs, have I?
You don’t think there might be a girl on the scene?
Well prepared now to deliver the awaited reply: If there is, I don’t see why it’s any of our business.
I’m worried about him, Peter. His poor father is only dead a few weeks, you know.
His father, he repeats. Okay. He was also my father, I believe. Unless you have some surprising news for me.
Crackle of her breath. God help me, she says. How did I raise such insolent children?
Out the window of his room, the yellow leaves of Herbert Street. Rain smearing the glass. If it’s any consolation, he says, you didn’t really.
Noise of her laughter now, angry. Oh, here we go, she says. I suppose your father raised you both on his own, did he?
He did his best.
So did I.
Staring down at the carpet. Beige, smudged-looking. In a lowered voice he says into the phone: You left when Ivan was five years old, Christine.
Marriages break down, Peter. I know that’s difficult for you to accept. But I didn’t leave my children.
Right, of course. And Ivan was always made to feel so welcome out in Frank’s house, wasn’t he?
Wavering now with the tone of self-righteousness, her voice. I see what kind of mood you’re in, she says. Blame Mother for everything. Okay, Ivan never fit in with Frank’s pair. Whose fault was that? He never fit in at school either, if you remember. Maybe he’s not the type to fit in.
Pacing back out to the living room. Ugly recessed lighting he hates. Cheap flat-pack furniture. That’s a nice way to speak about your son, he says.
After a pause she says in a different tone: And you’re his best friend all of a sudden, are you?
He falls still, facing the bookcase, closes his eyes. I didn’t say that, he says.
You’re at each other’s throats half the time. You were hardly even talking to each other at one stage. And now you’re accusing me of neglecting him. Where is all this coming from?
It’s not exactly comparable, he says. I’m not his mother.
Well, seeing as I am, why don’t you tell me what’s going on?
Opening again his eyes the dim sealed interior of the room encloses him, claustrophobic. I can’t, he says. He’s not speaking to me.
What? Why?
It doesn’t matter, he says.
Looks down at the lighted screen and taps the red icon. End call. Pinpoint of pain he feels behind his right eye. In the kitchen he pours himself a glass of water and drains it down in two mouthfuls standing at the sink. Paracetamol somewhere. And something for his nerves. Why did he bother giving out to her like that? Not for him to play the role of her conscience. First time they visited the house in Skerries: Peter was what, sixteen, and Ivan six. Excruciating. Sitting in the kitchen together while Frank’s pair played some rugged healthy game out the back, Darren and Caitriona, nine or ten years old they would have been. Sound of shouting through the window, glance of a ball flying past the glass. Christine tried to get Peter and Ivan to join in. Imagine. Feeling of disgust he experienced at that moment. That she would do that to them: pretend they were the same. When the other two came inside, she made up glasses of orange dilute, put out a plate of biscuits. They were children. Peter, the adolescent, ironic and literate, felt himself remote, untouchable. While Ivan, white as a sheet, stared wordlessly at the biscuit plate. Yes, that. Well, and what could Peter have done? Not as if they made it easy for him either. Harder if anything, because of his nonchalance, because he lacked the courtesy to be cowed by them. But he was off to college within a year or two. Sharing a flat in Rathmines, austerity era, rental market at rock bottom. Couple of hundred quid and you were half an hour walking into town. The good old days. College Historical Society. PJ, Cawley, the rest of the gang. Rolling cigarettes in the Committee Room. Dressing up on weekday evenings for the chamber debates, audience up on their feet. Sylvia Larkin radiant in a dress of grey silk. Everyone was in love with her then. And only he. He only. Strap of her dress slipping down from her shoulder, down her slender arm. You never told me you had a brother. Oh, yeah. Ivan, he’s just a kid. Who could think about such things. Their father alone in the kitchen making up the packed lunch, Nutella sandwiches, an apple wrapped in kitchen roll. Lumpy linoleum floor. No, Peter had a world to conquer. Continental victories, all-time records, academic scholarships. Weekends Ivan spent in Skerries, ashen, speechless, Peter was accepting prizes in foreign countries. Gigantic drive of his determination. Very proud, revengeful, ambitious. With more offences at my beck than I have thoughts to put them in. Take it out on Christine, why not. His own guilt. Also hers. They each had their own happiness to think of. Striving restless spirits, both. Ivan and their father different. Acceptance in their nature: yes, mute bewildered acceptance of life’s inexplicable cruelties. And now not even that. Pointlessly he takes his phone from his pocket again and taps the Contacts icon, scrolls to Ivan’s name. Taps again. For a moment the screen darkens, connecting, and then the signal drops. Call unsuccessful. What does he have to tell him anyway. I just want to say, I’m on your side. I know I’ve never done anything to help you, Ivan, but in principle, in spirit. I’ve been on your side all along.