Ghost Light (17 page)
Authors: Joseph O'Connor
Not only would it be
bourgeois
for pleasure to be denied – in his own case it might be physically dangerous. He gave you his heart – that was how he put it – one torrentially rainy night in Borris-in-Ossory, while in the parlour downstairs a one-legged fiddler played ‘The Croppy Boy’ to an audience of commercial travellers. He was breathtakingly skilful – Seamus Shannon, not the fiddler – and vigorous for a fat man of his age. He had read passages in many French novels that had been banned throughout the Empire and he seemed to know what they were secretly about. Orotund pronunciation of Shakespearian soliloquy was not the only thing he could do with his gob. But there was an efficiency to his prowess that was somewhat off-putting, in that you felt he was constantly
expecting
something, had mentally advanced to the next scene, like a smiling but impatient waiter who wants to go home, and that whatever bliss you were experiencing, as you gaspingly were, redounded to his credit and existed mainly to be observed. After a while he produced ‘a device’, rinsed it desultorily in his shaving bowl, and attempted to roll it onto his mickey. A difficult moment ensued as he began losing what interested you most. The poor dunderhead was visibly embarrassed. You wondered if you should give him the attention Jimmy Gunnery was never done requesting but you felt it might be riskily forward. Instead you uttered the phrase: ‘Please – I beg you – you won’t ever tell anyone you ruined me?’ and it stood to attentive readiness like a flagpole. You took it in your hand. He was soon tiptoeing on the spot and spouting extracts from the Song of Solomon.
bourgeois
for pleasure to be denied – in his own case it might be physically dangerous. He gave you his heart – that was how he put it – one torrentially rainy night in Borris-in-Ossory, while in the parlour downstairs a one-legged fiddler played ‘The Croppy Boy’ to an audience of commercial travellers. He was breathtakingly skilful – Seamus Shannon, not the fiddler – and vigorous for a fat man of his age. He had read passages in many French novels that had been banned throughout the Empire and he seemed to know what they were secretly about. Orotund pronunciation of Shakespearian soliloquy was not the only thing he could do with his gob. But there was an efficiency to his prowess that was somewhat off-putting, in that you felt he was constantly
expecting
something, had mentally advanced to the next scene, like a smiling but impatient waiter who wants to go home, and that whatever bliss you were experiencing, as you gaspingly were, redounded to his credit and existed mainly to be observed. After a while he produced ‘a device’, rinsed it desultorily in his shaving bowl, and attempted to roll it onto his mickey. A difficult moment ensued as he began losing what interested you most. The poor dunderhead was visibly embarrassed. You wondered if you should give him the attention Jimmy Gunnery was never done requesting but you felt it might be riskily forward. Instead you uttered the phrase: ‘Please – I beg you – you won’t ever tell anyone you ruined me?’ and it stood to attentive readiness like a flagpole. You took it in your hand. He was soon tiptoeing on the spot and spouting extracts from the Song of Solomon.
The following nineteen minutes were never less than interesting. A reviewer would have described them positively. When you opened your eyes in mid-throe only to observe him glancing at his fob watch, his thrusting, white buttocks reflecting palely in the windowpane, it temporarily put you off what he insisted on calling your ‘stride’ but otherwise you had no complaints. He asked, with sweaty seriousness, if you had ever seen wild horses mating – a relatively uncommon sight in Mary Street
and environs – but its imitation proved pleasurable to the fraudulent old booby and, to be fair, had the desired effect on you too. He was generous, attentive and pleasured you practically unconscious before asking your permission to ‘bring down the curtain’. As ‘The Croppy Boy’ reached its heart-rending crescendo, so did J. Seamus Shannon, and you felt he had thoroughly earned it. On returning to Dublin, he had returned to his wife, accompanied, presumably, by his heart. Jimmy Gunnery received a pleasant surprise, indeed something of an education. He would be engaged many times but would never marry.
and environs – but its imitation proved pleasurable to the fraudulent old booby and, to be fair, had the desired effect on you too. He was generous, attentive and pleasured you practically unconscious before asking your permission to ‘bring down the curtain’. As ‘The Croppy Boy’ reached its heart-rending crescendo, so did J. Seamus Shannon, and you felt he had thoroughly earned it. On returning to Dublin, he had returned to his wife, accompanied, presumably, by his heart. Jimmy Gunnery received a pleasant surprise, indeed something of an education. He would be engaged many times but would never marry.
—You better not have done on that ‘tour’ of yours what I think you done.
—How do you mean, Mother?
—Innocent Annie. Is it simple you think I’m after going? You are not gone so big and bold that I will not redden your arse for you. You are not in your playhouse now.
—That is nice talk to your own daughter.
—Is it wrong, all the same? Look me in the eye if you dare, and don’t be flashing me your impudent face or you’ll feel my hand across it. There isn’t a decent man in Ireland wants to buy a cracked jug.
—I do not get your meaning. You will have to explain.
—Oh you were rared a pet, weren’t you? It’s a nice reputation in store. Do you think I don’t be seeing you flaunting yourself to every gurrier on the street, like the first girl in Dublin ever had a rump on her to swing or a couple of handfuls in her blouse?
—Am I not allowed to speak to a fellow barring I ask your permission?
—The brazen lip of you, Miss, and you barely out of school. Let me tell you, they run good and fast when they’ve taken what they want. Get up to that bed and say a prayer.
Giddy Aunt, to be indoors, to get out of this coldness. That cinema on the corner, perhaps? An extravagance. Yes. But we can be too sensible for our own good, and there are no pockets in a
shroud after all. And it will be a talking-point, later, at the BBC, when you and the other actors are having coffee and cigarettes, and the sound-effects producer is taking glockenspiels from his suitcase and hitting them with little hammers, looking serious. Yes, I popped into the pictures earlier, I was just in town and felt restless. Do you know, I thoroughly enjoyed it. Quite
marvellously
vulgar. And the young people will chuckle at your mischievous Irish spirit and the effects-man will activate his cuckoo clock.
shroud after all. And it will be a talking-point, later, at the BBC, when you and the other actors are having coffee and cigarettes, and the sound-effects producer is taking glockenspiels from his suitcase and hitting them with little hammers, looking serious. Yes, I popped into the pictures earlier, I was just in town and felt restless. Do you know, I thoroughly enjoyed it. Quite
marvellously
vulgar. And the young people will chuckle at your mischievous Irish spirit and the effects-man will activate his cuckoo clock.
Giant masks of Comedy and Tragedy by the entrances to the lavatories. But the leer of poor old Comedy is distastefully licentious, and the frenzied glumness of Tragedy looks like a clown’s, put on. There is a counter where sweets and orangeade are sold, but nobody is attending it now.
Why
no pockets in a shroud? Could that not be arranged? If one specified it, for example, in one’s Last Will and Testament? Might it not be a comfort, having some little keepsake in there with you? Or perhaps it would be merely an irritant. Your relatives would be loading you down you with photographs and trinkets, letters they should have sent you, curls they snipped off themselves, probably unpaid bills. No, it doesn’t bear thinking about. You’d end up like a pack mule. Better to face eternity pocketless.
no pockets in a shroud? Could that not be arranged? If one specified it, for example, in one’s Last Will and Testament? Might it not be a comfort, having some little keepsake in there with you? Or perhaps it would be merely an irritant. Your relatives would be loading you down you with photographs and trinkets, letters they should have sent you, curls they snipped off themselves, probably unpaid bills. No, it doesn’t bear thinking about. You’d end up like a pack mule. Better to face eternity pocketless.
You pay your threepence to the girl in the booth and are directed towards the shadowy passageway, along which are hung posters for films you are not certain you have heard of. Musicals, possibly, for the actors appear so happy, the women smiling manically, their lips redder than a jazzman’s socks, and the men sculpturally handsome with wide mauve eyes and necks slightly thicker than their heads. The auditorium smells of damp, the picture has already started, but you pick up the story easily for you once saw it as a play.
A Streetcar Named Desire
. You murmur the title to yourself. A beautiful title is half the battle.
A Streetcar Named Desire
. You murmur the title to yourself. A beautiful title is half the battle.
As you adjust to the darkness, you realise you are almost alone, that there is nobody except yourself in the row. With what you
hope is a restrained and deftly executed half-turn, as someone seeking out a friend with whom an appointment has been agreed, you see that there is only one man in all the rows behind you, a codger in a raincoat, with an umbrella in the seat beside him fully and inappropriately extended. He is sitting with his hat on, which irks you slightly. It is not done for a gentleman to be wearing a hat when indoors. And one would think they would know that, after all this time. Do they not have wives? Is etiquette quite dead? It matters not that he is alone, that is
in no sense
the point
,
for if we all behaved exactly as we pleased while alone, it would be a very fine pancake indeed. But what is to be done? These days, one can say nothing. London is becoming a slum.
hope is a restrained and deftly executed half-turn, as someone seeking out a friend with whom an appointment has been agreed, you see that there is only one man in all the rows behind you, a codger in a raincoat, with an umbrella in the seat beside him fully and inappropriately extended. He is sitting with his hat on, which irks you slightly. It is not done for a gentleman to be wearing a hat when indoors. And one would think they would know that, after all this time. Do they not have wives? Is etiquette quite dead? It matters not that he is alone, that is
in no sense
the point
,
for if we all behaved exactly as we pleased while alone, it would be a very fine pancake indeed. But what is to be done? These days, one can say nothing. London is becoming a slum.
You try to enter the story but the star is too distractingly handsome. You slip the bottle from your carpetbag, a couple of long sips. The boy is not only beautiful; he is an admirable actor, far too luminously skilful for the pictures. He would make a dazzling Hamlet or an American Christy Mahon come home to break the hearts of Mayo. He pouts. He smoulders. He stares. He exudes. He has the eyes of a panther wondering if killing you would be worth the effort. Despite the critics saying he is good, he actually
is
good, in the subtle ways only a fellow professional would notice or understand: in his turns, in his glances, in the conscientiousness of his diction, every plosive sound audible, every vowel made distinct. We must efface ourselves as we play; one can see that he knows this. The words are everything; we serve them. And Hollywood, with its baubles and faked grandiosities, its vulgarisation of everything tautly fine in the drama (something poor deluded Sara could never quite see), its awards for this, its mansions for that, will probably destroy him before long. Because he is a sensitive man; one can discern it in his sullen mien. A man who would rather be away, who was not made for others, but whose gift will condemn him to the public dungeon of admiration. And it’s well you know the sufferings of a man who becomes admired when to be hated is all he’s been raised for.
is
good, in the subtle ways only a fellow professional would notice or understand: in his turns, in his glances, in the conscientiousness of his diction, every plosive sound audible, every vowel made distinct. We must efface ourselves as we play; one can see that he knows this. The words are everything; we serve them. And Hollywood, with its baubles and faked grandiosities, its vulgarisation of everything tautly fine in the drama (something poor deluded Sara could never quite see), its awards for this, its mansions for that, will probably destroy him before long. Because he is a sensitive man; one can discern it in his sullen mien. A man who would rather be away, who was not made for others, but whose gift will condemn him to the public dungeon of admiration. And it’s well you know the sufferings of a man who becomes admired when to be hated is all he’s been raised for.
Your tears spring hotly. Ridiculous. Ludicrous.
He
was not
handsome or confident. There is no resemblance at all. The unspeakable embarrassment, if anyone saw. Having no handkerchief in your sleeve, you wipe your eyes with your thumbs. Lord, what is the matter with me today?
He
was not
handsome or confident. There is no resemblance at all. The unspeakable embarrassment, if anyone saw. Having no handkerchief in your sleeve, you wipe your eyes with your thumbs. Lord, what is the matter with me today?
Do you mind that mortifying night when he came to the house? Dear Lord, the humiliation of having relatives. Mammy bowing and scraping, and Georgie in his uniform, and Grannie giving him dagger-eyes all evening. A pig’s head, we had. Sweet Merciful Jesus. And the poor devil doing his best to be everyone’s friend instead of just being himself. It would make a funny play, like in
Juno and the Paycock
, where the posh suitor, Bentham, visits his girl’s parents in the tenement. Sean O’Casey would be the boyo for the Allgoods, right enough, only nobody would believe the fucking madness for a minute. Sure maybe I’ll have a crack at the writing of it myself. Why not? Couldn’t I do it as good as anyone else? Be thinking up the lines as I’m walking about later? It would pass the time nicely. Never know.
Juno and the Paycock
, where the posh suitor, Bentham, visits his girl’s parents in the tenement. Sean O’Casey would be the boyo for the Allgoods, right enough, only nobody would believe the fucking madness for a minute. Sure maybe I’ll have a crack at the writing of it myself. Why not? Couldn’t I do it as good as anyone else? Be thinking up the lines as I’m walking about later? It would pass the time nicely. Never know.
Honestly, that reprobate in his hat. It is how Germany went wrong. People said nothing about the small things, were afraid to interfere. Really, you should march right up to that blithering ignoramus, up the carpeted rake, it would take you but a moment, and announce with all the indignation only an artist of your powers can summon that there
happens to be a lady present.
You wonder what he would say. Nothing, probably. A lout the like of that would not even understand your objection.
happens to be a lady present.
You wonder what he would say. Nothing, probably. A lout the like of that would not even understand your objection.
The auditorium is warm and dark. Your coat is drying out. That sense, as you walked with him, that he felt freer away from Dublin. His bearing was less heavy, almost kingly. He spoke rarely, cautiously, as you hiked the long knolls. It was as though the air he was inhaling was rationed out by the wood-gods and might be withdrawn if they were offended by loudness. His voice soft as cinders drifting under a bed. In the city it had seemed to you that he was dragging an invisible anchor. He feared fogs as a vampire dreads light.
Drowsiness seeps up at you from the velveteen seats. You come
out of Crone Forest and see him at a distance. He is standing by the wall of a bent stone bridge, dropping fern fronds into the river like a child. You judder back to the picture house, its shaft of bluish light. Now Molly, do not doze. It is not done to sleep in public. A long yawn makes your ears click; you cover your mouth. You try to settle into the picture but it is difficult, difficult. The brandy is dissolving the threads.
out of Crone Forest and see him at a distance. He is standing by the wall of a bent stone bridge, dropping fern fronds into the river like a child. You judder back to the picture house, its shaft of bluish light. Now Molly, do not doze. It is not done to sleep in public. A long yawn makes your ears click; you cover your mouth. You try to settle into the picture but it is difficult, difficult. The brandy is dissolving the threads.
Days and nights pass. Lakes turn a mild blue. A woman is talking about him quietly; you cannot see her through her veil. The words of that silly old letter he wrote after Killiney are bubbling up now, wanting remembrance. They
know
that you know them. They are buried in you, Changeling, and they want to come back from the dead. You make yourself resurface. Certain dreams are stoppable. Your fingertips so cold, as though emitting a colour. On a sudden the picture stops and the house lights fade up; the projectionist is changing the reels. A slide reading INTERVAL appears on the screen. Pearls of sweat on his forehead, smudging his scribble as they dripped on the paper. And one night you awoke, thinking the cottage was on fire, to see the hearth silhouetting him, roaring and hissing, and he shovelling handfuls of his work into the flames.
know
that you know them. They are buried in you, Changeling, and they want to come back from the dead. You make yourself resurface. Certain dreams are stoppable. Your fingertips so cold, as though emitting a colour. On a sudden the picture stops and the house lights fade up; the projectionist is changing the reels. A slide reading INTERVAL appears on the screen. Pearls of sweat on his forehead, smudging his scribble as they dripped on the paper. And one night you awoke, thinking the cottage was on fire, to see the hearth silhouetting him, roaring and hissing, and he shovelling handfuls of his work into the flames.
He went swimming in the mornings or when he suffered from headaches, which were brought on by a surfeit of work. And he hunching over the table five hours without respite, the fingertips of his left hand massaging his temple furiously while his right blackened endless pages. When he exhausted his supply of paper he wrote on anything he could find: in margins, on sugar bags, on the frontispieces of books, on flyleaves, in the corners of newspapers. It was a compulsion, a kind of madness, a country to which none would ever be permitted entry, and its flag was his sweat-soaked handkerchief. One could come up to its borders, was permitted to peer in, but would never be granted citizenship.
The thinness of his wrists. His wren-like appetite; result, so he told you, of his student days in Paris, when money had been
so scarce and friends so few that often he had gone to his bed hungry. He had fainted one evening in the rue de l’Université – ‘the world swam up at me, the shadows were so beautiful’. Once, for a fortnight, he had eaten only bread. What would that be like? Only bread. The house lights are darkened and the picture resumes. But it is like watching water. You nod again.
so scarce and friends so few that often he had gone to his bed hungry. He had fainted one evening in the rue de l’Université – ‘the world swam up at me, the shadows were so beautiful’. Once, for a fortnight, he had eaten only bread. What would that be like? Only bread. The house lights are darkened and the picture resumes. But it is like watching water. You nod again.
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