A Star Called Henry (45 page)

—Ah, now.

—Ulster can be another day’s work.

—Maybe you’re right, said old Missis.—But there’s no talking to her.

—I know.

—Of course you do.

I touched the baby’s face, her cheek. Her skin was like the softest water. She grinned again and dribbled and shook herself. Before I’d noticed it, one of her hands had grabbed my beard. I gave her one of my fingers and she held onto it.

—Long fingers, I said.—Who’s she like?

—She’s a new invention altogether, said old Missis.—I’ve seen babies and babies but none of them like this little angel. She has the best of both of you, maybe.

Then it hit me: something was missing.

—What’s her name?

—She’s nothing yet, said old Missis.—She was waiting to hear from yourself.

—I’ve no idea, I said.—Just, not Melody.

—Melody? she said.—That’s only an ol’ English name. She’d never agree to that.

—Not Melody, I said.

We were in old Missis’s sister’s kitchen. I sat in a chair and the baby, already straight-backed, sat on my knee.

—An Irish name, said old Missis.—Something like her own.

—Fine, I said and, instinctively, I put my fingers to my ears. The baby, freed of my arms, fell back but I caught her in time and pressed her to me. I laughed. I pressed her to my chest and felt her quick heart. She kicked her legs and gulped. I hadn’t washed or shaved for the best part of a year but she wasn’t scared of the old tramp holding her. She seemed to know: she’d met her father, and approved. I looked at old Missis, to share my happiness, and saw her looking down at the baby, who had her head turned to me. Her little mouth was wet and open and she moved her head, as much as her new neck would allow, searching the cloth in front of her - she was looking for a nipple on my coat. Her lips met months of dust and harder dirt. I held her out before she could suck at its history, and old Missis took her in her hands. She lowered her, back first, onto the floor and, gently, put her old foot on her tummy. The baby chuckled and drooled, and lifted her arms and feet, coiled herself around the foot.

I stood up and took off the old coat. I took it to the door and threw it into the yard.

—I could do with a wash, I said.

—I couldn’t disagree with you, young fellow.

—And a shave.

—It’ll take years off you.

—That’s asking a lot of a razor.

—You’re still a great man for the remarks.

—And then I’ll have to go.

—You know best. She’ll be glad you saw the little one.

—I’ve to do some things.

—It won’t be too long now and all the things to be done will be done and you’ll be able to live a quieter life, the two of you.

She nodded at the baby beneath her foot.

—The three of you.

—I hope so.

—That’s enough for now.

 

 

I got off the train a new man, again. I was wearing the clothes of another dead man, old Missis O’Shea’s brother-in-law. Another brown suit that was tight under the shoulders and gave my ankles a fine view of the passing countryside. But there was room for two of me at the waist.

—He must have been huge, I said.

—He was a nondescript poor man, said old Missis.—But I remember him being fat.

I’d shaved and old Missis had cut my hair. I was fed and rested. The leg was polished and my baby daughter’s smell fizzled all around me. I wasn’t hiding anymore.

I saw her very quickly. Just half an hour leaning against the quay wall and there she was, coming out of Webb’s, her top half hidden inside the tent of her shawl. I could tell by the black wings that her jutting elbows made as I followed her over the river: she was carrying books under her arms.

The Civil War was over in Dublin. Sackville Street was now O’Connell Street and it was rubble all over again. She went into a house on Hardwicke Street and I got there in time to hear a door inside slamming and I ran up the stairs and got to the door while it was still rattling.

She was already sitting at her old table.

—Climanis, Granny.

—The dead arose.

—I’m not dead.

—It’s only a matter of time.

—Climanis, Granny.

—Books.

She’d brought all the old books with her. Her free space was barely a cupboard. I kicked at a column beside me.

—I gave you nearly every fuckin’ book here!

—And I’ve read them all, so they’re no fuckin’ good to me.

—Then why do you keep them?

—Because they’re mine.

There were nine books, from under her shawl, in two piles on the table. I put one pile on top of the other and grabbed them. I walked to the door.

—Climanis, I said.—Or you’ll never read these.

She looked at me.

—Alfie Gandon says Hello.

I put the books back on the table, in their original piles. I walked back to the door.

—And your wife’s in Kilmainham.

I sat on the steps and got my heart back. I stayed there for a few minutes. Then I stood up. Dolly Oblong’s was no distance away.

 

 

I had an accent to match the suit.

—I came up to sell the cattle for the daddy, I told the bouncer.—And I was feeling a bit lonely.

And I was in. The real daddy’s leg hidden in the brother-in-law’s trousers. Past the bully, a thick-looking gom whose mouth hung loose. I was in. Into the smells and hints that men paid for. The darkness and promises. The hall was empty. There was a piano being murdered in the room on the left. I kept going and there was no one to stop me. It was early in the day. Down a deep hall, away from the rugs and piano. To a stone stairs, an empty kitchen, and a scullery. And a door and a key. I put the key in my pocket and I went back up to the working part of the house.

I followed the piano. There was a scrawny old consumptive pounding at the keys, some song that had once been American, and beyond him a couch and three pale, bored girls squeezed along it. Until they saw me. Even in my second-son-of-a-small-but-respectable-farmer disguise, I was still the best-looking man they’d seen in years and they were up and all around me before I’d seen them properly.

—How much do ye charge?

And they liked me even more when they heard me because they were country girls themselves who’d lost their way and they immediately saw in me a letter from home and the best fuck of their lives.

—A guinea.

—A pound.

—Nineteen and ninepence. What’s your name?

There was a hand in mine and I let her lead me out of the room and up the carpeted stairs where my father’s leg had carried no tap tap. It shivered in my trousers now; it knew where it was.

Into a dim room.

—Shut the door, darling.

I did and I watched her dropping her shawl to the floor.

—I don’t normally take my clothes off, she said.—But today’s a hot day. What’s your name?

—Ivan, I said.—What’s your own?

—Maria, she said.

—What part of the world are you from?

—I’m not telling, she said.—What about you?

—Not far from your place, I said.

I got onto the bed and she pressed herself to me.

—Just so’s you’ll know, I said, and this was the real me talking.—I never paid for a ride before in my life.

—You’ll have to pay for this one, she said.—They’d kill me if I didn’t cough up.

—Grand, so, I said.

And I flicked my tongue across her nipple.

—And we’re all called Maria, she said.—My real name’s Eileen.

I was in the right place.

 

 

Dark.

It had been a long time since I’d walked in streetlight. I walked out to Clontarf and watched the tide coming in. And back into town. No curfew to beat, no rushing tenders. I found the back alley without having to search for it. Over the wall, the broken glass was no problem. The half-hearted garden, the girls’ only freedom. I unlocked the door; the scullery was empty. The kitchen, the stairs. Piano. The carpet. I hugged the dark red wall. Up the stairs up, three at a time. Grunts, beds protesting. A dark red corridor. A mean laugh, a giggle. Eileen’s door, others.

And the right door. A good thick door. My knock was a small thing on it.

I walked into the dark and closed the door behind me. Its canvas cover settled back into place. I could see nothing but I knew she was in front of me. Her powder was all over me.

—You are in the wrong room.

—I don’t think so.

The bed groaned and now I could see her. A head made huge by hair that was plenty for six or seven women. The bed groaned again as she leaned to my left and turned on a lamp.

Fair play to my father, she was gorgeous. Twenty years after he’d first laid eyes on her. She moved slowly back to the centre of the bed. She was hair and lips and eyes that were black, just beyond the power of the lamp. She was wearing a red gown that showed off white shoulders and all of her was massive. Her softness was firm and she still shone like a young one.

—You’re Missis Oblong, I said.

—Am I?

—Yeah.

—Good.

—The queen bee herself, I said.—I’m looking for Gandon.

—O’Gandúin.

—Gandon.

She sighed.

—You have business with Mister O’Gandúin?

—Yeah.

—And the nature of the business?

—I’m going to kill him.

—I see.

She didn’t move.

—You are a very handsome man, she said.

—So I’ve been told, I said.—But flattery isn’t going to get you far.

—And money?

—No.

—You are stupid, she said.

—Probably, I said.—Where will I find him?

—Here, she said.—But not right now.

—I’ll wait.

—I am not a prostitute - I don’t yet know your name.

—That’s right.

—Little boys, little boys. I am not a prostitute, mysterious man in a suit that is not his. I am not a prostitute. Nevertheless, this is a brothel. So I must charge you for the time that you spend in this room while you are waiting for Mister O’Gandúin. Perhaps you would prefer to wait outside.

—No, I said.—I’m grand here.

—Yes, she said.

We stared at each other. She was a killer, a brasser, her hair was a wig. The lips, though, were real, red, huge and open. She drank from a glass that was under the lamp and peppermint joined her powder in the air as she refilled the glass.

—Will he be long?

She sighed.

—Ah, she said.—He will be here immediately after he has escorted his wife home from the theatre.

—I didn’t know he was married.

—Yes indeed, she said.—Mister O’Gandúin decided that a wife of the right type would advance his political career. I am sure that he loves her. Why will you kill him?

—He killed some people.

—I will pay you if you succeed.

Her tongue. It lay just behind her lips. I felt it on my neck; I was so sure of it, I put my hand up to feel her spit. But my neck was still dry.

—Why? I said.

—You think, I think, that I am a woman scorned.

—Probably.

—Yes, she said.—That is reasonable. That is a good story. But not true. I am disappointed, yes. I am speaking to you of these matters because I believe that you will kill him. Or that he will kill you. I have always been disappointed. I was thirteen when Mister O’Gandúin fucked me the first time. Does that shock you?

—No.

—No. It hurt then. It hurts now. And he has not fucked me in many years. I am frightened.

People died, people lived while she pulled strings from her bed. My father had been sure of it.

—Will I tell you why I am frightened?

—You might as well.

—He is going to kill me. Mister O’Gandúin is a national politician, of a new nation eager to prove itself to the world. The world is watching Mister O’Gandúin and he loves this. More than the girls here in his house. More than anything. But he has been slow to give up his old life. He is still Alfie Gandon. He was worried that the new nation would not live. And so, he kept his old business interests. This house. His other interests. But he was wrong. The nation will live and he must kill Alfie Gandon. He must kill the past. I am his past and he will kill me. One night, like tonight perhaps, he will decide that the time has come and he will kill me. Tonight.

She sat up; she grew.

—He comes, she said.

I could hear nothing.

—Kill him, she whispered.

And the door opened. I got behind it and the leg out and over his head as he came into the room and looked at Dolly Oblong. Through the gap at the door hinges I could see that the hall was empty. I looked at her, and her eyes gave nothing away. I pushed the door back with my foot and brought the leg down hard on the side of his head. He dropped. I stood over him, one leg each side of his neat, small man’s body. There was no blood yet; I hadn’t cracked anything. I bent down and pulled him up by his hair.

—David Climanis says Hello.

His body stiffened; he was thinking. I pulled at his collar. I lifted his head as he choked. His hands grabbed furiously at the front of his shirt. He pulled away the collar pin and fell forward. His face smacked the carpet and made very little noise. I pulled off the collar and threw it away. I searched under his shirt and found a blue ribbon. I pulled again and two pieces of leather, two little bootstraps came out with the ribbon.

—Jesus, I said.—It’s true.

He was looking at the leg. I’d been leaning on it, like a walking stick. He lay quietly, cheek to the carpet.

—Henry Smart, he said.—Do you remember Henry Smart, Dolly?

—Yes.