Dublin Palms. Hugo HamiltonЧитать онлайн книгу.
He was the last descendant of the Fitzgerald line, directly related to the famous fighting Fitzgerald, a historical figure who was given a ring by Marie Antoinette in Paris before she was beheaded, then he ended his life in a similar way, hanged in Castlebar for imprisoning his father in a cage with a circus bear. The ring was kept in a tobacco tin, the gem was on a swivel with the stamp of the French court underneath. His people were kind during the Famine. The house was later given over to the state to be turned into a museum of country life.
He plays the guitar left-handed. He has blond hair, a blue freckle on one cheek. He sits sideways at the table with his legs crossed while eating. He barks when the music is good. I saw him once kicking over a chair with excitement while he was listening to a band playing the Céili at Claremorris. I saw him yelping and slapping his hands on the dashboard for Voodoo Chile as we drove into the Brenner Pass.
There is nothing I want to do more than sing, but the catalogue of speaking songs no longer works for me. I am no match for those great singers. I try new ways of calling out my frozen mind, I pick up the guitar, I learn some contemporary songs, but my voice is easily dismantled. I settle back into my long listening.
The veterinary practice was closed. We heard the news that morning. The boy was found lifeless on the floor of the surgery. A note on the door mentioned the word bereavement.
I knocked. It took a while before Mark, the vet, came out. He didn’t take me inside. We stood on the pavement. He didn’t want me to see exactly where it happened, the empty space on the floor where he picked the boy up and ran out the door into the street late in the afternoon, racing to the hospital, hoping he was still alive. I was not brought in to meet the boy’s mother in her grief.
I’m sorry. That’s all I could manage to say.
Ah listen, he said.
We stood in silence. His eyes were flooded, nothing more he could say either. Two fathers trading encouragement, full of words we could not say, looking at the ground. The eucalyptus trees on the corner across the road smelled like a hospital. The shopkeeper in the adjoining premises was looking out the window at us. We had no conversation. For the sake of talking, it occurred to me to mention a book of short stories he had recommended the last time we met, but I kept it to myself. There was a story in it about a couple renting a house in a remote place where they love each other with great intensity until the owner suddenly wants the place back for himself, their love comes to an end.
I stared away towards pub on the corner. He stood kicking the wall with the tip of his boot.
Jesus Christ, he said.
We heard the breeze rattle the eucalyptus trees across the street. The leaves were sickle shaped, green leather knives. The smell of sap was suffocating, a toxic preparation for parvovirus in dogs. Hardly any cars went by, no buses, I would have noticed. It was hard for him to face going back inside. As though he wanted to stay out there on the street with me, that might be the best way of remembering when things were safe, I was a person who brought him back to a time before the tragedy.
I stood there without saying anything more. Like a child trying to hide something, refusing to say there was a bottle of blue liquid I thought was a drink of lemonade.
He put his hand on my shoulder.
Look after those girls, he said. Then he slapped me on the back of the head and went inside.
The white coffin went to the church, people were standing in the street, I didn’t hear what they were saying, I didn’t talk to anyone. He stood with his sister’s arm around his shoulder at the graveside, a small group of mourners, his wife held his hand for the last prayers. The loss of their son took the streets from under their feet. He gave up the veterinary practice, she went back to live in France, he worked for a while in the North, in Coleraine. I ran into him from time to time when he was back, at the fish shop, at the fruit and vegetable shop, sometimes down at the harbour, we always stood for a while and he told me the news, we never talked about the dead boy or his family breaking up. His shoulders were hunched, he moved with delay, there was a cut made in his voice. Maybe it was a form of surrender in his eyes, half turning away and coming back to face you once more, it was good to hear him laugh again. You met him in the pub on the corner full of rugby fans and pictures of James Joyce. You saw his bike outside with a basket full of books.
I have a friend who went to Australia.
He has a gift for talking. His memory has legal accuracy, he studied law. He is tall, he speaks in a stride, it was hard to keep up. He was run off his feet revealing things he had heard about people, things about ourselves that we had forgotten, you felt good because your life mattered to him. He could remember Helen and myself in Berlin, the time I sang my sad songs in the street for passing pedestrians until a woman from the offices above came down and paid me to go away. He could remember Helen on the U-Bahn, a man staring at her love belly, the three of us walking arm in arm across Hermannplatz, she was carried along, not touching the street.
He got talking to people easily, people who normally avoided each other were glad to be in the same place together when he was around. He gave me the feeling of being in motion, being alive, being lucky, it was our responsibility to celebrate. His information had no false avenues. His grasp of human emotions was generous, you could trust him with your thoughts. I allowed him to put words in my mouth. I spoke so little. He did most of the talking for me.
If I could write the way he speaks, I thought, I would be at home anywhere in the world.
We stood at the bar in Kehoe’s pub. I was happy listening to the scattered voices. The twirl of a coin on the counter, a beer mat flipping upwards and being snapped between thumb and finger. Everything was worth remembering, the worn rung on the bar stool, the spill of beer, the discontented faces of barmen on the wrong side of life. Things you overheard – No, fuck off, I owe you a pint. Snatches of nonsensical conversation that didn’t join up – the permafrost, my twist, Galileo, you’re due a refund. I loved that disjointed prose of the city, the abstract way in which something serious could be said in one part of the pub and people burst out laughing in another corner.
In a flood of enthusiasm, I told my friend I was trying to write. The manner of the announcement made it look as though I had no other choice, each one of us was trapped inside a book, the only way out was to write it down. At one point, thinking that I had the speed of his voice in mine, I pulled out a couple of pages from my bag for him to look at.
It was a section in which I described my silence. Waking up at night, wandering around the house where I grew up while everyone else was asleep. I became an intruder in my own home. Avoiding the creaks on the stairs. Not switching on the light. Looking around at the objects belonging to my family, the photographs on the mantelpiece, the town where my mother came from. In darkness, it felt as though I had walked into a strange house where I didn’t belong, the people who lived there had nothing to do with me. When the light started coming up at dawn, I caught sight of myself in a mirror. A strange figure I could not recognise, standing alone among the furniture and family possessions I knew so well. The reflection was not mine, it belonged to someone else, from nowhere.
He read it quickly. He said it was a bit raw, a bit honest. I saw no difference between his honesty and my honesty, only that everything he revealed had time to evaporate overnight. His stories were full of travel. The names of cities and rivers in faraway places.
He told me that he was leaving. We met and got drunk together. I missed him. His departure left me short. It removed the map. I no longer had any connection to the talking grid. He carried crucial information away to Australia with him in his shirt pocket. Doesn’t every emigrant do that? I thought to myself. Each person leaving takes away some essential knowledge that cannot be replaced by those left behind.
A photograph sent from Fremantle shows him wearing a bright blue shirt with floating vintage cars and palm trees. By the angle of his shoulders, he must be standing in the kitchen, opening a bottle of wine. Everything I attempt to say from that point on is directed like a shout across the world to a distant reader, waiting for the echo to come back.
Another episode with my teeth. Brought on