The Dead Republic (16 page)
I opened my eyes.
The fucker was granite.
—So, he said.
Then I heard noise from his mouth, like he was gathering the words and putting them into the right order.
He was crying.
I held my hand up, brought it closer to my eyes. The fingers didn’t look too bad. I’d stayed silent through worse torture.
He’d stopped bawling but he hadn’t moved. He hadn’t lifted his hands to wipe his eyes or his nose, or the raw line that cut across his neck.
I heard feet outside. They passed.
I asked him again.
—Why?
He sighed.
—Honest answer?
—Yeah, I said.
—I don’t know what you mean.
It took a while. To know that he really was being honest.
—What don’t you fuckin’ understand? I asked.
—Why you’d even ask.
The words were bubbled. I’d done damage.
—I don’t get it, he said.
But it wasn’t just the floating teeth. His voice didn’t have the bark. He was talking, not performing.
—We wrote a script, he said.—So we could make a fucking picture. After that, I don’t know
why
. Ask yourself.
why
. Ask yourself.
I started to answer, several times. I got ready to let him have it. But—
—Yeah, I said.
It was all I could manage, at first.
—It wasn’t just a picture, I said.
It sounded right, and it was right.
—It was never just a picture, I said.—You told me that. It was my fuckin’ story.
He sighed.
—Yeah, yeah. Great. Listen.
He moved, but not much. He turned his head. He hadn’t looked for his glasses; they were still in my pocket. But he looked at me as if he saw exactly what was in front of him.
—It was a picture, he said.—It was a picture. Your story, my picture. I hid nothing.
—You said—
—I hid nothing, Henry.
I heard a slurp, like he was knocking back soup.
—I hid nothing, he said.—You were with me all the way.
He didn’t move again. He didn’t even touch his mouth or face. He couldn’t see me; I knew that. But he still knew how to use his eyes.
—I’m not apologising, Henry.
—I don’t want your fuckin’ apology.
—Yes, you do.
He wasn’t challenging or provoking me.
—You want me to take on some kind of blame, he said.—Fucking guilt or something. But I won’t.
He let that settle.
—It was work, he said.—But we knocked it into shape. Accept that.
A spring beneath him groaned and the noise had me up off the bed, standing ready to deal with the attack.
—Jesus, Henry, he said.—Do rebels never retire? I’m going to lie back here, no funny stuff.
More springs joined the first one.
—You really shouldn’t be socking old guys like me. You broke a couple of fingers is my guess.
He didn’t lean his head or shoulders against the backrest. He was lying down, ready for the coffin.
—Where were we? he said.
I didn’t hit him.
—It was honest work, he said.
He wasn’t looking at me now. He couldn’t, because his head was back between the two pillows.
—Or what passes for honest in this business. You cut it to fit. And that is what we did. We wrote a script and here we are, making the picture. You should be fucking proud of yourself.
I hit him again.
But I was stopping myself, or trying to. And it wasn’t the pain already humming there that pulled me back. I was smacking him to stop him, not to punish him. I knew that, quickly, and I didn’t want to do it. But I hit him anyway, slapped him like a cissy, gave him a fright and sent the pain snarling back up my arm and neck.
—Fuck!
—Jesus, Henry. We wrote the picture but we are not in the fucking picture. Calm down.
—Sorry.
—Fine, great. Sit down. Here.
I heard the springs again, then saw him lift, and drop again, making space for me.
—Lie back there, he said.—I bet you walked all the way here, right?
—Yeah.
—Henry-style. From Dublin.
—No.
—Roscommon.
—Yeah.
—I could do that myself, he said.—Sit down.
I sat on the bed. I lay back; I let myself go. I left the pain in the air for a while. I stretched out on the bed. We were lying side by side.
He had me beaten. I couldn’t blame the man for what I’d let happen; I couldn’t beat my own guilt into him. I closed my eyes.
—It’ll be great, he said.
The name was suddenly there, lit and throbbing.
—Who’s Frank S. Nugent?
—Writer, he said.—A damn good one.
—His name’s on the script.
—A formality.
—Fuck that, I said.—What’s that mean?
—It’s about credit, said Ford.—The Writers’ Guild. Frank was the last guy to work on the script, so his name goes on the front page. That’s how it works. But it’s just the working draft. We’ll sort it out. Your name will be there with his, up on the silver screen.
Each word was the blade of a shovel. He was digging himself out of a hole. He was acting again. He’d forgotten about the new name on the front page.
—Frank tidied it up, he said.—He did a good job. You read it, right?
—Some of it.
—Most of it.
—Yeah.
—On the plane.
—Yeah.
—Yeah, that’s Frank. He tidies up.
All references to the war and to the I.R.A. had gone. The Seán in the picture wasn’t a kid of the Dublin streets, and all the killings had became one big punch in a boxing ring. The tommy gun had come off the bike, and the bike had become a Protestant vicar’s tandem. He’d tidied up alright.
—Is he here? I asked.
—Frank?
—Yeah.
—No, he said.—I don’t allow the writers near the set. They get upset.
—What about me?
—You’re different, Henry, he said.—I need you. You’re my I.R.A. consultant.
—You took the I.R.A. out.
—I’m putting them back in. We don’t want to waste all of those trenchcoats.
I was pulled between fury and sleep. I counted to three.
—No more messing, I said.
—Great.
The old trickster was back beside me on the bed. I wanted to kill him again. And he wanted that - I could feel it and smell it in the cockiness beside me. He even put his hands behind his head.
I didn’t touch him.
I wasn’t going to find out. I could torture him and kill him very slowly, but he was never going to tell me. Because he didn’t know why he did what he did, made pictures, once or twice a year. There was the finance, the pressures but, really, he wouldn’t have been able to tell me. He was just making a picture.
I could feel it in the bedsprings; he’d calmed down. He’d be up again, play-acting, if I asked him another question. So I didn’t.
We lay there. We didn’t sleep and we didn’t talk. We didn’t budge. He sighed occasionally, like a man looking back at something good. And that was all. The light from outside crawled across the curtains. I heard feet, more feet, movement from below and above. The birds outside were breaking up the night.
A hand outside turned the doorknob.
—Mister Ford?
The hand turned the knob again, tried to twist it further. The other hand knocked, softly.
—Mister Ford?
The next knock was firmer.
—Mister Ford?
—What?
He spoke to the ceiling.
—Your door’s locked, sir.
—That’s right.
—Your coffee, sir.
—Don’t want it.
—Mister Ford?
The voice belonged to a posh culchie, probably the butler I’d hidden from earlier, wrapping up his shift by delivering the great man’s coffee.
—What? said Ford.
He still hadn’t moved.
—Are you alright, sir?
—Yeah, said Ford.
—Should I call someone?
—No, said Ford.—I’m fine. I just don’t need the coffee.
He didn’t have to shout.
—I’ll go, so, said the butler.
—Right, said Ford.
I listened to the feet; I hadn’t heard them coming. It was the same guy, the same clip. Some doctor’s son, the black sheep, who’d done his stint in the R.A.F. or the British Army. He was gone.
—The coffee’s shit in this country, said Ford.
It was full day out there now. There’d soon be Yanks knocking hard on his door.
—I’m sorry, Henry, he said.
I moved my head now; I looked at him.
—You said you weren’t going to apologise.
—And you said you didn’t want my fucking apology. I’m not apologising.
—What then?
—I’m sorry you’re like this, you feel like this.
—Fuck off.
I put my hands behind my head and my fingers reminded me that they were broken.
—Shite!
—You need them looked at?
—No, I said.—I’m grand.
—The last of the rebels.
He wasn’t slagging; I could hear it there, respect, and even envy.
—What about your neck? I said.
—I’m fine.
—The hard man.
I felt his smile in the springs beneath me.
—I can see it, you know, he said.—How I fucked up. I can see why you’d see it that way.
He nudged my side.
—But, you know, he said.—There’s something else.
There were important feet coming our way.
—Wingate, said Ford.
His brother-in-law.
The feet stopped; the fist started.
—Pappy?
—Here we go, said Ford.—What?
—All set?
—Yeah.
He started to get up; he groaned and so did the mattress.
—I’ll need my glasses, Henry. I can direct blind but I have to deal with Technicolor here.
—Who’s in there with you?
—No one.
—You’re talking to someone, said Wingate Smith.
Ford lay back down.
—I’ve changed my mind, he told me - he whispered.
Smith could still hear him.
—What?
He tried the lock; he shook the door.
—Win, listen, said Ford.—Leave the door alone. Are you listening?
—Yeah.
—Great, okay. So, listen. I feel like shit. Fever or something. Flu. I can’t make it today.
—I’ll get a doctor—
—No, said Ford.—No doctor. Listen, Win.
There was silence outside.
—Still there?
—Of course, I’m fucking here, said Smith.—I’m getting you a fucking doctor.
—Win.
—What?
—Listen.
—Pappy? You been at the fucking sauce?
I got the glasses out of my pocket and handed them to Ford, but he didn’t seem to see them. He was gazing up at the ceiling. His glasses were in my good hand, four inches from his face.
—Okay, Win. Now listen. You know the rule about me and the booze and work. Ever known me to break it?
—No.
—I feel like shit. I’ll just stay here for today and I’ll feel significantly less like shit by tonight. And tomorrow morning you’ll be outside that door again and I’ll feel just great.What we got scheduled for today?
—Why is the door locked?
—I guess that’s because I don’t want you to come in. So, I’ll say it again. What we got scheduled for today?
—Same as yesterday, Smith shouted.—The horse race on that beach.
—Let Duke do it.
—Duke?
—He wants to direct his own pictures. Here’s his chance. Let him see how easy it is.
—I’ll get a doctor.
—Get yourself an air ticket while you’re at it, said Ford.—You hear that?
There were more feet outside now - three more men and a little woman - and a lot of urgent whispering.
—I heard, said Smith.
—Great. Get Duke.
—Duke’s gone. Will I bring him back?
—No. Just tell him. Tell him he’s ready. Tell him I say so. You still standing there?
—Yes.
—I’m fine, Win. I just need a rest. Tell the hotel to stay away.
—You want some water?
—What the fuck would I do with water? Go on. And I don’t want to see you on a ladder at the window. You’ll see me tonight. Go on.
Smith moved, and stopped. The other feet moved, kept moving, including Meta Sterne’s. But Smith hesitated.
—Still there, Win? said Ford.
—No.
—Go, goddammit.
I heard him hurry down the corridor and onto the stairs.
—I got the day off, Henry, said Ford.
He took the glasses from me and put them on but he still looked at the ceiling.
I stopped looking at him. I put my broken hand on my chest.
He was awake when I woke. The light had shifted. I’d been asleep for an hour and a half. And he was exactly where I’d left him.
—I’m going to move now, Henry, he said.
—Alright.
—I knew you’d tear my throat open if I moved while you were out for the count. So, I’m standing up and I’m going to the john over there. I’ll be shutting the door but I won’t lock it.
—Fair enough.
—Great, he said.—I’m going to wash some of this mess off my face. I haven’t seen it but my guess is I’m a mess.
—You don’t look too bad.
—Fuck you.
He groaned as he rose. He rubbed his neck, the first time he’d acknowledged any pain. His feet were on the floor and he sat for a while with his back to me. He coughed, as if testing his pipes. He stood.
I watched him shut the jacks door. I saw the mirror, and the window. I’d never seen that before, a jacks tucked inside the room, another little room, a cell. With a good-sized window.
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