The Holy City (21 page)

— Hey! I laughed, helpless, it's 1969 and all of you are welcome to the show of the decade. We present:
It's C.J.!

Now what would that be like, I paused to wonder as I continued to sidestep the sharp chunks of shale. With xylophone arpeggios chiming in a parade of miniskirted dancers as an enormous series of giant
It's C.J.!
polystyrene letters were spectacularly unveiled as showers of multicoloured confetti fell to the ground, the strains of the music becoming out of control as he stepped in from the wings — Marcus Otoyo in his Foster Grant sunglasses, blowing a mischievous kiss from his lace-cuffed hand.

— What a crazy guy! I laughed. He's a real gone kook!

When all of a sudden, stimulated by a glint of sunlight leaping from the stones, the loveliest little story entered my mind, like a glimpse of entirely unexpected treasure. One which I remembered in from my schooldays.

‘The Golden Windows', that story was called and it told the tale of a young boy who long ago had lived in a lonely mountain valley. And who, after months of nervous apprehension, had eventually decided to make the trip across the unknown terrain of his mountain valley to investigate the mystery of the shining golden window, whose panes of amber had for so long transfixed him. To his dismay, then discovering, after he had completed his arduous journey, that the very windows he had so desired were in every conceivable way as unremarkable as those familiar from his own humble cottage. Even yet I could remember the burden of his disappointment. And I prayed that my story wouldn't end in such a fashion.

As I approached the greenhouse, already I could make out the figure of Evelyn Dooris, with her small stooped shape bent over some flowers. At first she didn't react when she saw that it was me. Standing beside her, holding the torn package, somewhat vacantly, in my hand.

—I don't know why you're here, she said, returning to her labours. There wouldn't be any eggs a-wanting here.

It was beautiful, really, that little greenhouse: the Holy of Holies. There were candles and little vases and a lovely little makeshift altar: a china bowl with primroses inside and a printed card edged in gold which read:
Blessed Martin de Porres. Petition the Pope for his canonisation.

Evelyn's manner was curt, a trifle impatient. Eventually she turned to face me.

— Well, what have you to say? Can't you see that I'm busy? How can I help you, Mr McCool?

— No matter what Marcus Otoyo might tell you, Evelyn, it isn't true. I just wanted you to know that.

She paid me little heed: even seemed aggrieved.

— What has Marcus Otoyo got to do with me? He doesn't come out here any more. He says it's childish. He's changed, if you must know — even ignores me now when he sees me. So I don't know what you're talking about. And, to be perfectly honest, I don't really care. So, if you don't mind — I'm busy. I've things to do.

— I just want you to tell him, I began once more, taking her gently by the arm. Can't you just tell him that he misunderstood. I just wanted to give him this, that's all. That's all — there's nothing else. I hope you understand that.

She shrugged again and went back to her seedlings.

Before I knew it I had torn the package open and handed the book to her. The blue cover of the treasury shone in the sunlight:
A Child's Garden of Verses.

— I don't want it, she said. I'll be taking away all this stuff now. I'm finished here. And I won't be coming back.

As I left the Holy of Holies that day, no matter how I might try to emulate Henry Thornton, my eyes continued to savagely burn. And it seemed that, no matter how manly and self-possessed my endeavours might have been in the beginning, ultimately I failed hopelessly in my efforts to dispatch those encroaching, overpowering odours — the aura of those perfumes, the evanescent aromas of the primroses and other blooms. Which she tended so lovingly she might
have been a woman far in advance of her tender years — an experienced handmaid.

The intelligence which she had, quite indifferently, imparted:

— Marcus and I, we're not friends any more.

All the more wrenching for its glazed abstraction.

I recalled how pale she had looked as she'd said it and I was sorry for ever having gone out there at all.

What I find most rewarding about life in general, as I review them now, all sixty-seven years that have thus far been allotted to me, is that the common fear that after incidents of severe trauma and upset we might never be returned to ‘normality' — that blithe, blissful state — is entirely without foundation. However understandable such a perception might be. Indeed, and for quite some considerable time, this was the conclusion I had reached myself.

I had been aware, of course, for some time that Vesna had been exhibiting certain signs of unease and discomfort. Not to put too fine a point on it, she had begun to seem very unhappy indeed. But it was only when the late-night sobbing started that I found myself becoming really seriously concerned.

— What's all this about, Vesna? I demanded to know. Are you not happy being married any more?

Receiving little satisfaction, I'm afraid, in spite of patient, tactful appeals. The result being, unfortunately, the development of a number of public confrontations. Which were extremely unpleasant, I am afraid I have to say. And which, as I put it to her plainly, simply could not be permitted to
continue. A rational evaluation, which, happily, she came to understand. Or so she had insisted.

But then, of course, I wouldn't be the first husband to fall victim to credulity, certainly not where one's wife is concerned. The website I'd been accessing (
Perfidia.com
) had made specific reference to the enduringly hopeless innocence of men in this regard — how easily they are hoodwinked by wives and cheating girlfriends. However, aware of this as I might have been, at no time did it ever occur to me that Vesna would turn out to be so disappointingly
guileful.
For I really can think of no other way of putting it.

Even yet I find it hard to accept. I mean, ending your partner's life — it's not something you take lightly.

What happened was this: we'd been down in Mood Indigo and had had ourselves a rare old time. I'd even go so far as to say it was the best night we'd had down there in a year. There had been standing room only and the Chordettes had acquitted themselves magnificently, as usual. With Mike concluding the evening with a swirling virtuoso solo on the Hammond and Fat Curly bidding us all a ‘hearty goodnight'. Waving his chequered hat as he called out after us as we made our departure:

— Och come on, me auld muckers! Surely youse have to laugh!

I hadn't seen Vesna in such good form for ages. Why, it was as if we'd never had so much as a disagreement in our lives. Which explains — at least I hope so — why I was so devastated, when eventually I discovered the blood-chilling truth.

What annoyed me more than anything was that the two of them had obviously been planning it for months. That I had made it so easy for them, in not suspecting the slightest thing. Not even when I heard the metal grate shifting and the first muffled whispers in behind the ventilation grid. The purpose of which was — to distract me, of course. And to provide Vesna with the opportunity she required. To divert my attention for those first few vital moments, when — ever so slyly — she could make her way down the stairs. With but one single motive in mind — that of committing the basest of sins.

Except, like in so many of these cases, the best-laid plans …

When, having established beyond doubt that the ventilation grid gave no cause for concern, I found myself, literally, stuck fast to the spot. As I realised that, not only had the bedclothes been seriously disturbed, but that Vesna, my wife, was nowhere to be seen. It was at that point I overheard the tinkle of suppressed laughter, intermittently drifting through the floorboards from downstairs. I steeled myself.

But nothing could have prepared me for the scene I was about to encounter.

I couldn't believe it when I saw Marcus Otoyo — his jaws rotating as he chatted away casually, as if he'd known her all his life. Vesna, of course, was hanging on his every word.

It soon became apparent that not a single detail of my life story was to be omitted. He was even telling her about the visit to Ethel's. Describing how I'd jammed my foot in the front door, demanding a private recital of hymns.

— Yes, he continued, the unfortunate lady, can you imagine? Sitting in her lap! A grown man wanting such a thing?

It was more than I could bear, as my knuckles whitened around my meerschaum cane.

And thus he got his just deserts. Before, tremblingly, I turned my attentions towards his associate — now crouching pitiably by the wall, imploring clemency. But it had gone too far for that. And I did not stop trouncing her with my cane until finally, regrettably, my partner was entirely lifeless.

As I'm sure you can imagine, it was an extremely painful and difficult period of our lives for both Vesna and me. But, as is always the case, in any marriage of any worth, there are very few problems which cannot, somehow, eventually be resolved, and suffice to say that that is what happened. With no further secrets remaining in the Happy Club, and that is the way, without a doubt, it's going to stay. Why, in bed only last evening, I even read out the letter to my spouse, the ‘sacred' missive to Dolores from ‘her lover', the one I'd removed from her handbag that night.

— Listen to this, Vesna! I laughed heartily, snuggling up beside her, the bloody old envelope that caused all the heartache — I mean, can you believe it?

I cleared my throat and smoothed out the pages, chuckling a little as I read:

Love's City:

— Ariadne my beloved, my precious, how my heart aches and
longs for you these past few nights. Since last we met there have been nothing but fond thoughts of you in my mind. There are times when I fear I shall lose my reason, so intense are the feelings my soul harbours for you. I can find no name for them save those of wounded pride, fallen hope and baffled desire. I love you, Dobres — be assured of that. Yours for ever,
Marcus Minor

Which was hilarious from start to finish, or so it seemed to me. Except that, when I looked up, I discovered that Vesna wasn't laughing. Instead, pale as a sheet, was pointing over towards one corner of the room. To where, beside the opened ventilation space, Little Tristram Thornton, in height no bigger than the average jam-jar, to my astonishment, was sucking his thumb and perusing his golden treasury. Before naively looking up, then shrieking like a flock of jackdaws vacating the Thornton Manor treetops:

— C.J. Pops has been tricked again! C.J. Pops has been tricked again!

As, in mortal dread, I turned my head towards the bed once again, finding there not Vesna Krapotnik, or anyone like her. But in her place a complete stranger, resting his chin upon a cane, eyeing me with a chill, mute poise: the stark orb of his head void — white and virginal — as perfectly formed as a consecrated bread.

PATRICK MCCABE
was born in Clones, Co. Monaghan, Ireland in 1955. His novels include
Cam; The Dead School, The Butcher Boy,
winner of the
Irish Times/Aer
Lingus Literature Prize, shortlisted for the 1992 Booker Prize and made into a highly acclaimed film directed by Neil Jordan;
Breakfast on Pluto,
also shortlisted for the Booker Prize; and
Winterwood,
winner of the Irish Novel of the Year 2007. He lives in Clones.

By the Same Author
Cam
The Butcher Boy
The Dead School
Breakfast on Pluto
Mondo Desperado
Emerald Germs of Ireland
Call Me the Breeze
Winterwood

First published in Great Britain 2009

Copyright © 2009 by Patrick McCabe

This electronic edition published 2011 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

Extracts from
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
by James Joyce are reproduced by kind permission of the Estate of James Joyce

The right of Patrick McCabe to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

All rights reserved. You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 36 Soho Square, London W1D 3QY

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 978 1 4088 0643 2

www.bloomsbury.com/patrickmccabe

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