tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-221178022024-03-14T06:12:59.227+01:00Shameless WordsS. Kearneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03976476273818980832noreply@blogger.comBlogger307125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22117802.post-47918170122641893872013-10-27T02:11:00.000+02:002017-07-24T17:27:03.607+02:00A favourite story ... <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
A mighty thump, followed by the sound of scattering debris. Zaki knew straight away that another mortar had slammed into the nearby bear’s enclosure, the fifth late afternoon intrusion in less than two weeks. He held his breath, but nothing happened. No bursting in anger? A dud like the others? Thank goodness for the incompetence of those young fools!<br />
<br />
The only warning in Kabul’s autumn sky had been a whistling sound, almost tuneful, which in happier times would’ve easily been mistaken for a zoo keeper in a pleasant mood, perhaps someone remembering an old love song. What would it take to bring back those glorious days, when families could walk freely through the grounds?<br />
<br />
Zaki crawled out of his hiding place. He moved slowly, careful not to go too far out into the open, but enough to be able to get a clear view and assess the danger. He’d been in the middle of his prayers when the mortar fell and he wondered if that’s what had saved them. Then he remembered that at the moment of impact he’d actually been momentarily distracted from his prayers, wondering if anyone else in the world had ever been forced to live in a hole in the ground. <br />
<br />
The mortar was grey and shiny like a large beetle. It had smashed a piece off the top of the enclosure’s back wall and then rolled in behind a log. What Zaki found amazing was that the racket hadn’t roused the bear from her slumber. ‘It’s going to be fine,’ he whispered to his friend, trying not to stretch up too high in case someone spotted him. He knew the words were more for himself. ‘I’ll come over in the safety of the night, when the gates are closed and no one can see me. Stay asleep and keep dreaming of our better days.’ He held out his cold, blistered hand and blew his friend a kiss. <br />
<br />
Zaki’s hiding place was a simple underground chamber at the end of a narrow dirt tunnel, just below a fence that surrounded part of the enclosure. Wooden bins, which once overflowed with grain and slops for the animals, partly covered a small grill that opened above his head. The base of a large mulberry tree also provided extra protection, keeping the confines of the tunnel in constant darkness. He called it his “royal palace”.<br />
<br />
He settled back down on his sheepskin rug, still damp from a downpour the week before, and closed his eyes. ‘Don’t go sniffing, my dear friend. Please don’t go sniffing. The beetle may look interesting, but it’s actually very nasty.’ He could only hope that the bear’s injured nose would stop her from exploring too far. <br />
<br />
As he waited for Kabul’s orange moon to make an appearance, he prepared the long, brittle twigs he would need to remove the danger. He knew he wouldn’t be able to get any sleep, despite a tiredness that was trying to choke him to death. Stray dogs also continued to yelp, and the gunpowder on the wind was starting to sting his nostrils with increasing ferocity. <br />
<br />
He finished his prayers and then ate a piece of the stale bread he’d earlier managed to salvage from outside one of the keepers’ huts. Crumbs got lost in his knotted beard of grey and brown, but he made no attempt to retrieve them. There was no one to be tidy for now. Just the animals. <br />
<br />
He was also pleased to discover that a decent amount of water had dripped into his rusty mug, having followed the clever river beds he’d cut into the mulberry tree with his pocket knife. He lay back and dreamed he was sucking the soft flesh from the inside of a mango. He left it sitting on his tongue. The sensation of a real, fresh mouthful.<br />
<br />
It wasn’t long before he wondered whether he’d made the right decision to wait for nightfall. What if his friend woke up and really did go prying behind the log? Would it not be better to take a risk now, despite the daylight? He sat on his hands and prayed for an answer. Nothing came, though. He remained where he was, the whole time urging the sun to fall faster from the sky. <br />
<br />
The temptation of pilaf then drifted in from the run-down homes nearby, a dish that 20 neighbours had probably chipped in to make. Divine smells for impoverished noses. Zaki could make out chicken, yoghurt and raisins, which reminded him of the three years he spent as the chef in a warlord’s residence. Perhaps someone had a bottle of something strong as well, something the soldiers hadn’t been able to seek out. <br />
<br />
He thought back to the days before the troubles: before the Russians, before the Taliban, before ‘America’s worst nightmare’, as he’d heard someone describe it on the radio. Would he ever again enjoy a pilaf picnic under the lush mulberry groves outside of Kabul? Would the roads ever be lined again with handsome, leafy trees? Would the children ever be truly free to sing and skylark like they used to? <br />
<br />
Someone said the Americans were close to the capital and it might only be a matter of days before they conquered the entire country. What would that mean? Did Americans treasure animals, or was it true what they said on the radio? Just in front of the enclosure the day before, he’d overheard a couple of Taliban soldiers talking about their ‘losing battle’. They’d leaned against the bins and rubbed their feet with some of the balms they’d ransacked from the animal clinic. They hadn’t thought to look for Zaki there beneath the mulberry tree. They’d been searching everywhere, hauling in the keepers to help, knowing it hadn’t been a clever monkey throwing rocks at their comrades the week before. Zaki smiled when he thought about how he’d managed to hit a fat soldier on the head from a great distance, making him dance around madly with his hands on his head. <br />
<br />
The bear shifted in her shelter, making groaning sounds, most likely caused by hunger. No sound was more agonising to listen to. He put his head up against the grill and whispered, straining his eyes to see if he could make out her worn black coat. ‘Just don’t go near the log, you crazy big lump. It’s not long to wait now.’ <br />
<br />
Vehicles could still be heard on the other side of the zoo and he knew he couldn’t risk going out into the open, not until he was certain the front gates were closed. Too many battle-weary Taliban, some as young as 16, had been regularly coming into the grounds to use the water fountains and shower in the old elephant house. Why couldn’t they just wash and leave? Why did they have to hassle the remaining animals, already malnourished and miserable? <br />
<br />
What kind of man would bait a gorgeous, innocent bear by getting up dangerously close - an act of bravado in front of his friends - and then cut off a slice of the animal’s nose in revenge for the inevitable scratches? With people like that about, Zaki knew he had to wait for total darkness before venturing out of his hole.<br />
<br />
In a letter to his mother, Zaki said throwing rocks at the Taliban soldiers and the guards of warlords was the very least he could do to protest against the terrible things he'd witnessed. As well as being angry about the bear’s nose, he was bitter about the injuries inflicted on Marjan, the greatest lion in the world, who’d lost an eye and part of his mouth when he tossed around something he probably took to be a toy or piece of strange food. The object turned out to be another nasty beetle, a grenade, this one more than willing to express the anger of the sender. The attack had been another act of revenge, carried out by the brother of a man mauled to death after foolishly climbing into Marjan’s enclosure. <br />
<br />
Zaki, a grown man of 50 winters, described in his letter how he’d wept when he helped the keepers and a couple of other visitors rush Marjan over to the zoo’s deprived medical clinic. Everything possible was done to try to help, but nothing had been able to fix the damage. As well as losing an eye and his hearing, Marjan lost the teeth he needed for chewing. Someone had to help, and that’s when Zaki decided to secretly dedicate his days to the animals' well-being.<br />
<br />
‘Our country’s curse of conflict’, he told his mother, ‘has not even spared these fine creatures who know nothing of the grievances. I have decided to live among them, as their guardian angel. I prefer their company to that of people.’ <br />
<br />
Two of the zoo’s most popular animals had been injured for the first time in years of conflict. Zaki hadn’t wept like that when news came through that some of his old school friends had been killed in military action. This new grief was over something far more profound: the future of his entire people, his entire culture.<br />
<br />
He wondered whether his letter and the terrible story it contained ever got through to his mother, who’d been forced to go and live with her sister in the city of Ghazni. He’d placed his trust in a young Pakistani woodman who often took the trade route from Kabul to Kandahar. That had been weeks before, though, and he had no way of knowing if the letter had actually been delivered. <br />
<br />
* * *<br />
<br />
Zaki woke to the sound of scraping. He was surprised to learn that he’d actually managed to fall asleep, but then saw that he’d accidentally rolled over and snapped the long twigs he’d put aside. He retied his headscarf and pulled his coat tightly around his thin frame. Had his friend discovered the grey menace? Was she nudging it, and wondering why it wasn’t reacting?<br />
<br />
He crawled out of the tunnel and hurried along to the enclosure on his hands and knees, the whole time checking the dusty paths nearby, just in case he’d missed the sound of soldiers.<br />
<br />
‘Zaki?’<br />
<br />
The voice came from behind. He dared not look around. The moon, now rising, seemed to be shining down just on him, as bright as the spotlight in the local square.<br />
<br />
‘Zaki, you old camel! Don’t panic. It’s just me.’<br />
<br />
‘You!’ He jumped up and hugged the Pakistani woodman, who seemed much lankier than he remembered. ‘I thought you were a soldier.’ <br />
<br />
The woodman grinned and handed over a parcel. ‘The dried fruit and canned fish you asked for, as well as a small amount of tobacco.’ <br />
<br />
‘You scared me.’ <br />
<br />
‘But I also have some bad news.’ The woodman turned his head away. <br />
<br />
‘Bad news? What could possibly get any worse?’<br />
<br />
‘Your mother.’<br />
<br />
Zaki closed his eyes. ‘Did she not get my letter?’<br />
<br />
‘No, I have it here.’ <br />
<br />
‘But she is in Ghazni?’<br />
<br />
‘They said they waited for days but she never arrived.’<br />
<br />
Zaki sat down heavily on the dust, his legs folding up as though he were beginning a traditional dance. He put his head right down, almost onto his stomach.<br />
<br />
Neither man spoke. One seated, the other standing up. Silence. The moon bright. The wind starting to stir the dust on the paths.<br />
<br />
After a while Zaki lifted his head and said, ‘A mortar may explode. In there with our friend. I have to protect her. I can’t lose her too.’<br />
<br />
They both found some new twigs and then worked for an hour in silence, slowly coaxing the stubborn beetle out of a groove in the frozen soil. They prayed as they manoeuvred, hoping that the device’s inner workings had somehow been damaged and made useless. Zaki felt as if his breathing were as shallow as that of a toad-headed lizard and he may actually faint from the lack of oxygen. Concentration. Deep concentration. Both men sweated profusely, despite the cold. They kept their eyes on the beetle, willing it with all of their force to stay asleep. <br />
<br />
The woodman asked, ‘Is this American, or from the Taliban?’<br />
<br />
‘The Americans aren’t upon us yet, so it must be from our poor soldiers, mere babies, still practising how it’s done, still working out the distances, how to target them.’<br />
<br />
‘They choose the zoo for target practice?’<br />
<br />
Zaki frowned. ‘I like to think it’s not deliberate, but one has to wonder.’ <br />
<br />
Just as the bear began to groan again, perhaps threatening to start crawling in search of food, they gently rolled the beetle out of the enclosure and onto the dirt. ‘If it wanted to explode it would’ve done so by now,’ said Zaki.<br />
<br />
They were still there. In one piece. They said quick prayers and beamed at each other. They walked in wide circles, breathing deeply, furiously rubbing their hands together to try to warm them up. Zaki attached a long piece of twine around the tail of the beetle. Then, after measuring out what he thought to be a reasonably safe distance, he dragged it delicately towards his hidden collection of unexploded and exploded munitions. He had about a dozen mortars and grenades, plus the spent shells from smaller arms. He’d moved them all into a shallow hole and covered them over with sticks and leaves. <br />
<br />
‘It’s what I’ve collected over the months,’ he said. ‘Strays that’ve come in here, that I’ve found out in the streets, as well as what I’ve confiscated from those who shouldn’t have that kind of power in their hands.’ <br />
<br />
‘You’re going to blow yourself up.’ The woodman laughed up into the sky. ‘They could explode at any minute.’<br />
<br />
‘Better to kill me than the animals.’<br />
<br />
‘What’s so special about them?’<br />
<br />
Zaki groaned as he put more leaves over his munitions dump. ‘What’s so special about us that they should die instead?’<br />
<br />
‘You crazy old camel.’ The woodman settled down on a tree stump.<br />
<br />
‘They represent the spirit of this country,’ said Zaki. ‘They live, we all live. Now, stop making so much noise and help me collect some meat for Marjan and the others.’<br />
<br />
‘Don’t the keepers feed them?’<br />
<br />
‘They do their best but they’re no longer paid. They can hardly feed themselves.’<br />
<br />
The woodman retied his headscarf, using one end of it to wipe away the sweat on his neck. He grinned, flashing three tiny teeth. ‘Where’s your stash of meat then? Who has anything spare these days?’<br />
<br />
‘There are people who still have too much. There always is, even in times of conflict. They don’t even know it’s missing.’<br />
<br />
The two men crept along in the shadows to the zoo’s perimeter and then effortlessly scaled one of the stone walls, climbing up the long, flowing branches of a willow tree. They made their way to a nearby butcher’s shop, where sacks of meat were always left in an unlocked shed, ready for delivery to those who could still afford it. <br />
<br />
‘I did look for her,’ said the woodman, ‘as much as I could. I asked around about her. I tried to follow up any leads.’<br />
<br />
‘Thank you. I appreciate that.’<br />
<br />
‘You know, she may’ve ...’<br />
<br />
Zaki stopped and took hold of the woodman’s hand. ‘We need to be quiet now. The people around here are very alert to strange sounds in the night.’<br />
<br />
Zaki emerged from the shed with two large packets of meat and handed one of them to the woodman. Half way back to the zoo, he said, ‘These smelt the worst. It’s probably a tough old goat that no one wanted and now it’s not fresh enough to sell.’<br />
<br />
He explained to the woodman how he had to use his pocket knife to cut the meat up into very small pieces for Marjan, to make it easier for him to eat.<br />
<br />
Then, just as they approached the section of the wall they needed to climb back over, the light from a torch further down the road sought them out, with the sound of somebody running towards them. ‘Stay there! Kneel down on the ground!’<br />
<br />
Zaki and the woodman fell to their knees, pushing the packages of meat behind their backs. A young Taliban soldier, who appeared to be alone, shone the torch in their eyes and kicked the packets to the ground. A rifle hung from his shoulder.<br />
<br />
‘We are just returning to the zoo,’ said Zaki, fixing his eyes on the dirt in front of him. ‘It’s meat for the animals. We’re keepers at the zoo. We have no other business in the street.’<br />
<br />
‘Why have you not taken up arms, to fight off the Americans?’ asked the soldier. ‘What could be more important than that?’ <br />
<br />
Zaki looked up into the light, disturbed by the small gasps of fear coming from the woodman. ‘The animals need to stay strong so our children can enjoy them again, when the zoo reopens in all its former glory. Do you not pray for such a day?’<br />
<br />
The soldier spat some chewing tobacco onto the ground. ‘You’re a liar! There are no animals left in the zoo.’ <br />
<br />
‘There are not many,’ said Zaki, ‘but I swear there are still a few. Marjan the lion is still alive. The bear. Some wolves. A few others.’<br />
<br />
‘Marjan? He’s still alive? After that attack?’<br />
<br />
‘He was badly injured but he is still with us.’<br />
<br />
The soldier’s face relaxed and he almost smiled. ‘I remember visiting Marjan when I was a boy. I thought he’d been killed.’<br />
<br />
‘He is very much alive,’ said Zaki, discreetly taking the woodman’s hand to stop him from crying.<br />
<br />
The soldier inspected the packages, but moved back quickly because of the foul smell. ‘You ought to find some fresher food for someone as great as Marjan.’ He switched off the torch and left, leaving the two men on their knees, hugging each other in shock.<br />
<br />
The fear stayed with them, deep in their gut, until they later came face to face with Marjan. They sat and watched the animal’s forlorn face begin to sparkle with the promise of a midnight feast.<br />
<br />
* * *<br />
<br />
The Americans seemed to think that any number of creatures could be living in Zaki’s long beard and so they made obvious efforts to avoid close contact. ‘We need you to come with us,’ said one of the soldiers, not seeming to care that Zaki didn’t understand English. They took him by the arm, but he noticed their touch was a lot more delicate than usual.<br />
<br />
They led him from his cell, down the long, familiar corridors, towards the captain he despised, the one who wouldn’t believe him, who continued to insist that he must be an enemy, a fighter, a hurter of people. A beating this time? Zaki prepared himself for more ridiculous questions, hours of misunderstanding, with mediocre translators who didn’t seem to be getting his story across to the Americans.<br />
<br />
He’d told the same story to a different translator just a few days before, an elderly woman who’d presented herself as the wife of a university professor from Jalalabad. He’d repeated, for what seemed to be the 100th time, that he’d lived in the zoo in a secret tunnel for months, acting as the animals’ protector and feeder, collecting meat for them during the night. He totally denied the charges being alleged. He’d looked up at the woman as she repeated his words in English, praying that she would get them right and he could be released. The woman’s pale, round face and long lashes reminded him of his dear mother. <br />
<br />
Zaki had repeated his story about Marjan, the bear, the tunnel, his simple existence under the light of the moon, his relief that the animals hadn’t been harmed when the American, British and Northern Alliance soldiers arrived. He’d explained how he had no choice but to stay on in his hiding place because he wanted to be sure the animals would continue to be looked after. He’d also been too afraid to learn the fate of his mother. <br />
<br />
It had all seemed to be just wasted words, however. The captain kept saying that Zaki had failed to properly explain his 'nice little bomb factory', or why he’d been found hiding from them, or why he hadn’t surrendered the moment Kabul fell. The captain kept insisting that Zaki must have been a senior member of the Taliban. It seemed he would stay in his cell until he confessed. No confession, no freedom.<br />
<br />
Now, though, things seemed to be different. Zaki stood once again in front of the captain, with the same elderly woman translator seated across the room. He saw that a pot of mint tea had been prepared. The captain came around from behind his desk and actually offered him a cup, seeming to smile. Zaki cautiously sipped. Something was up. <br />
<br />
The captain spoke and then turned to the translator. <br />
<br />
‘He says we have some good news,’ she said. <br />
<br />
The captain put his arm around Zaki’s shoulder and continued talking. <br />
<br />
‘Some witnesses have corroborated your story. They have come forward to attest to your innocence.’ The translator grinned excitedly.<br />
<br />
Zaki was worried that she’d got the words wrong again. He looked back at the captain, but he only nodded. <br />
<br />
‘You are free to go home,’ said the translator, tears building up in her eyes.<br />
<br />
Zaki trembled as he quietly asked, ‘But who came forward, after all this time?’<br />
<br />
The captain offered Zaki a chair. He explained through the translator that the zoo's fragile lion had died, just weeks after being visited by veterinary experts from the West.<br />
<br />
Zaki stared straight ahead. He couldn't blink.<br />
<br />
The keepers and officials who’d gathered for Marjan’s memorial service had got to hear about the arrest within the zoo's grounds. When the military showed them Zaki's photo, they recognised him as someone who’d been there to help on the day the lion had been injured. Then, during further investigation, other pieces of favourable evidence emerged. <br />
<br />
‘Who killed him? Who killed our great Marjan, our last hope?’ Zaki slipped out of his chair, wheezing and curling into himself. <br />
<br />
The captain’s words took a while to be translated, with the elderly woman sobbing and trying to comfort Zaki at the same time. ‘It was old age. No one killed him. He wasn’t in the best of shape with his old injuries ... but he’d already reached a very fine age.’<br />
<br />
Zaki stopped crying as the words began to make more sense. Old age? Not by a nasty beetle? Not by an evil man? He closed his eyes and tried to think more clearly about what he’d heard. The departure he and Marjan had prayed for. He pictured the lion closing his eyes and taking his last breath serenely, extinguished by nothing more than old age.<br />
<br />
Zaki held onto the woman’s arm and put his head against her thigh. ‘And the bear. What’s happened to my beautiful friend?’<br />
<br />
The captain said he knew for a fact that she was fine and had been given the name Donatella. She’d begun treatment for the injuries to her nose and the prognosis was excellent. The captain repeated the phrases three times. He even put a hand on Zaki’s shoulder and gently squeezed. <br />
<br />
It took Zaki a good 20 minutes before he could stand. He thanked the woman translator for her 'beautiful choice of words' and shook the captain’s hand. He also quietly said a prayer for Marjan, acknowledging his help in winning his release. He turned to the captain before leaving his office and said, ‘Dying of old age is something we should all be able to look forward to.’ He smiled and bowed. <br />
<br />
Outside the army compound, the air seemed to have a fresher scent to it. He spent a few minutes watching a group of children laugh and chase one another, and then he wondered which direction he should take. He thought about the hole in the ground, but figured that would’ve already been filled in. <br />
<br />
He couldn’t get the image of Marjan out of his head. He also pictured Donatella, lying back and resting, comforted by medication. Just as he decided to shuffle off down a track to his left, realising it didn’t really matter which direction he chose, he looked up and spotted a tall solitary figure by an old cart. He struggled to make out the face.<br />
<br />
‘Zaki, you old camel!’ The woodman rushed over, grinning and waving madly. ‘I’m glad they finally believed us.’<br />
<br />
Zaki could hardly speak. His lips trembled. ‘You’ve been waiting for me?’<br />
<br />
‘We have a long journey to Ghazni ahead of us,’ said the woodman. ‘There is hope, my friend. We have some positive news to chase up.’<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
© Copyright, 2008. Seamus Kearney. "The Midnight Keeper"<br />
(This short story was inspired by the true story of Marjan the lion, who was injured in the zoo at Kabul during the rule of the Taliban. He died of old age after the arrival of US-led forces. Donatella, the bear, was also an animal at the zoo. But Zaki and his personal story are purely fiction.)S. Kearneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03976476273818980832noreply@blogger.com38tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22117802.post-9309753468218245242013-06-23T18:28:00.002+02:002013-06-23T18:38:52.712+02:00A New Short Story<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">More than ten years
in the job and I’d never called in sick. </span>Not once. But last
week I did. It felt utterly exhilarating to lie like that,
knowing that I wasn’t sick in the slightest. Well, I’m sick of
lots of things, but nothing they would happily give me a
day off for. Terrific is what I wanted Judy to shout out. I
wanted her to jump slightly, guffaw and clap at the same time,
like she used to do when something really tickled her. But
no, she just shuffled on down the hallway and turned off all the
lights that I now forget to extinguish on purpose. At least
she didn’t slap me, which has become something of a
regular occurrence. I think she has come to realise that I
would never slap her back.</div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I actually didn’t tell her what I was
planning, but I </span>thought she might guess
in the end. Strangely, I even wondered if she might offer
to accompany me down the coast, and not give me excuses
about migraines, or television shows she couldn’t miss, or
how she had to take some important call from her family. I’d
left the clipping from the paper on the table with a circle
around the name: Doctor P.B. Waverly. I thought she might remember
the stories she used to love to listen to.</div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I bought flowers to take with me, but a lot
of good that </span>was. I saw later in
the death notice that some miserable person had
requested that no flowers be offered. A donation to a charity? But it’s
him I wanted to honour, to buy something nice for, to have
something colourful and sweet-smelling to place on his
coffin. Posting off a cheque to some charity was just simply not the
same.</div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remembered enthralling Judy with my
tales of mowing the </span>lawns for Waverly,
when I was not even 15, with nowhere near enough muscle on my
arms to push a machine that looked more like a steamroller.
He refused to discuss a price when I first knocked on his door
and enquired about a job. He said he would pay from one
weekend to the next, whatever I thought to be the fair price for a
particular day’s work, implying that some days I would
slacken off and others I would be keen and sprightly. Sometimes
I asked for five quid, when the grass was low; other days,
when it seemed like a jungle, I boldly asked for 10, way above
what the other lads in the neighbourhood were getting. But he
always paid, never questioning my price. Once I pushed him
up to 20 quid when the grass was extra long and damp and he’d
left it weeks before calling me up. Sometimes I fibbed
and demanded more than I merited, especially when some
new vinyl just couldn’t be ignored.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Several times, while felling the grass, I caught
sight of </span>him in one of the
upstairs windows, naked and having stand-up sex with someone
who was not his wife. I suspected he deliberately came
close to the window, knowing that I might be watching, as if he
were proud to be showing me how a man should be with a
woman. Once he pushed a lady’s buttocks so forcefully up against
the glass that I feared they might come smashing through.</div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Other times I saw him dancing up there
with his dog, </span>holding her up by her
front paws and really seriously dancing, like with a woman,
bringing her close to him, spinning her around. The dog,
named Sally, had enormous patience for her master; another dog
would’ve bitten off his nose. That was the kind of dog I was
always going to have, with its long, fluffy fur and a wet kiss
on the cheeks for anyone who wanted it. I even started saving
up my pocket money when I was told that a puppy like that didn’t
come cheap. Suffice to say that my Judy refers to dogs of
any nature as stinking mongrels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our Doctor Waverly was a maverick, to
borrow a word from </span>my father. In fact,
my parents asked me more than once whether it was such a good
idea to be working for a man who had such a strange reputation
in the town. There was no way, of course, that I was going to
forfeit my weekly bundle of notes because of some nasty country
gossip. I lied and rigorously defended Waverly, telling my
father that I had never seen anything out of the ordinary.
No, it was malicious to suggest that he took young nurses home
from the hospital when his wife was away delivering meals to
the elderly. And I swore that I’d never seen him dancing
the polka with his collie.</div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Young Simon, he said to me one Saturday (I
never </span>understood why he
thought an adjective was always necessary before my name), what
if I pay you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> to mow the lawns?</div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Not</i>
to mow them?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, who jolly well said that grass
always has to be cut </span>down to nothing?</div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it’ll be messy, I offered, without
even really </span>thinking about it.</div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nonsense. You’re just saying that because
that’s what </span>you’ve heard, what
you’ve learnt, what you’ve been programmed to think. Don’t you
love long grass? Jumping in and rolling around in it?
Losing yourself in it? Taking a girl into it and making her giddy?</div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But everyone mows the lawns.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Which is exactly why we shouldn’t do it!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I’ve been mowing yours for months. You
asked me to.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I did nothing of the sort, dear boy. You
asked <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">me</i> for the </span>job. But I now ask
you this: does it look good to you, so clipped back to the
dirt and without any shape? I’d hoped you might see for
yourself how bad it looks. It’s nothing but conformism (which I
had to look up at home later).</div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I looked out over the lawn but couldn’t
think straight.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let’s just let it grow back now, right up
towards the sun </span>where it’s supposed
to be.</div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I’m out of a job?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rubbish. I’m going to pay you to make sure
that nothing </span>gets lost in it,
that the blades come up free of constraint. You will also pull
out all of those other jealous weeds that might attack on a
side wind.</div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jealous weeds? I did wonder (following
Waverly’s own </span>logic) why the
grass had more of a right over the weeds to reach up towards
the sun. But I just didn’t have the nerve to say it, not when he
was so fired up and talking so fast.</div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You can also help me create a maze that
runs through it, </span>he said. What fun
we’ll all have when it’s finished.</div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I pictured myself with one of the nurses,
being </span>encouraged to strip
off our clothes and run through into the densest part of the
jungle. If only.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the weeks that followed he paid me
exactly what I </span>asked for. I pulled
out weeds that didn’t match the bright blades that grew
higher and higher, and I chucked out lost balls and litter
that swept in from the road – or the things that furious
neighbours tossed over their fences because they couldn’t believe
that someone would leave their front lawn so out of control. I
gave up trying to explain to my parents the change in my
working schedule.</div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those memories made me stand and look out
over what </span>remains of the
garden I created with Judy. What a pity we left everything go to seed
and the grass to become so thin. We’ve gone so crazy on
the mowing that the ground looks like it’s been chopped up by
a plough. No garden, no passion, my gran would always say.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Judy stood over me with a cigarette as I
polished my </span>shoes. She blew smoke
into my face.</div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So you’re taking a day off, she said. Getting
all dressed </span>up in a suit,
driving for five hours and buying expensive roses for some old geezer
you used to mow the lawns for?</div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Exactly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Was this your father then, Simon? Is that
it? You mowed </span>lawns for this old
guy and he turned out to be your real biological father?</div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You
need a coffee, Judy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve had three already, but I’m still
bored.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She pushed me gently to make me fall
forward. My hand </span>landed in the black
tub of polish.</div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I take it you’re not coming, my sweet?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not unless you tell me it’s your long lost
father. Or how </span>about someone
related even? Or at least someone we’ve had contact with over
the past 20 years? Jeez.</div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll see you on Friday then.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So how did he die this psychiatrist?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our eyes locked. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
killed himself. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He what? Psychiatrists aren’t supposed to top
themselves. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was true. The thought hadn’t crossed my
mind. Just as </span>we don’t ever expect
a dentist to have rotting teeth, or a plumber to have to
clean up after the eruption of their own blocked toilet. A
psychiatrist is supposed to be the happy, rational one, who
talks others out of such a terrible plan. They are the ones who
know how to get others to grin and bear it and pretend
everything is okay. How could they then turn around and chuck it
all in?</div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Judy gave me a look of disgust. And you
want to pay </span>tribute to this guy,
who couldn’t even practise what he preached?</div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who on
earth practises what they preach?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She didn’t say goodbye or wish me well
when I headed off.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’ll be lucky if I’m here when you get
back, she said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She didn’t mean it, of course. She always
said that </span>whenever I left the
house.</div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I phoned her later from the motorway. Why
didn’t you ask </span>to come then?</div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Same reason you didn’t invite me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t you remember me talking about him?
All those things </span>he used to get me
thinking about? He was a genius. I miss him.</div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yeah, so I gather.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I asked her if she remembered the thing
about why we wash </span>our face in the
morning, and I could swear I almost heard her laugh.</div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He drove me crazy with his seemingly easy
questions that </span>got me so worked up.</div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I told Judy not to hang up just yet. So why
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">do</i> you still </span>wash your face when
you get up in the morning, even if you’ve had a shower the
night before?</div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’re going to go weird on me. I can hear
it in your </span>voice.</div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s just a question.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’ll lose your job and then we’ll be in
the shit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Heavens. It’s just a question about
washing your face in </span>the morning.</div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was silence. Then she sighed. I
don’t know. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s how I responded all those years ago
to Doctor </span>Waverly. Sometimes
it was best to play dumb with him, especially when
football practice was not far away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it doesn’t get all dirty when you
sleep, does it?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Another silence. It wakes me up. The
answers were coming </span>painfully.</div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Does it? But you’re already awake when
you’re standing at </span>the sink.</div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No, but it wakes me up some more.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Does it really?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think so.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe you just do it out of habit. You’re
programmed to </span>do it.</div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It makes me feel better. Can I go now?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Habits often do make us feel better. But I
bet you feel </span>just the same after
waking, whether you splash water over your face or not. You would
become more alert anyway, and the washing of the face
has nothing to do with it.</div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It gets the sleep out of my eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I laughed. You don’t need water for that.
In fact, it’s </span>better when the
sleep stays dry, so it can be wiped out more easily.</div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But she had already hung up. Just as well,
I suppose, as </span>I know it’s not
good to phone and drive.</div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The same question had my young self in
knots for weeks. I </span>asked everyone for
their opinion, and no one really gave a convincing answer.
Doctor Waverly was brilliant. I stopped washing my face in
the morning, except when I was due to have a bath anyway. Judy
probably continued to splash cold water on her face in the
mornings out of spite, pure and simple. No, some silly old tale
from a quack who dances with his dog should not be taken
seriously.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I stopped off in a petrol station to buy
some cigarettes. </span>But before I got
back to the car I found myself sobbing uncontrollably. I
was blubbering like a child, and found it difficult to keep
my nose from running at the same time. Some people parked up
beside me stared and I tried to turn away to hide the fact I was
so upset. I coughed and coughed as though I were sick, and
pretended to spit something vile out of my mouth. I held my
face in my hands and tried to work out what had made me so
upset. Yes, I was sad that Doctor Waverly was dead, but I hadn’t
seen him for so many years.</div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Back in the car it came to me that what
was so upsetting </span>was the brutal
passage of time, that thing about witnessing the end of an era,
the fact that all the dreams and plans I had as a teenager
had not been fulfilled. I was overwhelmed with memories of
Doctor Waverly and his powerful theories on how life should be
lived. One of those was about the people we live with. He told
me that 90 per cent of his mental health cases were patients
who refused or were unable to get away from the families
that were no good for them. If only people weren’t so stuck on
sticking with their useless, dysfunctional families, he would rant.</div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I couldn’t help but think about Judy. Why
were we </span>sticking it out?</div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I got to the church, half an hour
before the service </span>started, no one
seemed to be able to point out any of Doctor Waverly’s close
family. There only seemed to be friends and former colleagues.
I got a blank look from one elderly woman when I explained that
I used to mow the lawns for the doctor, back when I was a
teenager. At first she took my hand, apparently to offer
comfort, but she pulled away when she realised I was not
someone more significant. She looked down at my nice black suit
and tie, as though to inquire why someone like me
would go to so much effort.</div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I did recognise someone in the end: another
elderly woman </span>who organised local
performances of classical music. Mrs Diamond, the
upholder of society’s values and correct decorum. I introduced
myself, but she had no recollection of me.</div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was there on the night of the fracas.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The fracas?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Doctor Waverly took me along to a concert
you organised </span>with some young
group that played something quite modern and experimental.</div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh. I think I know what you’re referring
to. Peculiar </span>fellow, wasn’t he?
He treated my sister, though, got her through all sorts
of crises. Credit where it’s due is what I’ve always said.</div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She wandered off, shaking her head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, peculiar fellow he was. Doctor
Waverly had invited </span>me to accompany him
to one of Mrs. Diamond’s highbrow concerts in the war memorial
hall. Simple Simon needed a bit of cultural exposure,
he jested. Actually, on the way to the concert in his car,
he explained that no one else would go with him. I later
discovered why.</div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We sat in a row in the middle of the hall,
surrounded by </span>people all dressed
up, many obviously keen to be seen at such a cultural event. I
spotted a couple of teachers from school and the owners of
the newsagents where I bought my comics every week. The
performance was very modern, to say the least. I’m no musician,
but it sounded like everyone was playing whatever they
wanted, randomly choosing high, screeching notes. I wondered
if any of those people holding up the violins and brass
instruments had ever had a single lesson. The title of the
piece had something to do with Hiroshima, if I remember rightly.
Everyone listened intently, with not a sound around us.
The long, quiet bits, when there were just a couple of violins
being tapped on the back with fingers, were unbearable. At the
end, though, everyone applauded loudly and enthusiastically.</div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Except for Doctor Waverly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was horrified when he stood up and
started booing. He </span>drowned out the
clapping with long, throaty boos, making angry gestures with his
hands for the musicians to get off the stage. If I’d been
able to snake down in my seat and slip onto the floor, I would’ve
done it. Everyone seemed to be looking at me, as though I
were the crazy man’s son. My teachers looked at me and
shook their heads in disgust. Doctor Waverly was not put off.
Why are you all clapping, you dozy flock of sheep? The music
was rubbish but you’re pretending you loved it! You’re
hypocrites! You hated it, as much as my son and I did!</div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My son? My son? Could it have been any
worse? I wanted to </span>die. I struggled to
breathe and folded over in my seat. I dared not look at
anyone. To my left I saw four men grabbing Waverly by the
arms, dragging him down the aisle, as he continued to scream
out about the pathetic sheep and the musicians who
should be ashamed of themselves. You’re all living a lie, was
the last phrase I heard him shout.</div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Afterwards, out in the lobby, I tried to
tell as many </span>people as possible
that the crazy man was not my father and I’d just happened
to be sitting there next to him. I said this five times to the
teachers from school, but they just seemed to look at me with
wide eyes of sympathy. I called my real father and asked
him if he would quickly come and pick me up. On the way home I
vowed that I would never mow the doctor’s lawns again.</div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the funeral service progressed, with
several dull </span>hymns and
predictable prayers, I realised that no one had told any stories like
the ones I remembered. All of the tributes and anecdotes about
Waverly were extremely tame and careful, not at all close to
the truth about the man’s character and the impression he
left on people. Why were they being so dishonest? Had they
never spent any time with him? I gathered his wife had died
some time before, burying a lot of the gems about the dear but
infuriating doctor.</div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’d think they were talking about a
missionary, whose </span>life had been
nothing but meditation and purity, who had never experienced fun.
All of his out-of-the-box thinking contained. Successfully
conditioned. Perfectly rounded. Miserable in his rational, predictable
existence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An elderly gentleman gave a long and
earnest speech about </span>the merits of hard
work, about the need to ‘make peace with our maker’, about
the undesirability of a life led too far removed from the
church. About three quarters way through I realised that the
man had probably never met Waverly, and had probably just
turned up to the service by chance, a regular in the parish who
liked to participate in the weekly activities. Any opportunity to
repeat his convictions! People at a funeral are such a well-behaved
lot, too sober to shift in their seats and express any pang
of boredom.</div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Waverly was being sent off with such a
fizz that even the </span>flowers in the tall
vases at the front seemed to be wilting before our eyes.
And who had chosen such dull colours? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I got to my feet - and I can only say
that it was </span>far from voluntary
- I did so with such a thrust that I almost tipped myself over
into the aisle. I caught a couple of faces, confused stares,
but nothing could stop the force that erupted from within, a
surge of something that I’d never felt before, which made me shake
and my sight become blurred.</div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Boo! Boo!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Were those my words?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Boo to all of this nonsense!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They all turned to stare at me, all of
those tidy, bored </span>faces.</div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shame on you! Waverly deserved better than
this. He needs </span>to be celebrated.</div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I pushed away a couple of arms that
attempted to </span>constrain me and I got
up onto the bench behind me.</div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Boo to all of your politeness, your
hypocrisy. You’re </span>debasing a
genuinely good man. He would mock you if he were here.</div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The minister was in front of me then,
clasping my hands, </span>his wide eyes
begging me to stop.</div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Boo! Boo! I gave the thumbs-down sign with
both hands.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They started a new hymn as I was pushed
off the bench and </span>led towards the
exit. I tried to keep up the volume but a man was half covering
my mouth, telling me to shut up as he pinched the skin
around my middle. I felt no pain, though, just that strange
surge of absolute elation.</div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sat in the car for a long time before I
phoned Judy. </span>She didn’t say
anything when I told her that I was heading further down the
coast to see a man about a dog. I laughed when I said that,
remembering how Waverly used that old expression a lot,
to describe all of his unexplained absences to his wife.</div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, in actual fact, I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was </i>going to see a man about a </span>dog, a certain
collie in fact. It was the address of a breeder I’d often heard
about. Did he do collies that could dance the polka with their
masters? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Judy sighed loudly, just to let me know
she was still </span>there. Then, when I
had nothing more to say, she asked me if I <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px;">had
any idea of when she might expect me.</span></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Style1" style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">© Copyright, June 2013. S. Kearney. "A collie that can dance the polka".</span></div>
<br />S. Kearneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03976476273818980832noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22117802.post-64527034310693600512012-04-17T23:55:00.008+02:002012-09-04T22:38:52.421+02:00A New Composition<br/><br /><iframe width="640" height="380" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/6bihFmzMmYw" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br /><br />
Dedicated to Eric Valentine, who passed away this year.
<br/>
© Copyright, April 2012. The Yesteryear Sonata by S. Kearney. All rights reserved.S. Kearneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03976476273818980832noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22117802.post-56446801322001321652010-10-14T02:25:00.003+02:002017-07-24T17:58:09.102+02:00A New Short Story<center>
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<u><br /></u></center>
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<u>Less shade, more colour</u></center>
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I watched him from what I hoped would be a safe distance, as he said goodnight to the doorman, all smiles and bonhomie from behind his tidy beard and moustache. Who would’ve thought that he could look so amiable? He had a stack of papers under one arm, most likely manuscripts, to which he would probably only devote a couple of distracted minutes before bedtime. His other arm had not yet properly found its place in his jacket, which was only half on, making him tilt to one side, like a glider in trouble, jabbing his empty sleeve towards the pavement. Then, at last, Gerald P. Cossack was ready to walk. But even when he did break into his stride, he remained terribly stilted somehow. He put his head down and made his way, as I’d hoped, towards Union Square. <br />
<br />
Now listen up if you can hear me! Trees can cackle like old women, Mr. Cossack, if the wind is right and the leaves are brittle enough. Yes, they can. Do you hear me? And ‘that’ instead of ‘which’? Really? In this day and age, when they have become so interchangeable? Oh, you are such an old stick in the mud. Just look at you! I would be laughing if you hadn’t made me cry so raw. And so what if I had the one-way traffic in that bloody London street hurtling away from the river and not towards it. Who cares? Who really cares? Should we stub somebody out because of it? I may have carried out a little bit of literary vandalism with all of those unnecessary adverbs. Granted. But this is what I’d like to say, firmly, passionately and convincingly: nobody died because of it. <br />
<br />
I followed him for a couple of blocks, careful to stop and stare into a shop window whenever I thought there might be a risk of him turning around and looking my way. I had actually expected someone taller, with more of a manly frame, going on the photo I’d seen in The New York Times. I noticed his bizarre gait: one of his feet turned inwards as it landed on the pavement. A child might walk like that, until his parents pulled him up on it. One would hope that any decent mother or father would force their child to straighten up the feet and always keep an eye on them. But poor old Cossack might not have had such caring parents. Actually, maybe he didn’t even have parents.<br />
<br />
Looking increasingly clumsy and vacant, he almost crossed a busy junction where the little man (or is it a woman?) had not yet turned green. A taxi driver yelled out. A cyclist swerved and swore. A drunk laughed. It was hard to believe this was actually the same Cossack who commanded so much power, who could ruin someone’s life with the tiniest squirt of ink from his pen. Getting closer behind him, I saw long white stains across his denim jeans and jacket, the kinds of marks left behind from sloppy washing. Was there no one at home to look after him? Had no one ever told him that a man of his age should no longer attempt to wear denim? How terribly sad.<br />
<br />
As I’d hoped, he turned into the dim, narrow bar where I’d first observed him the week before. I stood at the door and watched his lazy progress, taking the opportunity to pull the fringe of my blonde wig further down over my eyes, just in case he was good at faces, profiles, familiar roman noses. He took the same seat, over beside a display of Marilyn Munroe memorabilia. He shook hands and patted backs, and I heard his voice for the first time as he greeted a couple of people. He had a southern accent, with a deep, rumbling quality. Here he was obviously liked and he felt at ease. I heard him order the same “blanche” he’d ordered the week before, which I discovered was a very transparent-looking beer from Belgium. No simple Bud for this man. No, Sir. He made no attempt to wipe the foam off his moustache after the first sip. He closed his eyes and let his body sink down into a deep sigh. How clichéd he looked. Bereft of striking characteristics of his own, to make us want to get to know him. What bloody work this man would be to flesh out. <br />
<br />
I took a seat a few tables away, keeping my chin close to my chest, trying not to draw attention to myself. I ordered a glass of Italian red when the barman finally came over. He briefly looked down at my stomach, and I thought for a moment that maybe he’d noticed what I’d so carefully hidden. I almost stood up in a panic. But then he walked back over to the bar, seemingly unconcerned, wiping a few tables on the way. I kept my eyes fixed on the clock on the far wall and touched my middle, making sure everything was still safely in place, and then pinched at my blouse near the bottom to make it puff up. The silkiness felt wet. Was I sweating? <br />
<br />
I took a gulp of the wine, which was way too warm, and let it flood the bottom of my mouth. I froze the muscles in my face and let the wine slowly leak down the back of my throat. I took out the last letter he’d sent me, the one that had brought our exciting 12-month exchange to a savage halt. What I will maintain, if I am ever called upon to explain things, is that Cossack had teased me unnecessarily – cruelly, in fact. He had cajoled me into a hypnotic dance, and I’d been stupid to believe that it was safe enough to reveal my nakedness, my vulnerability. It was difficult to read the words again, but I had to be reminded of how they had cut me down. The word dearest, in subsequent re-readings, had made me violently ill. <br />
<br />
Dearest Francis,<br />
<br />
I am so sorry to be the bearer of bad news. Although I was <br />
optimistic after reading your tenth (!!!) rewrite, I am still <br />
not satisfied with how the book has developed. The overall <br />
theme is brilliant, and once again in this latest version you <br />
had me hooked at the start, causing me to ask: 'Could <br />
something like this really take place?'<br />
<br />
Sadly, however, after all these months, I didn't really care. <br />
I feel that where you have gone wrong is that you have not <br />
drawn your character well enough, not made him sympathetic <br />
enough. His head is not a pleasant place for us to be in and <br />
we are caught in his dark thoughts for longer than one can <br />
bear. (Do we also have to have so many descriptions of things <br />
and all those quirky observations?). <br />
<br />
When I finished your manuscript I found that I thoroughly <br />
disliked your protagonist. I also didn’t care about him or <br />
what he did. Also, your sunny ending was terribly contrived <br />
and came out of nowhere. Actually, I feel that what you have <br />
here is a terrific short story shackled inside a novel that is <br />
far too long and arduous. Less shade, more colour?<br />
<br />
I regret having to write this to you because you are such a <br />
competent, proven writer. However, I believe that you need to <br />
accept the fact that you had a wonderful premise but just <br />
didn’t make the most of it. Of course, not all novels should <br />
have nice characters, but here there is not even one!<br />
<br />
I’m truly sorry that I didn’t see all of this before, when we <br />
asked you to rewrite those difficult passages. It’s possible <br />
that I did spot these problems, but I suppose I just hoped <br />
deep down that you would find a way out of the mess. This is <br />
just my own point of view, of course, and someone else may <br />
arrive at a different opinion entirely. However, I hope you <br />
understand my position when I say that I am passing on this <br />
book. I would stress, though, that I still think the world of <br />
you as a writer. <br />
<br />
Shall I pop the MS in the post, or should I place it in the <br />
recycling bin? Please don’t take this too personally. After <br />
all, honesty is the best policy.<br />
<br />
Kind regards,<br />
<br />
Gerald P. Cossack.<br />
<br />
<br />
Well, even though everything else in my life had turned hazy, it was perfectly clear to me that Cossack had to pay. It was out of the question that I would let him write that, after all I’d been through, without him suffering like he knew that I would suffer. Even if he had a point or two, and I’m happy to acknowledge it, there was no excuse for that kind of devastating letter. I no longer cared about the consequences. At his expense, I would feel life fill me up again. <br />
<br />
I’d never found the courage to show that letter to anyone. I kept it folded up inside my bag, taking it out to reread dozens of times, during my desperate drives into the countryside, when I sat in those cafés along the coast, not wanting to return home. I told the more persistent of my friends that the publishers had fallen on hard times, forced to cut back on the number of books they printed. Yeah, right.<br />
<br />
But everyone kept on at me: when would my second book be coming out, the one that I’d been struggling with for two years, which had required me to go on expensive writing retreats and even “escapes” to Paris and then Montreal? I locked myself away to avoid the piercing inquiries. As though my whole existence depended on the publication of another damn book! No one asked how I was, or how anything else in my life was; it was just the bloody book! I referred to it as my difficult second birth. People stopped praising me on my first novel, which had sold a respectable number, but just kept badgering me about the absence of the follow-up. Do you know that I’ve taken up cooking? I asked in desperation. Italian cuisine. Traditional. I won a prize in this contest, but I suppose you don’t want to hear about that. Didn’t think so. I also play the clarinet quite well. Also, I’m learning how to arrange flowers.<br />
<br />
‘Do you mind if I sit here,’ I said. He hadn’t noticed me cross the bar, even though my feet seemed to make horrendous thuds on the unvarnished wooden boards. <br />
<br />
‘Go ahead. No one else is sitting there.’ <br />
<br />
I examined his face as he glanced up, to check for any hint of recognition. Nothing, though. His eyes, watery and slightly pocked, went back to a crossword. Those horrid, rheumy eyes of his. That was a line from the book.<br />
<br />
‘It’s awfully hot in here,’ I said.<br />
<br />
Nothing. He just gently tapped his fingers on the table, apparently waiting for a stubborn word to move forward from the back of his mind. The smell of fries, mustard and sausages filled the bar, and then I saw a plate being whisked off to someone near the back. <br />
<br />
I had already figured that the chances of Cossack recognising me when I got up close were slim. When they published my first book they’d put a small photograph of me on the back cover, but it was a black and white, and my hair had been gelled back behind my ears. (My mother said that I’d come across as severe and unfriendly, and nobody would want to buy the book, no matter how good it was.) Also, I had only met Cossack briefly when the contract for the first novel had been signed. I’d been told that he only really gets to know his authors in person after their third or fourth babies. <br />
<br />
I squeezed my thumb and said, ‘Are you drinking alone?’<br />
<br />
He didn’t look up. ‘Alone is not really the word.’<br />
<br />
‘Oh?’<br />
<br />
He kept his eyes on his crossword. ‘The bar is full. Even if I were having this drink in my own company, it’s not alone.’<br />
<br />
I needn’t have been surprised by his rudeness. Really. Anyone who knows even the slightest thing about him would’ve expected something like that.<br />
<br />
I decided to get things moving. Conflict. Action. Resolution.<br />
<br />
‘I just thought you looked like someone who could do with some company.’<br />
<br />
He looked up at me then. His mouth opened some time before the word came out. ‘Company?’ <br />
<br />
He gave each syllable an unusual stress, with a deliberate, slow beat. Cum-pa-nee. The sound seemed to come up from deep in his stomach. It made me think of the beginning of Lolita. <br />
<br />
‘Do I know you?’ he asked.<br />
<br />
‘Just like we’re never really alone, we never really know anyone, do we?’<br />
<br />
He smiled. ‘Well, if you’ve really got nowhere else to sit.’ He pushed the paper to the end of the table and looked down at my breasts, as I’d hoped he would. I pulled in my stomach and pushed both shoulders forward, slightly wiggling them; I didn’t want to make it too obvious, but just enough for him to notice.<br />
<br />
I realised at that point that I could not go back. I had already passed the most risky moment, and I had told myself that sitting down at the table with him would be the confirmation that I would go ahead with my abominable act. I would risk everything, and it didn’t seem to matter anymore. I was now a character in my own crime novel. I knew that if I ever had to later confide in someone about what happened this would be the moment I would remember the most. Poor old Cossack was well and truly hooked, just as he’d seemed to be with my novel. No chance of getting away, the poor sod.<br />
<br />
‘So what do you do?’ he said.<br />
<br />
I leant forward slightly. ‘Do you mean when I’m working, or when I’m playing?’ <br />
<br />
He sat back and chuckled, shaking his head.<br />
<br />
I pulled out the chair and sat down, careful to ensure that there was no risk of my surprise slipping into view.<br />
<br />
He said, ‘Do you often just chat to men in late-night bars?’<br />
<br />
‘All the time. I’m interested in people. In their stories. In how they survive this funny old life. How they see their place in the world. I like to create surprises in my life, like a twist, the unexpected.’<br />
<br />
‘Oh.’ He looked down at my breasts again.<br />
<br />
‘I’m really into people’s stories.’<br />
<br />
‘You sound like a social worker.’<br />
<br />
‘More of an artist, but I suppose it’s like being a social worker.’<br />
<br />
‘An artist? Do you mean a painter?’<br />
<br />
‘Kind of. I do like to portray people, work out what colours and shade and textures are needed to create them.’<br />
<br />
He took another mouthful of beer and I could see him discreetly checking me out again. A deeper discussion about colour and light was not really what interested him, which is exactly how I wanted things to go. I tried to imagine what look would come over his face when he realised what he had coming to him.<br />
<br />
‘So what do you do,’ I asked. <br />
<br />
‘I ... I make people ... but I also ruin people.’<br />
<br />
I had to force myself to stay still, to suppress the shriek that wanted to fly out of my chest. ‘Really?’<br />
<br />
‘It’s a terrible job.’ He shook his head, but then stopped and looked me straight in the eyes. ‘But there’s also pleasure in it. A power thing, I suppose. Decisions about whether someone is somebody or nobody. Funny, isn’t it?’<br />
<br />
I folded my arms, to stop myself from trembling with rage. I had to stay calm. Action. Dialogue. Resolution. Nobody is nobody. Everybody is somebody. I looked straight back at him and said, ‘There’s a little hotel, just across the street.’<br />
<br />
His eyes opened wide and he tightened his grip on his glass. He looked down at the table.<br />
<br />
‘The room’s a little bit basic, but it’s very clean,’ I said, far too enthusiastically.<br />
<br />
‘What are you saying?’<br />
<br />
‘Oh, I’m just trying to paint a new situation. Anything wrong with that? Am I being too direct?’<br />
<br />
‘It’s just all very sudden. I mean ... I don’t even know you.’<br />
<br />
‘And I don’t know you. Isn’t that exciting?’ I stood up and nodded towards the exit.<br />
<br />
The confidence had all but disappeared from his face. He now looked like a nervous high school kid, scared of deciding things for himself. Oh, how quickly we can change. But then, how wonderful to be able to mould a sequence of new events like this, to pull someone towards a conclusion that is not of their own choosing.<br />
<br />
He followed me, not straight away, but a few minutes later. I was about 30 metres ahead of him the whole time, and I only had to look back once to make sure he was still there. I waited inside the lift in the hotel, my finger resting firmly on the button that kept the doors open. I’d already told the receptionist that I had a guest arriving, who was just finding a park down the street. <br />
<br />
Cossack smiled nervously as he eventually stepped into the lift. ‘I’m a married man.’ <br />
<br />
‘I don’t care.’<br />
<br />
‘And I’m old enough to be your father.’<br />
<br />
‘I still don’t care.’ I twisted a finger around a curl in my wig.<br />
<br />
‘I’ve never really done this before,’ he said, shaking his head and looking at the floor. ‘But I must say that I find it very compelling. I suppose I’ll have to pay. Is that it?’<br />
<br />
‘No. Well, not with money.’<br />
<br />
He looked at me blankly. <br />
<br />
‘This is new for me, too,’ I said. ‘Sometimes we have no choice, though. Sometimes we just have to go along with things. It’s just how things develop.’<br />
<br />
I placed my hand on the small of his back and guided him into the room. He took such small steps, as though he were blindfolded, expecting to crash into some obstacle. I told him to help himself to the choice of small bottles of alcohol in the fridge, which the receptionist had made a point of telling me about. I prepared some glasses and closed the curtains. The bed was massive, covered in a brown and cream duvet with matching cushions. Above the bed was a large painting of an elderly man on a bicycle. I dared not smile. <br />
<br />
He poured us both a whisky and coke and added ice cubes. ‘I didn’t think this could happen to someone my age. How very lucky to have stopped off for a drink tonight.’<br />
<br />
‘Yes, how very lucky. I just couldn’t help myself.’<br />
<br />
‘What do you like,’ he asked, sitting down in an armchair. He now looked more at ease, starting to look cocky even.<br />
<br />
‘Everything,’ I said. ‘Your pleasure is my pleasure.’ I took a sip of the drink.<br />
<br />
‘Everything?’<br />
<br />
‘I want you to devour me. I want to lose myself in your heat and sweat.’<br />
<br />
He beamed a teenager’s grin and sat back with his legs wide apart. He gulped his drink in one go.<br />
<br />
I sat down on the edge of the dresser. It was too soon for action, too soon to reveal my true intentions. I went over again what I had planned. I didn’t want anything to go wrong. I had no back-up plan.<br />
<br />
‘You’re intriguing,’ he said.<br />
<br />
‘Take off your clothes. I want to see you naked.’<br />
<br />
‘Now? Just like that?’<br />
<br />
‘Why not? Let’s get down to it. Let’s cut to the chase, as they say.’<br />
<br />
‘You seem in a mighty hurry.’<br />
<br />
‘I have no time to waste. I have a whole life ahead of me, a whole life to lead.’<br />
<br />
‘A whole life to lead?’<br />
<br />
‘Being stringed along is not good for anyone.’<br />
<br />
He stood up and started to unbutton his shirt, from the bottom up, which I thought was kind of odd. I’d only ever seen men loosen their buttons from the top down. The little things we notice. We can’t help ourselves, can we? Always on the look out for the dinky little details we can sprinkle throughout our cruel observations. Even at times of great stress. <br />
<br />
‘I thought you might want to rip my clothes off me,’ he said. <br />
<br />
My hands started shaking when I saw myself in the mirror opposite. I was actually doing it. There I was. No mistake. A dream it definitely wasn’t. The adverbs were there in front of me; there was no point in trying to stop them in their flow. He moved awkwardly. She pouted sexily, or at least she attempted to. The bed rose eerily into the air. Figuratively, of course.<br />
<br />
He was naked. His skin was tanned, though sagging. Grey hair. His private parts crumpled up. No one could be more vulnerable. All power and pretence had left him. The eyes were less willing to engage.<br />
<br />
I reached inside my blouse and took out the packet that I’d so carefully wrapped. I placed it on the table.<br />
<br />
‘What’s that?’<br />
<br />
‘It’s a weapon.’<br />
<br />
‘A weapon?’<br />
<br />
I laughed. Loudly. I pointed. I put such effort into my laughing that it hurt across my chest. ‘Goodness. You think I might find a body like that attractive? Are you serious?’ I made it so tears mixed in with my roars of laughter.<br />
<br />
‘What is this?’ He put his hand on the back of a chair.<br />
<br />
‘It’s you. You are just so disappointing. Just look at the state of you. Do you really believe anyone would want you?’<br />
<br />
‘What’s in the package? I don’t understand.’ He took a step back, his eyes scouring the room. Checking for possible escape routes?<br />
<br />
‘Can I just say that I was optimistic after seeing you there in that bar, but I’m just not satisfied with how things have developed. You seemed so brilliant, so stunning, so sexy. You had me hooked. But just look at you! I’m sorry I didn’t see all of this before, but I hope you understand my position when I say that I’m going to have to say ... no thanks. Please don’t take it too personally. After all, honesty is the best policy.’<br />
<br />
His blinking got faster. He went to speak, but nothing came out.<br />
<br />
When I walked out of the hotel I still had a clear image of his bulging eyes, his trembling hands. I pictured him carefully opening the packet, still naked, and then the boom. The explosion inside his head when he realised what he had in his hands. No doubt, in the weeks that followed, he would’ve been absolutely sick watching that oh-so-familiar book rise to number one, in all its original glory, all of the culling reversed. Heavy on adverbs. The cackling trees replanted. Did he sit down and read the shiny reviews? One thing is sure: he won’t ever tell anyone the exact details of how he received his signed advance copy. <br />
<br />
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© Copyright, 2010. S. Kearney. Less Shade, More Colour.S. Kearneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03976476273818980832noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22117802.post-84291537664344901522010-08-08T00:07:00.000+02:002017-07-24T17:47:15.955+02:00A 9/11 Remembrance Poem<br />
To mark the anniversary of the September 11 attacks in the US, and as a tribute to all of the victims and their families, I'd like to republish this memorial poem I wrote back in 2006: <em>Will they just one day forget?</em> I think it becomes more and more relevant as the years go by.<br />
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the same breathless questions<br />shooting out through the night<br />agony's very own untiring voice<br />fingerprints on endless websites<br />hit replay, hit replay, hit replay<br />2417 visits in three cold months<br /><br />smoke, approaching, screaming,<br />explosion, screaming, falling<br />dust, panic, where is he today?<br />oh my God, oh sweet Jesus!<br />what did he say this morning?<br />where did he say he was going?<br /><br />grainy pictures make a shrine<br />visitors stop their enquiries<br />no one answers the little boy<br />so what was it all for then?<br />who won what in the end?<br />is anyone else better off?<br /><br />does anyone cry for my daddy?<br />did they know he'd be there?<br />why did he stay to help others?<br />way way up on the 92nd floor<br />will I ever get any answers?<br />will they just one day forget?</center>
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© Copyright, 2009. S. Kearney. A 9/11 remembrance poem.S. Kearneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03976476273818980832noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22117802.post-77280501204354978662010-03-18T21:06:00.012+01:002017-07-24T17:58:40.273+02:00Another Recent Short Story<center>
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<u>The drunken starfish</u></center>
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Norman Parker watched himself on the evening news, annoyed that he’d grinned at the camera in a way he never intended. He saw himself as an impostor, having a grand old time at playing the man of the moment, his minders hotfooting him through a crowd of frantic reporters. ‘Good to see you. Thank you for coming.’ He knew he looked ghastly. He’d become that institutional thing that flashes by on the screen: an unbreakable suit, vanishing grey hair, a round face of feverish red. ‘Kind of you to show so much concern.’ His ballooning stomach pushed his tie almost out to a right angle. <br />
<br />
What he did like about the latest footage - filmed as he was trying to slip back into his hotel - was the image of an elderly woman cleaner in the background, just carrying on polishing the windows of the plush foyer. She stayed straight-faced, spraying and wiping in an even rhythm, chewing gum, apparently oblivious to all of the hype. <br />
<br />
The TV journalist rushed his words. ‘Norman Parker is refusing to comment on his failure to attend the first day of this all-important conference. But senior sources tell me there is no doubt it’s due to Mr Parker’s matrimonial problems.’ <br />
<br />
Then, from nowhere, a cheap-looking advert for a new seaside retirement village filled the screen. The residents looked so pleased to have finally found happiness, playing golf under the shocking red of summer blossoms. Norman ripped out the plug. <br />
<br />
His deodorant was starting to fail him, warmed up into treacle under his arms, giving off that half-sweat, half-perfume odour. Was it too soon after the last cigarette to have another one? The camel on the packet just kept on walking through the empty, sweltering desert. It had been with him for years, always there when he needed relief. He hunched over near the window, depressed about how quickly the darkness had arrived with a cover of frost. He persisted with a large bottle of South African whisky, even though he found it had a disagreeable aftertaste. What he desperately wanted to hear were leopard-skin drums and charging female elephants. <br />
<br />
He also wanted rid of his clothes, as he had the feeling they were tightening their grip on his wrists and ankles. He was surprised at how easily they slid off when he tugged at them. The room spun like a fairground carousel. A madman in charge of the pedal. No chance to jump off and make a run for it. He started jumping up and down. ‘Wowayow! Wowayow!’ His snorts of pleasure were new to him, but why was that not allowed? Who said he had to restrain himself at all times? He trampled on the clothes with vigour, causing a silver button to pop off and fly across the room. <br />
<br />
The excitement didn’t last long, though. ‘My goodness,’ he said. ‘What an absolute fall from the sky!’ For the fourth time in half an hour he checked the door of his room, to be absolutely sure it was locked. <br />
<br />
He rubbed his thumb over a small photograph of Joyce, taken at a time when her hair fell long behind her back, before she’d needed to start colouring it burgundy to hide the grey. He poured some more whisky and supped it viciously. He got hold of his glass and fixed his face down on the rim, creating suction, his nose right inside, almost touching the alcohol. He slowly breathed it in - smelling it seemed almost important as drinking it – then cradled the goblet above his head to see his warped, mischievous reflection. <br />
<br />
He looked down at his naked front and pretended he had an audience, his hands on his hips. ‘Heavens! Billy belly way too broad. But am I not just a little bit desirable? No? Not just a little bit adorable as I turn and show you my ass, once so beautiful like the moon?’ <br />
<br />
A tinny voice rang out. ‘Do you need something, Sir?’<br />
<br />
Norman’s eyes froze on the black box on his dresser. ‘Jesus!’ He’d forgotten to turn off the radio link with members of his team on the next floor up. ‘Heavens, no. I mean, I’m fine. Thank you.’ <br />
<br />
‘We’re going to turn in if that’s alright.’<br />
<br />
‘Absolutely. Please don’t stay up on my account.’<br />
<br />
Making low-level noises in his throat, he sat down on the edge of the bed and rubbed his feet together, letting the nails dig in, catching rough skin as he curled and then spread out his toes. He plugged the television back in and slumped down in front of a live performance of U2. One song in particular made him cry enough to fill a basin. <br />
<br />
* * *<br />
<br />
He tried his best to sound composed when he got on the phone to his driver. ‘Just a little tour along the waterfront. I feel so confined here. You don’t mind, do you?’ Norman knew the poor man was enjoying his favourite beer and a game of poker with some of the hotel staff. <br />
<br />
‘Of course not, sir.’ The driver’s voice was mellow and reliable. <br />
<br />
‘I hope we still have some of that Irish whisky in the car. We’re thankfully out of that South African stuff.’ <br />
<br />
Norman gathered together all of the newspapers that had blackened his hands and placed them in his satchel. He phoned his security staff and told them he needed some space: no need to clear roads or organise a singing and dancing escort. <br />
<br />
He concentrated on his walking and got the lift down to the lobby. Everything still ached, despite the attempt to soak his muscles in liquor. Things became slightly misty as he walked, as though a thin veil covered his eyes. <br />
<br />
The regal car pulled up in front of him, the headlights making him flinch. The two small flags at the front were folded around on themselves, the wind too icy to allow them to wave. He knocked his head slightly as he got in. ‘I need some space to read through all this stuff,’ he said to his driver. <br />
<br />
He lay out the newspapers on the tray in front of him. <br />
<br />
‘Anywhere in particular?’ The driver smoothed down his thick moustache, which loomed large on his skeletal face. <br />
<br />
‘Let’s just drive’ said Norman. He caught sight of his own sullen face staring up from the papers. He wasn’t at all surprised by the media sensation: it was like a bird with only one wing had been thrown to a pack of wild dogs.<br />
<br />
‘You’re helping sell a lot of papers today,’ said the driver. <br />
<br />
Norman looked down at one of the headlines: PARKER SEPARATES FROM JOYCE <br />
<br />
‘You just sit back, sir. It may be windy, but it’s a perfect night for a drive.’ He put on some melancholic Brahms.<br />
<br />
‘They always use the most ridiculous and unflattering profiles, the ones that make me look inept and dreamy.’<br />
<br />
‘That’s their job, sir.’<br />
<br />
Norman knew that nothing could be done with his basic ingredients: bloated grey face; eyes underlined with what looked like smudges of ash; incredibly fine white hair, haphazardly pasted around the side of his dented head. The relationship with the media had always been a sore one, and it didn’t help when that big overseas paper referred to him as Norman ‘Porker’. He’d been promised it was nothing more than a typo, but the damage had been enormous, to say the least.<br />
<br />
They drove past a deserted container terminal, where large stevedoring cranes stood about like docile, alien creatures. The wind slammed hard against the trees along the waterfront, pushing some of the smaller ones sideways. The sea splashed up over the railings. <br />
<br />
Norman noticed that the headline had only used his last name, while his wife had been accorded the honour of being referred to by her first name. By simply being referred to as Joyce, she suddenly became the mother of the nation, worthy of sympathy. He read the headline out loud a few times, putting heavy stress on the word ‘separates’.<br />
<br />
The driver looked at him with wide eyes through the rear vision mirror. ‘Do you want to stop off at the lighthouse?’<br />
<br />
‘That would be nice.’ He remembered paddling there when he was a child, and thinking how wonderful it was to have sand, shells and changing sheds so close to the city centre. The beach was deserted when they pulled up, and the light from the moon revealed the water peeled way back from the shore. He could just make out a dinghy lying on its side in the mud, while birds with beautiful long legs were just visible, bobbing along in search of food. How could creatures like that live in such a busy place?<br />
<br />
‘Are you going to get out, sir?’ <br />
<br />
‘Not here. Too many cars going past.’<br />
<br />
Norman took out his diary to record some notes: the columnists, the exact phrases, the names of the papers, the page numbers. It gave him some kind of satisfaction to know he was able to gather it all together, analyse it, have some kind of control over the words. His eyes burned into the article that enraged him the most, the one that spelled out the misery of what he’d written to Joyce the Tuesday before. He’d agonised over it, and had even considered asking his speech writer to touch it up and take out the parts that were bound to cause trouble and pain. He’d battled on, though, started and restarted, made five attempts at writing it out by hand, but then finally settled on a typed version. Three hours later, with sore hands and heavy eyes, he’d finally risen from his desk, knowing there was no chance of making the final draft read any better. <br />
<br />
With the Academic Festival Overture in C playing behind his head, Norman read through the now very public copy of his letter.<br />
<br />
<br />
Joyce,<br />
<br />
It is with great sadness that I type this letter to you <br />
tonight, the anniversary of our first ever date. I asked you <br />
about that day only last month, but you seemed unable to <br />
recall even the slightest detail. I told myself you <br />
were just punishing me for what has become of our lives. I <br />
truly believed we were happy then, when we told each other the <br />
names of all the children we were going to have. Is it so <br />
wrong to want to remember that time, to try to understand how <br />
that kind of beginning can lead to this kind of ending? I <br />
realise now that having a family was something paramount for <br />
me, a wish I thought you shared. I’ve been pretending it <br />
didn’t really matter. I fear I’m writing this and you will <br />
never really understand - just another missive from an over-<br />
reactive Norman. I could go on fighting, but I know you have <br />
long given up your corner. A few months ago you said: Love is <br />
a word for dreamers, and I’m not going to live in a dream <br />
world. You’re right. I cannot pretend we have a reason to stay <br />
together. The surprising events of the past few years have <br />
changed me, as I am sure they have changed you. It all seems <br />
like madness, I know, to upset this life that seems so perfect <br />
now, but you will thank me one day. I give you back your life, <br />
Joyce. I will always love you and I will always continue to <br />
dream. <br />
<br />
Yours, Norman. <br />
<br />
<br />
Tears made their way down his cheeks. <br />
<br />
‘Not too loud?’ asked the driver.<br />
<br />
‘Louder if you want. Let’s continue further along the coast.’<br />
<br />
How had Joyce been able to hand over such a personal letter to a journalist? ‘One can only imagine,’ howled the paper, ‘how desperate the situation must have become when Mr Parker’s wife felt that her only remaining option was to call up a newspaper and share her sorrow with strangers.’ <br />
<br />
Norman then noticed a photo stuck to the dashboard. It showed a gracious woman and two handsome children. ‘Is that your wife and kids?’<br />
<br />
‘Yes, sir.’<br />
<br />
‘Very fine looking.’<br />
<br />
‘Thank you, sir.’<br />
<br />
Norman felt ill. The children in the photo now frightened him, standing beside their awkwardly seated parents, with not a hint of a smile on any of their faces, the worry of the legacies they would have to follow etched on their foreheads. Somehow the little boy and girl seemed like ghosts, as if they weren’t really there.<br />
<br />
‘Are you okay, sir?’ <br />
<br />
He told the driver to return to the hotel at once. He kept his eyes on the pavement and the cars parked along the route back to the city. He was convinced the children might disappear from the image if he dared return their gaze. <br />
<br />
* * *<br />
<br />
Back in his room, Norman looked around for something to keep his mind focused. But the next moment he again found himself being driven by something stronger than his own will. He lay on his back in the middle of the floor, in the shape of a magnificent star, arms and legs stretched out as far as they could go, sharp pain in his muscles and joints, his head filled with nervous, pumping blood. He couldn’t tell if his eyes were open or closed, but he knew he was moving; the carpet burned his arms and legs. The whole episode - complete with heavy breathing, fits of uncontrollable laughter and then uncontrollable crying - lasted no more than a couple of minutes. Then he stood up and stared at nothing with great intensity. <br />
<br />
After about five minutes the newspapers came back into focus and he was able to dress, putting on what he liked to refer to as his armour: a black Savile Row suit. Instead of reaching into his case for his usual one-colour tie, however, he zipped open the small compartment at the side and felt around for his colourful bow ties. He found one with streaks of silver and gold. It was much more original than the fusty, traditional tie, and was something that could maintain the smile when the wearer was not in the mood. He got on the phone and asked for food and more cigarettes, plus an urgent meeting with his team.<br />
<br />
Norman’s men arrived one by one, and he could see their septic eyes snatching glances at his suit and bow tie. ‘Who says I can’t look smart late at night?’ <br />
<br />
‘God, they have a cheek,’ said one of his staff, in reply to a query about what the tone of the media had been. ‘This is a private matter and has no bearing on the workings of the big machine!’<br />
<br />
‘Except I fear the workings of the big machine do depend on the workings of me,’ said Norman. He pushed his fingers hard into his closed eyes. <br />
<br />
He smoked by the window and spent a few minutes appraising the seven men before him. He didn’t like them and couldn’t trust them. He often felt as though their hands were slipping into his pockets or reaching up inside his jacket when he wasn’t looking, feeling around for something secret. He even dreamed they had the ability to slide their arms into his body, with their hands gloved and lubricated, gaining access through thin openings in his thighs, able to feel around for signs of indecision or incompetence. <br />
<br />
He helped himself to the tapenade, chicken and blue cheese that had been brought up to his room, and then looked down at the carpet, where only minutes before he’d pretended to be a starfish. ‘We just have to keep our heads together and move forward. That’s why I’m going to the conference tomorrow.’<br />
<br />
‘Wonderful,’ said one of the men.<br />
<br />
Norman could only focus for a couple of minutes on the debate that followed. After a while he looked up to see the men staring at him, waiting for an answer to a question. ‘Goodnight gentlemen. I think sleep is the answer.’ <br />
<br />
All but one of them departed. <br />
<br />
Norman pretended to be sorting through papers on his desk, his back to his most senior advisor.<br />
<br />
‘What a bloody mess, Norman. What were you thinking?’<br />
<br />
‘I can tell you this dream I’ve been having lately, if that’s any help. I’m at the top of this snow-covered mountain, walking along a thin path in a blizzard, with sharp drops on either side, attached by rope to these other climbers, like a row of convicts walking along an icy tightrope. If I slip, we all fall together. But it’s me I’m worried about, not the skill of the others.’ <br />
<br />
‘I see.’ <br />
<br />
‘It’s impossible to take those simple steps, knowing how easy it would be to slip and fall to a terrible death. I stay like that and there’s nothing anyone can do, because the path is too narrow for anyone to double back or go forward to help me.’ <br />
<br />
‘I see.’ The man opened his eyes wide. <br />
<br />
‘But don’t worry about it,’ said Norman. ‘It’s only a dream.’ He went over to the window and felt the silkiness of the curtains. He wanted to pull them down and cover himself. <br />
<br />
‘Well, that’s all very well, but the public really does need to know that you’re strong.’ The man wore slippers beneath his fleece and jeans, his ginger hair flat on one side, his eyes puffy.<br />
<br />
‘It was something small that did it, but I’m not sure you’d understand.’<br />
<br />
‘Try me.’ <br />
<br />
Norman turned around to face him. ‘It’s the thing about not having children. I’ve tried blocking it out. But then she wanted her own room. You know there’s been nothing for a long time. Just dry kisses, which have slowly moved away from my lips to my cheeks.’<br />
<br />
The man folded his arms. ‘I’ve been in a single bed next to my wife for years. You just need to find other pleasures like the rest of us.’ <br />
<br />
Norman looked out the window. ‘It’s also that I’m here in the best darn position one could imagine, and yet what I’m consumed by is the need for something very basic.’ <br />
<br />
The man was gone. Nothing else shared. No attempt to console. Norman felt more alone than ever. He undressed lazily and crawled into bed, curling up into a small ball, just like he used to do when he was a child. <br />
<br />
* * *<br />
<br />
He came to with a start the next morning and felt considerably better. He shaved and took a shower and slipped into another one of his suits hanging behind the door. This time he put on a normal tie with stripes of mauve and brown. <br />
<br />
He checked that his personal notes were secure in his briefcase and then rang the hotel reception to announce he was ready to be picked up. But as he placed his hand on the door handle, he suddenly felt the urge to yell out, to say something absolutely crazy. He stood there quietly, his head down towards the carpet, his briefcase feeling foreign in his hand. Then, coming from nowhere, he pictured himself walking to the conference in an old pair of slippers, shorts and a singlet. <br />
<br />
He walked down the corridor, still enjoying his vision. He shook hands with several of his colleagues waiting down the hall. ‘Did you hear me yell out the word bugger just now?’ he asked his personal secretary. ‘I could swear that just now, just before I opened the door to leave my room, I yelled out the word bugger. Are you sure you didn’t hear me?’<br />
<br />
On arrival at the conference venue, he had to push his way through the journalists and photographers gathered like hungry sparrows. This time he tried not to grin. He almost stopped to speak to the young TV reporter who’d been such an expert on his absence the day before, but he remembered what his team had advised him. ‘Thank you for coming.’ He closed his fists even tighter, knowing his mouth was lifting at the sides. <br />
<br />
He gulped with relief when he got inside the warmth of the conference centre. Down a corridor he saw what he presumed to be members of the choir due to perform later in the day. They were dressed in what looked like medieval costumes, with colourful, frilly skirts that seemed to rise and move on their own. Several of the men and women got excited when they spotted him, giggling themselves into huddles. He gave them a wave. ‘Morning!’ <br />
<br />
‘Hello, Mr Parker,’ yelled a young boy with a ducktail haircut, and who must have only been about six or seven. ‘I’m going to sing you a song,’ he said, before being hushed by his mother. The small lad’s chubby cheeks rose up and covered his eyes. <br />
<br />
‘Good for you,’ said Norman. <br />
<br />
The chairman greeted him with a slap on the back. ‘There’s apparently a crisis, if we believe what we see on the television.’ <br />
<br />
Norman wondered if he really was expected to say something. ‘No comment. Thank you for coming.’ <br />
<br />
The chairman laughed, but Norman could hear it was forced. Above his head, along some small windows in the ceiling, he saw a tiny bird thump into the glass. A sparrow? He wondered if it had been injured, or had managed to resume its flight. <br />
<br />
He was taken through to a large hall where special teams had started work on strategies for the coming year. <br />
<br />
‘We’ve scheduled your speech in for eleven o’clock,’ the chairman said quietly. He had a small stain on the sleeve of his cheap brown suit, which he’d been wearing since the 80s. Big flakes of dandruff were visible along his thinning hairline. <br />
<br />
‘I’m very much looking forward to it,’ said Norman.<br />
<br />
The chairman coughed. ‘I don’t think it would hurt to ... to refer to this thing with Joyce as well.’<br />
<br />
Norman looked around to see where he might be able to get an alcoholic drink. He was concerned he might not be able to cope with all the faces and just find himself reduced to flummery. He opened his briefcase to ensure his speech, mostly written by his aides, was in order. He didn’t have a clue what he could say about his separation. <br />
<br />
He was invited to sit in on one of the committee meetings. When he entered the room the delegates went quiet and looked him over for signs of disorder. He returned his gaze to the chairman, convinced that tears would come to his eyes. He took a seat near the back of the room, still avoiding any direct eye contact with the 30 or so delegates. The chairman left Norman on his own, telling him he would come back to fetch him a little later. <br />
<br />
His legs started to go numb and his head seemed to go cold. He could feel himself being catapulted somewhere else. This has never been this bad, he said to himself. He closed his eyes and tried to see if he could tune back into the dialogue around him. He heard nothing. He opened his eyes, but found the lights too bright to handle. How will I ever turn this around? He felt his lips shrivel, the bottom one dividing up into little individual sections, like the holes in a harmonica. <br />
<br />
At that moment he would’ve loved a reliable, wet whisky. He tried to open his eyes again. This time, though, he couldn’t even find the energy to move the muscles in his eyelids. He remembered moments over the previous few months when people with complex problems had looked up to him for leadership and wisdom. They read his silence as the sign of a great mind engaged in the search for a greater understanding, not realising that he’d simply been chewing over some trivial matter. The intermittent fluttering of the lashes? The widening and sharpening of the eyes? The slight raising of the head? He was simply being misread. <br />
<br />
The low hum of the delegates became audible again and then someone whispered in his ear. ‘You dropped this at the door, Mr. Parker.’ A young blonde woman, whom he recognised from previous conferences, placed a folded-up piece of A4 on his knee. She was already gone before he could say thank you. He opened the paper and saw the haiku poem he’d written earlier in the car. He read it again to check he’d counted the syllables correctly. <br />
<br />
up the red carpet<br />
into a cold, double life<br />
down slippery steps<br />
<br />
He thought it didn’t read too badly at all. <br />
<br />
‘Any chance of a shot?’ he said to the elderly woman who seemed to be in charge of a refreshments trolley nearby. The deep hollows in her cheeks and the dark half-circles under her eyes shocked him. He wondered if he looked just as bad. <br />
<br />
‘Of course, Norman,’ she said endearingly. ‘I thought they probably had something flash organised for you somewhere else.’ She sniggered behind a shaking hand.<br />
<br />
He found it amusing that she felt comfortable using his first name, and he thought he’d match her cheekiness. ‘Don’t suppose you have something stronger?’<br />
<br />
‘This hour of the day? Now wouldn’t that be nice.’ She winked and poured some coffee. ‘Here, this’ll give you strength for those pesky reporters.’ <br />
<br />
He could tell she was logging away their little chat, something she would probably tell her grandchildren: the day Norman Parker asked her for a hard drink in the morning. <br />
<br />
Through the small glass panels in the door, he caught sight of the chairman having a discussion with a group of other officials, expressions of grave concern on their faces. <br />
<br />
He took his place back on the plastic chair, knowing full well that eyes were following his every movement. The coffee was instant, with the taste of something that’s been sitting on an element for too long, but he hoped it would be enough to make him steelier. <br />
<br />
The elderly woman stood over him again, three gold teeth shining out from her smile. ‘You’re wanted outside, Norman.’ There was something winsome about her, something motherly and embracing. He thought it was a shame he couldn’t just chat with people like her. When he stepped out into the corridor, with its linoleum floor polished to excess, he saw his deputy had arrived as well. He bowled straight over to them, attempting to put a bounce in his step. ‘I see the military backup has arrived.’<br />
<br />
His deputy said, ‘You look tired, my friend.’ <br />
<br />
‘Just a little.’<br />
<br />
‘You fell asleep in there, which is terrible timing,’ said the chairman. ‘We’re trying to tell the world that everything’s all right.’ Some of his flakes of dandruff shifted precariously and threatened to tumble onto his face.<br />
<br />
Norman was surprised to be spoken to like that. He reached out to shake his deputy’s hand. <br />
<br />
‘Luckily you didn’t drop your little poem outside in the street,’ said the chairman. ‘The media would’ve had a field day.’<br />
<br />
‘Didn’t you like it?’ asked Norman. He grinned. <br />
<br />
The chairman lowered his eyes. <br />
<br />
The deputy said, ‘I can always give the speech in your place.’ He smiled mechanically, rolling back on his heels. <br />
<br />
Norman froze. <br />
<br />
‘If it’s feeling a bit hectic, there’s no problem,’ the deputy added. He smelt of soap, with his dark hair looking freshly cut and styled. He sucked on some kind of mint. ‘You could give yourself more time to let all this die down.’<br />
<br />
‘Yes,’ said the chairman. ‘Maybe it’s best you don’t do it.’ <br />
<br />
Norman felt his chest tighten. He frantically blinked, wondering how he could make himself seem more in control. There was a split second when he thought he might pass out. ‘Actually, I think I’d rather do it.’ <br />
<br />
‘Are you sure?’ asked the deputy.<br />
<br />
‘Absolutely.’<br />
<br />
The chairman and deputy exchanged a dark look, as if holding their breath, waiting for the other to talk first. At that very moment, though, someone came over to tell them that the main hall was ready for the address and the delegates had started taking their seats. The bustle became louder once the large doors to the main hall were opened, like big slabs of stone being hauled back to reveal a dark tomb. People scraped their chairs as word spread. At long last, Norman Parker would be making an address. He made a conscious effort to keep his lips together, tightened the noose around his neck and then let his feet lead the way. <br />
<br />
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© Copyright, 2010. Seamus Kearney. The Drunken Starfish.S. Kearneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03976476273818980832noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22117802.post-52183208267265431712010-01-19T23:40:00.009+01:002017-07-24T17:57:16.037+02:00A New Poem<center>
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<u>Panic in Howth Harbour</u></center>
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An elderly woman pointed, shaking<br />Help us! Ireland’s Eye is drowning! <br />Her trill echoed across all of Howth<br />The boy! The boy! Do something!<br />Sleeping dogs on a trawler stirred <br />People hurried to the harbour wall<br />Hands over mouths, eyes expanded <br />What was that? A boy’s in trouble? <br />One man already imagined a wake <br />But still no splashing could be seen<br /><br />The waves rose in anger, thumping<br />No sirens yet in the town. The boy! <br />For the sake of heaven! Somebody!<br />The elderly woman fell to one knee<br />It’ll be too late! Just throw the boy! <br />A Dubliner pleaded. Where is he?<br />You need to show us exactly where! <br />Quiet attempts to console her failed<br />A young man came barging through<br />We’ll just have to try! I’m going in!<br /><br />The crowd formed a line, searching <br />Ocean debris caused a girl to scream <br />Soggy chips discarded, plastic bags <br />The elderly woman grabbed at arms<br />I’m begging you! She is leaving us!<br />Martello Tower. Please rescue her! <br />Seabirds landed with petty squeals <br />Someone gently leaned into another <br />Her? I thought she said it was a boy<br />And throw the boy? Makes no sense<br /><br />Heads came together, murmuring<br />A frail gentleman cleared his throat<br />Well, I heard something quite odd<br />She said the island was drowning<br />More sore eyes came in off the sea <br />Someone pointed to an orange ring<br />Life ring? Life buoy? Ah - the boy<br />A young woman in white appeared<br />What’s all this then? Another tale? <br />You’ll get all these folk in a panic</center>
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© Copyright, 2010. Seamus Kearney. Panic in Howth Harbour - a poem. Photograph of Howth Harbour by Seamus Kearney.S. Kearneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03976476273818980832noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22117802.post-27843844203774072532009-11-06T02:37:00.007+01:002017-07-24T17:56:32.142+02:00Another Recent Poem<center>
<br /><u>The Alpine Loonies</u><br /><br />They breathe only to conquer Europe’s heaven,<br />those spry souls, hungry with mad adventure<br />Picks on raw shoulders, lips all but vanished<br />Are they hostage to her beauty, or her gloating?<br />For all the reminders of past frozen tragedies,<br />pleas from burning arms and legs are ignored<br /><br />Faint lines of silence, attached like convicts,<br />with a heaviness of feet, lightness of head<br />Princess Mont Blanc waves her ancient crown<br />Just how did she earn such blind devotion?<br />They can be delayed, stranded at the Midday<br />Needle, but only until the storm passes<br /><br />Mothers know little about the Alpine Loonies<br />They would faint to see those sharp drops,<br />their babies on icy tightropes, fast melting<br />And do they beckon French or Italian angels? <br />The impossible infants are now unreachable,<br />only looking up, no chance of going back</center>
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© Copyright, 2009. Seamus Kearney. The Alpine Loonies (a poem about Mont Blanc)S. Kearneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03976476273818980832noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22117802.post-85275180021496205832009-09-26T00:03:00.012+02:002009-09-28T16:00:27.253+02:00New Photos with Music <br />Here's a video of some of the best photographs from our summer trip to Eastern Canada: <em>"The Charm of Eastern Canada</em>". The images are accompanied by one of my original piano compositions, "<em>The Return to Acadia</em>". Make sure your speakers are turned up and click the play button below. If it stops and starts at the beginning, give it a little bit of time to download. Enjoy! <br /> <br /><center><br /><object width="640" height="505"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/WXsNKBiJch0&hl=en&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/WXsNKBiJch0&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="505"></embed></object><br /></center>S. Kearneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03976476273818980832noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22117802.post-1149634623822209672009-07-01T00:51:00.015+02:002017-07-24T17:59:14.845+02:00Another Recent Short Story<center>
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<u>The Plum Incident</u></center>
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Alex felt guilty as he rolled out from beneath his Saturday morning sleep-in, scratching and rubbing a sore shoulder. Responsibility leaves no poor soul in peace, like a cat that constantly sails around the feet. He was pleased that he’d managed to snatch a few hours away from his three younger siblings, but now the day's certain labour had to be faced. Only two weeks after his 17th birthday, Alex had no time to even think about a normal teenage life. <br />
<br />
In the living room, he surveyed the damage from the previous night. The children had been allowed peanuts and chips and overflowing glasses of soft drink. A screening from the Top Horror Films Of All Times collection had been promised all week, and Alex had spent the last of his gardening money on the rare supply of snacks. There would be plenty of time to vacuum before the Old Man returned from his three-week stint on the fishing boat. <br />
<br />
Alex massaged his middle and thought about lunch. Thank goodness for the unlimited supply of TV dinners in the freezer! The pre-cooked meals, wrapped in tinfoil, were given to the Old Man on a regular basis by one of his drinking buddies - stolen from the hospital where he worked, but fell off the back of a lorry, if anyone asked. The corned beef with mustard was normally okay, but the cabbage and mince was decidedly dangerous. It was always battle stations in their delicate stomachs. The pain and unpleasant aftertaste could hang around for days. <br />
<br />
On the way to the freezer, housed in a shed in the garden, Alex heard a deep male voice. He walked to the back of the section, doing his best to avoid the patches of slippery mud among the grass. He peered through the overgrown hedge and could just make out Toby’s red jumper. The Dutch man who lived there was asking where their father was, how often was he away from home, and why they weren't going to school every day? Toby, aged nine, didn't say too much. He just shrugged and pushed his fingers into his eyes. The little ones, David and Sasha, stood nearby.<br />
<br />
Alex yelled out, walking back a wee way from the hedge. “Toby! David! Sasha!” He pretended not to know where they were.<br />
<br />
“That must be Alexander,” said the neighbour. He jumped up and down, trying to raise his bald and freckled head above the hedge. “I would like to see you!” The man’s voice was stilted, a bit like the ones that come out of computers.<br />
<br />
“What for?” Alex yelled into the hedge as if it were a huge microphone. He tried not to sound too rude. “Have they done something wrong?”<br />
<br />
“No, no. Nothing like that,” said the man. “Do you want to come around and join us?”<br />
<br />
Alex hesitated, but he knew he had no choice. He decided not to climb through the hole in the hedge, which Toby had made a few months earlier; that would've been asking for trouble. He walked out the front and then down the Dutch family’s driveway, noticing that only half their name was on their letterbox. The last letters had been scraped away and he wondered if the young ones could have done that. It said Van den ... and that was it.<br />
<br />
As he made his way towards the neighbour's house, the problem became perfectly clear: the large plum tree in the corner of the children's property had been the source of the morning's entertainment. The Dutch family’s lawn was covered in plums, some rotten and some not ripe. The young ones had obviously hurled them over the hedge, and not just one or two. It was impossible to count the exact number, but there had been an absolute bombardment. This was no laughing matter. The plums also littered the family’s patio, with red patches all over the glass sliding doors.<br />
<br />
Alex ran up to his younger brothers and sister. “Bloody hell, you guys!” <br />
<br />
The wife arrived with a bucket and cloth. She was expressionless. A tiny thing in a yellow cardigan. <br />
<br />
“I am really sorry about this," said Alex. "They know they're not allowed to do that.”<br />
<br />
“Yes, I've already had a chat with them,” said the neighbour. He grinned and put his hand on Alex’s shoulder. “They tell me that you're looking after them, while your father's away for work."<br />
<br />
"It's very hard to keep an eye on them."<br />
<br />
"I was sorry to hear about your mother."<br />
<br />
Alex looked down at the grass.<br />
<br />
"But we have to be strong," said the man. "We can't let that destroy us."<br />
<br />
"I really am sorry about the plums," said Alex, still looking down. <br />
<br />
"Let's not say another word about it. I would like to invite the four of you to lunch.”<br />
<br />
Alex raised his eyebrows. He wondered if he had heard right. <br />
<br />
"How about it?" <br />
<br />
Alex tried to think of an excuse. The gap proved to be dangerous.<br />
<br />
“Great!" said the man. "You are very welcome."<br />
<br />
The wife cleared away the last of the plums from the patio. The young ones nervously began to help pick some up off the lawn, but Mr Van-den-something signalled to them not to bother. “Just come inside and wash your hands.”<br />
<br />
The young ones stared at their elder brother, waiting for permission. They knew they would be in trouble when they got home. Their little brains were addled. They'd been expecting to be shouted at. But it hadn't come. Not from Alex, who was too flustered to think, and not from Mr Van-den-something.<br />
<br />
Alex led the way. He was not sure what to expect. All he could focus on were the hundreds of plums, which lay like wounded soldiers on a battlefield. Surely a price had to be paid.<br />
<br />
The young ones looked silly sitting in a line on the sofa. Their faces were pale and they looked painfully sheepish. Alex felt embarrassed about their stained feet. Davie also had plum marks all around his mouth, and his hair resembled candy floss. Sasha had the demeanour of a grown-up. There was an unmistakable air of guilt across her face, but also a trace of arrogance and defiance. The children’s eyes were fixed downwards.<br />
<br />
The inside of the house was very austere, with nothing special for roving and curious eyes to rest on. Just ordinary furniture. A few nondescript pictures on the walls.<br />
<br />
“Did you know that only half your name is on your letterbox?” asked Alex. It seemed like the best way to break the silence, but then he realised it raised a bigger question. <br />
<br />
“Yes. We don’t know who did that." Mr Van-den-something did not look up as he put place mats and cutlery on the table.<br />
<br />
“I only just noticed it,” said Alex.<br />
<br />
Mr Van-den-something gave a small resigned smile. "My wife won't be long. She's in the kitchen preparing lunch." <br />
<br />
"Thank you," said Alex.<br />
<br />
"Our name is actually Van den Burgh."<br />
<br />
“Really? There’s a girl named Julie Van den Burgh in my work experience group at school.” <br />
<br />
“Yes, that's our niece,” said the man. But he didn’t look up. <br />
<br />
Alex then remembered that Julie had been caught shoplifting. Someone had told him that she'd punched a shop assistant when she tried to get away. The police had also found cannabis in her bag when they questioned her. <br />
<br />
Alex desperately searched for something to say, but Mr Van den Burgh spoke first. “Here,” he said, his manner somehow forced. “Come and take your seats at the table.” He made extravagant gestures towards the table and then disappeared into the kitchen.<br />
<br />
The children looked at their brother for guidance, but he deliberately avoided their eyes. <br />
<br />
There were only four places set at the table. Toby and David nervously slid into two of the seats. Sasha remained on the sofa. Alex stood up and hesitated, wondering why only four places had been set. The Van den Burghs didn't want to eat? <br />
<br />
The husband briefly poked his head around the kitchen door. “What? Only two for lunch?” <br />
<br />
Alex and Sasha awkwardly made a move for the table. He felt uncomfortable, but couldn’t think of anything to say. The four sat in silence, surveying the cutlery and napkins neatly placed out before them.<br />
<br />
Mr Van den Burgh appeared again. “It’s a very special lunch today.” His voice sounded higher, excited. "In many homes, sitting down at the table is the time for a family to come together, to sort out their problems, to reflect on how their lives are going. It's also a time for the adults to communicate with their children." <br />
<br />
Then, with a terrible clatter, the kitchen door burst open. The wife came charging in, and everything seemed to unfold at half speed. <br />
<br />
Alex caught sight of two small buckets. The couple seemed to have huge hands all of a sudden, covered in what looked like blood. <br />
<br />
The young faces had no time to react. The hands smeared and smudged. <br />
<br />
No patch of bare skin was spared. The mush was lathered on thick. Small heads tossed about. The red flesh was smacked over their faces, smothered through their hair. The cruel juice dripped down their young pale necks. No one tried to get up. The manic onslaught was just too incredible to take in. <br />
<br />
Alex understood then that he had been left alone. The silent witness? <br />
<br />
Toby, David and Sasha had their innocent mouths filled up with the mushed-up plums. They showed very little resistance. Their faces were totally covered. The pulp was everywhere. No one laughed. Just humiliation. Ridicule.<br />
<br />
Outside, the four stood huddled in silence. Their eyes were wide and shocked, their mouths dropped open. Sasha whimpered slightly, half-heartedly trying to scrape the mess out of her hair. <br />
<br />
Alex turned and watched the Van den Burghs close the sliding door. They calmly started to wipe down the chairs and table. They did not look up. They hadn't said a single word during the onslaught. <br />
<br />
The four shook as they made their way home, united in their shock.<br />
<br />
Toby started to sob. "Adults aren't supposed to do things like that to kids."<br />
<br />
"No, they're not," said Alex.<br />
<br />
"They told us we were going to have lunch," said David.<br />
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Alex stopped and looked down at the teary eyes before him. He thought for a moment, struggling to stop himself from shaking. "When they were little, they mustn't have had a big brother to teach them how to be good."<br />
<br />
"I'm glad we don't live with them," said Sasha. She brushed down her stained dress, lifted her head and marched towards the house.<br />
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© Copyright, 2009. Seamus Kearney. The Plum Incident - a short story.S. Kearneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03976476273818980832noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22117802.post-90989157288827787232009-02-16T15:57:00.010+01:002017-07-24T17:59:49.325+02:00Another Recent Short Story<center>
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<u>The Eyes and Ears of Kinnercree</u></div>
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Naturally, I ended up being found out. But at least I did my best to shake everything I could out of that highly charged moment. What delicious drama! My name tag and crucifix snatched off me and tossed to the floor! In a totally improvised performance, I played up to their worst fears, with one hand on my raised hip and the other over my crotch. I’m not sure that any of those poor souls actually heard it, but I hissed slightly, like a deadly snake that managed to get away from Saint Paddy. It must have looked as if I really were possessed. For that glorious exit alone, though, the whole sorry affair had been worth it. <br />
<br />
As it happened, it turned out to be my defining moment.<br />
<br />
But to understand what took place, you need to know the background of my connection with Father Michael (I don’t even know if he had a surname). This was a man of the cloth who was seen as a bit of a maverick around Cork. Well, in the church they wouldn’t have used a word like that; they would’ve said that he was a bit of a character, and some might have even stretched their words in private to say that he was peculiar. But they would have quickly added that he was harmless and enthusiastic, which wasn’t a bad thing for an organisation struggling to keep its darker numbers in check.<br />
<br />
When he cornered me at the end of mass one November morning, just two weeks before I was due to escape on the train to Dublin to begin a music course, I admit that I was more than perplexed. He hadn’t spoken to me for at least 18 months, not since the “little chats” my parents had set up, at which I insisted that I really couldn’t be changed. After a lot of praying on his side, and tearful stubbornness on my side, I’d been forced to accept that being “like that” could only be tolerated if my impulses weren’t physically acted upon. He told me he was prepared to accept that values in society were changing, and people like me had a right to be respected, but there would never be any comfort found in "entertaining the whims of the flesh". Yes, quite. <br />
<br />
For a 17-year-old living on a farm, 60 miles too far out of Cork, and with parents who never let their first-born go into the city on his own, it seemed the agreement wouldn’t be too hard to keep. My thoughts and fantasies were taken care of in increasingly novel ways in my bedroom, and as long as those wicked impulses weren’t acted on outside of those walls, my parents didn’t need to worry about the risk of me standing on the terraces above hell. I even continued to attend mass, while I bided my time in peace, free of any unbearable, weepy speeches from my parents. <br />
<br />
It’s true that I really had thought that ma’s discovery of my happy inclination had sealed my fiery end (she'd apparently fainted when she found a grubby stash of English male pinups behind the false panel in my desk). However, when Father Michael had been discreetly employed, they seemed eager to believe that he would adequately take care of the matter. Just three sessions together turned out to be enough to reassure my folks. It’s funny to think of it now, but they never even asked about the outcome, like they thought it better not to implicate themselves further by knowing the details. It had become the business of the church, a matter between me and Father Michael, between me and God, and they had seen no need to be briefed on how the matter had been resolved. <br />
<br />
That’s why it was so astounding when Father tapped me on the shoulder at the end of mass that day, in front of my parents, and asked if he could see me in private. The expression on my mother’s face will stay with me for the rest of my life: a look of utter hurt and disappointment, as though I’d let them all down and we would have to return to those ghastly nights when no one slept. My father walked away, pretending he hadn’t heard a thing. Even though Father Michael took my mother’s hand and told her there was nothing to worry about, and that he only wanted to see me for something related to the parish youth group, the pain on her face failed to dissolve. She stumbled slightly and swayed as she went outside to join my father.<br />
<br />
Father Michael entrusted me with a secret project, which I was told to keep from my parents, despite their obvious distress. It didn’t exactly sound like a mission from the big boss above, but Father was convinced that my presence at the seminary in Kinnercree the following weekend, where 14 new recruits were to be assessed for their suitability for the priesthood, would be indispensible. I was to be the eyes and ears of God, he said, although it did cross my mind that surely the Almighty would be pretty good already when it came to seeing and hearing things. <br />
<br />
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* * *</center>
<br />
We settled down to dinner with Father Michael in the grand old hall of the seminary, puffed up in the black frocks we’d found at the ends of our beds. The cold stares and crude haircuts of young priests from previous years stood out on the sombre wooden walls above us, provoking an uneasy question: what had become of them all? Someone beside me said many of the pictures, now stained and yellow, dated back to the 1920s. Out of all the portraits I took in, not one seemed to show even the remotest sign of joy. How many were now in jail for unspeakable acts? Shipped off to the New World because of their love for the bottle? Happily married with children? <br />
<br />
‘This is a great journey you’ll be embarking on,’ said Father. He took his time to focus on every single pale face. ‘This is an alliance with God, and the rewards are many. But let me say right here and now that there is no shame in admitting that this road is not for everyone. Some of us may find that we’re actually not able to devote our lives in this way. Some of us may find that although God’s voice has called us, we need to be honest about whether we are ready to follow with our hearts open and our minds at peace.’<br />
<br />
Some of the boys put their heads down, as though deep in prayer, others nodded and beamed with enthusiasm. <br />
<br />
‘This weekend is the time for that reflection. This is the time we get to decide whether we want to be part of God’s family, to advance only in his shadow, forgetting our own selfish needs and ideas. This weekend we must decide whether we are willing to leave ourselves behind. Our lives will be devoted to one person, and one person only. The ways of the world, of the flesh, must be put aside. Are we ready for that?’<br />
<br />
We ate our meal in silence (delicious New Zealand lamb with a thick mint sauce, and baked potatoes and peas). An elderly woman served us, daring not to meet any of the young, earnest eyes around the table. A gale outside seemed to be making its way through the panels in the walls, creating a faint whistling sound. <br />
<br />
‘Where are you from?’ asked a young man beside me.<br />
<br />
I didn’t immediately turn towards him, but I’d already clocked his tightly-cropped blonde hair and bright rosy cheeks.<br />
<br />
‘Just outside of Cork,’ I said. <br />
<br />
‘I’m from Galway myself. Stephen Dunne.’ <br />
<br />
Very slowly, I took a piece of gristle out of my mouth, and did my best to remain composed. I waited a moment before I turned to get a better look at him. <br />
<br />
Wham! A thousand sirens! <br />
<br />
I swear that my heart stopped for five seconds as the piercing beauty of his eyes went through me. They were bluish grey, framed with the longest lashes I’d ever seen. I almost couldn’t speak. ‘Hello, Stephen. I’m Tim. Timothy O’Malley.’<br />
<br />
I soon became aware of Father’s glare. Had he seen my chest freeze, and my face ignite with something magical? I thought back to that crisp conversation he’d had with me, where my “special calling” for the weekend had been confirmed. Well, he hadn’t actually spelt anything out in plain language; it had all been a bit cryptic really, though I did get the general idea that he wanted me to assess whether any of the boys shared my inclination. The Bishop had suggested that more vetting was needed, to avoid the heartache and distress threatening to envelope the church and empty out the pews! And who better to do a bit of secret vetting than someone who knew exactly what to look out for? Perfect.<br />
<br />
‘They reckon we’ll be getting a stint at the Vatican next month,’ said Stephen Dunne, whose broad frame I’d now begun to discreetly admire.<br />
<br />
‘Rome?’<br />
<br />
‘We might even get to help the Pontiff prepare the Wednesday and Sunday messages.’<br />
<br />
‘Grand.’<br />
<br />
I didn’t want to think about the fact that he might go to the Vatican and never look back, that he would get swept up in the emotion of it all and dive blindly in. He had to be stopped. What a terrible waste! What a tragedy! I didn’t even bother to engage with the others around the table, and continued to avoid Father’s searching eyes. I’d earlier checked out the other boys, before we chose our places, and I knew straight away that none of them were of real interest. One or two of them looked like they might be like me, but it was the Dunne lad with the blonde hair and the devastating eyes who now demanded my utmost attention.<br />
<br />
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* * *</center>
<br />
A sofa by the fireplace in the main lounge turned out to be the perfect place to chat, with me even pretending at one point to be interested in the numbing details of his small parish. We talked for hours, and I don’t think I misread things when his hand brushed up against mine at one point, when we both jumped up to contain an explosion of embers. Hallelujah for the sparks! I remained flushed, and my heart seemed to be jumping from one side of my chest to the other. <br />
<br />
Eventually, Father brought us hot drinks and asked us whether we’d had a chance to mingle with some of the others.<br />
<br />
‘Mingle? But the two of us are getting on so well together,’ I said. <br />
<br />
Father was standing behind Stephen and so felt safe enough to scowl at me. ‘Mingling is part of what we’re supposed to be doing.’<br />
<br />
This forced Stephen to his feet, all apologetic and flustered. He left Father and I alone to shuffle our feet close to the flames.<br />
<br />
‘For the sake of heaven, O’Malley. You’re not supposed to be taking a shine. You’re supposed to be assessing.’<br />
<br />
‘Taking a shine?’<br />
<br />
‘I may be old and fusty, but I’m not blind to it.’<br />
<br />
‘I am assessing, Father, just as you asked!’ <br />
<br />
He rubbed his eyes, pushing the fingers hard into the sockets. ‘Assessing and helping me, O’Malley. To decide who needs urgent counsel.’ His frown looked painful.<br />
<br />
‘And it’s a pleasure to be of service, Father.’<br />
<br />
‘Good boy. Now mingle! So we know who we’re dealing with. We’ll get this sorted yet, please God.’ <br />
<br />
Stephen slapped me hard on the shoulder in one of the narrow corridors that led to the chapel. ‘That sounded mighty serious,’ he said. He smirked and guided me along with a hand on the small of my back.<br />
<br />
‘That was Father telling me off. I’m supposed to be mixing and mingling. The eyes and ears of God.’<br />
<br />
‘Eh? But we’re all the eyes and ears of God. That’s the beauty of it. We’re all one and the same.’<br />
<br />
‘Wouldn’t that make life easier now!’<br />
<br />
The sound of some of the boys singing behind the closed door of the chapel was surprisingly good. We entered as quietly as we could, to hear the last few verses of <em>Wild is the Wind</em>, which I thought was a strange song to be singing in a chapel. Were non-religious tunes like that allowed in Catholic churches? It brought back memories of Grandma Jessie, who used to turn up the volume whenever the track came on the radio. <br />
<br />
The pew we chose to sit down on creaked as we settled in, causing a few of the others listening to turn around and frown. The smell of burning candles, mixed in with incense, helped me to relax.<br />
<br />
I realised then, through moist eyes, that any one of them up there on that small altar might have been of interest: the way they rubbed shoulders and swayed from side to side; the way some of them flicked their fringes out of their eyes; the little looks they exchanged when they leaned back and struggled to reach the high notes.<br />
<br />
The lyrics spoke to me in such a dramatic way that my insides became all churned up. I felt giddy when I realised how close Stephen was sitting up against me, and that he seemed to be gently pushing himself closer and closer. I stared straight ahead at the open mouths, trying my best to memorise the beautiful lines being delivered. Our hands, palms down on the bench, briefly touched. Our knees also knocked together slightly. I felt so uplifted that I truly believed nothing would ever again be able to drag me down. <br />
<br />
The thrill didn’t last long, however. <br />
<br />
As we headed back to the dining hall for the promise of an evening hot chocolate, accompanied by a reading from the Old Testament, it became clear that something wasn’t right. A couple of boys stepped in front of me in the corridor and ushered Stephen to go on by, closing the door behind him. The boys had stern looks on their faces.<br />
<br />
‘What’s this then?’ I grinned and tried to appear relaxed.<br />
<br />
‘Someone overheard something quite troubling,’ said one of the boys, a tubby type with a heavy northern accent.<br />
<br />
‘Oh?’<br />
<br />
‘Something about you not really here to become a priest,’ said the other boy, who was very clearly English.<br />
<br />
‘That’s utterly ridiculous.’ I looked back along the corridor to see if there was anyone who might serve as a distraction, someone I could catch up with or call out to.<br />
<br />
‘So if you’re not becoming a priest,’ said the tubby boy, ‘then who are you?’<br />
<br />
I folded my arms and leaned back. ‘I’m the eyes and ears of the Almighty.’<br />
<br />
They burst out laughing.<br />
<br />
I shouted, ‘I’m telling you! I was chosen to be the eyes and ears of Kinnercree!’ I hadn’t meant to be quite so loud and theatrical.<br />
<br />
They stopped laughing and came closer, their eyes sharp and inquiring. One of them took me by the arm.<br />
<br />
I figured that frankness was all I had left. ‘Who told you then?’<br />
<br />
‘Someone overheard Father Michael in his office, complaining about you on the phone, about how you’re not buckling down to your secret little mission here. Vetting is the word I think he used. Homosexual was another one.’<br />
<br />
‘Oh dear.’<br />
<br />
I accompanied my inquisitors to the dining hall, where the others stood around with their big mugs of hot chocolate. The glum looks on their faces left me with no doubt that word had spread quickly. A traitor amongst us! That’s when one of them flounced up and yanked off my name tag and crucifix, which Father had so delicately attached to my frock with a safety pin.<br />
<br />
‘That's not how priests are supposed to act,’ I said. <br />
<br />
The crucifix landed face down. <br />
<br />
Another boy stepped forward. ‘We’ll pray for you. That’s all we can do. We’ll pray that Father will also be forgiven for this shameful episode.’<br />
<br />
Without any hesitation I started moving my hips. I tried my best to imitate the vulgar transvestite my cousin and I had once seen in a crazy American movie in Dublin. It just came to me like that, this burst of a feeling that those boys badly needed to come face to face with the irreverence they seemed to be so afraid of. If I hissed as I moved, it was only because I fell so easily into the character I’d seen in that film. Not one boy raised his mug to his lips. They looked like wax figures, their eyes bulging, their mouths prised open. One did, however, discreetly take hold of his wooden rosary beads. He looked up at the ceiling as he pressed them hard against his chest.<br />
<br />
<center>
* * *</center>
<br />
That was such a long time ago now that it’s a wonder I can still remember all of the minute detail. I only got it three quarters right when I retold the story at our reconfirmation ceremony in New York last month. Of course, we had the sound of Nina Simone and <em>Wild is the Wind </em>behind us, and I thought of those skinny lads in the chapel, producing waves of velvet with their voices. That’s really confirmed now as mine and Stephen’s anthem, having seen us through such a horde of summers and winters.<br />
<br />
‘33 years since you defrocked me,’ he whispered after the service. <br />
<br />
‘No one forced you to come chasing after me, Mr Dunne.’ I made a silly face and tugged on his tie, before we were thrown together for another snapshot.<br />
<br />
Squeezing my elbow firmly, just like he’d done all of those years before in Kinnercree, he said, ‘Whatever they say about the misdemeanours of Father Michael, it’s him we have to thank for this little union of ours.’<br />
<br />
I nodded and turned the ring on my finger. ‘We never did find out if he really understood the irony of what happened. Do you remember his last words to us?’<br />
<br />
‘No, but I can tell you it certainly wasn’t praise for those eyes and ears of yours!’<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
© Copyright, 2009. Seamus Kearney. "The Eyes and Ears of Kinnercree". Short story.S. Kearneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03976476273818980832noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22117802.post-55846286683507580382009-01-24T18:20:00.007+01:002017-07-24T18:00:15.373+02:00Another Recent Poem<center>
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<u>The Brown Cloth</u><br /><br />My peculiar porcelain boy,<br />living your awkward love.<br />How unbearable to watch<br /><br />you recoil from her touch.<br />Afraid of being exposed,<br />rendering intimate truths.<br /><br />Her protests are open now,<br />against me, our odd ways.<br />Users of the brown cloth,<br /><br />old bathroom modesties.<br />The flesh denied freedom,<br />our bodies golden temples.<br /><br />Inhibition over exhibition,<br />a mother’s lasting regret.<br />Will your past stay present,<br /><br />keeping you forever timid?<br />Forgive me my hapless son,<br />stained by the brown cloth.</center>
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© Copyright, 2008. Seamus Kearney. "The Brown Cloth".S. Kearneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03976476273818980832noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22117802.post-67941243725859923052008-10-07T03:37:00.000+02:002009-02-16T16:44:48.408+01:00Featured Photograph <br /><center><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/DancingInBordeauxPhoto.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a></center><br /><br />In August, 2008, this photo - Dancing In Bordeaux - won the weekly "Send us a snap" contest run by <em>The Guardian </em>newspaper in Britain. I won a Rough Guide for my efforts! <a href="http://shamelesswords.blogspot.com/2007/11/shameless-gallery.html">Click here to see a collection of my photographs.</a><br /><br /><br />© Copyright, 2008. Seamus Kearney. This may be published on non-commercial websites and in non-commercial publications, but only when Seamus Kearney is identified as the author.S. Kearneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03976476273818980832noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22117802.post-69113182986770271892008-10-06T11:59:00.000+02:002017-07-24T18:04:47.119+02:00Have you also read ... ?<center>
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<u>The Dresses That Won't Be Chosen</u></center>
<br />
When I entered the shop I triggered some ghastly buzzer, which made me jump like a deranged woman. My elegant posture vanished and my cheeks fell. The noise was similar to what I’d set off the day before when I walked underneath one of those security arches at the island’s main airport. Instead of wishing me a lovely holiday, the guards had got all excited about my innocent buckles and a coin lost in loose stitching. Another ear-splitting buzzer was the last thing I needed. <br />
<br />
The elderly shopkeeper sitting inside didn’t look up, though. Madam stayed focused on some ears of corn she was dehusking with a small knife. I use the word madam, but she could very well have been a man. The dry, chubby hands were definitely masculine, and so too was the grimy woollen hat. I would’ve said mister if it hadn’t been for the stockings and red, pointy shoes. <br />
<br />
The lady should’ve been happy, no? No one for kilometres, and then there I was, stumbling into her dingy shack. I mean, you wouldn’t exactly call it a shop. Don’t make me laugh.<br />
<br />
‘Those dresses hanging up outside,’ I said.<br />
<br />
‘Not for you, dear.’ She ripped the hair and skin off another poor cob, still not wanting to see my face.<br />
<br />
‘Not for me? I’m sorry?’<br />
<br />
‘They’re for other women.’ She kicked the pot of naked corn in front of her. <br />
<br />
Had she wanted to force the cobs to the bottom to make more room? Or had the lashing out been a warning? ‘The white dresses outside,’ I said more forcefully.<br />
<br />
‘Sorry, my love, but you’re not going to be wearing one of those.’ This time she looked up, pulling off her hat. Yes, a man’s face. Eyes almost bleeding. Short, scruffy grey hair. Skin that resembled pastry. A man! Except for those shoes and stockings, and a dress made of dark velvet.<br />
<br />
‘Well, no one else is wearing them,’ I said. A dim bulb crackled overhead, swinging from what seemed to be shoelaces tied together. ‘I have American dollars. I presume yours is a business that relies on profits?’<br />
<br />
‘It’s not about money, dear. I just didn’t make a dress for someone like you.’<br />
<br />
‘Well, of course you didn’t! I wouldn’t expect to find something made to order.’<br />
<br />
She laughed and shook her head, the knife looking dangerous in her hand. ‘Don’t get angry. It’s not good for you.’<br />
<br />
‘I could just try one on, madam. It’ll take just two minutes.’ I did feel angry. I thought these island traders were the ones who had to hustle. If I hadn’t had my heart set on the dress with the fine lacework around the middle, I would’ve stamped my way out of there, slamming her cardboard door behind me. <br />
<br />
‘We have one for a woman who will fall in love,’ she said, her eyes now fixed on the ceiling. ‘There’s another one for a woman who will fall pregnant. Then there’s one for a woman who will love another woman.’ She looked sideways at me. ‘There’s also one for a woman who will leave her husband. Plus there’s one for a woman who will make a lot of money.’ <br />
<br />
‘Eh? Come again? How on earth do you know I’m not one of those women?’ The knife changed hands, slitting the neck of another innocent cob. I stepped back away from the bulb, over towards a dusty counter, and almost fell over a box full of colourful beach umbrellas. ‘You’re not making any sense.’<br />
<br />
‘You’re just not one of those women, my love. They told me when you came in. You need a different dress. But I haven’t anything right now. I don’t know what they want me to make yet. Next week.’ She kicked the pot again and then gave it a couple of shakes with both hands. <br />
<br />
‘They?’ <br />
<br />
One of the white dresses moved in front of the window outside, puffed up by the sea breeze. Thin rays of sunlight came through the decorative bits.<br />
<br />
The old woman stood up and brushed bits of corn silk and leaves from her dress. ‘Come back next week if you want, dear. But remember that they choose you. You don’t choose them.’<br />
<br />
‘What a load of nonsense.’ I laughed, but the sound seemed to be much lower than usual, like something had altered my voice. I put my hand up to my throat.<br />
<br />
‘If you want a dress that chooses you, that could bring you something, come back. Maybe it will offer you the very thing you want.’<br />
<br />
I marched to the door and then spun around to face her. ‘Oh, I don’t think so. I haven’t heard anything so crazy in my entire life. Dresses that won’t be chosen? Dresses that pick out women and then change their lives? How utterly ridiculous!’<br />
<br />
The shopkeeper lifted up the pot without any effort and placed it on a table. She smiled. ‘Take care of yourself, dear.’<br />
<br />
Out in the street, I found my husband stroking one of the dresses. ‘So, which one did you choose?’ he asked.<br />
<br />
I got closer and saw he'd taken a hold of the one with the lacework around the middle. ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Let’s go.’<br />
<br />
He didn’t release his grip on the dress, though. He held it out to me, grinning like a child. ‘It’s funny, but I’ve just had a strange vision of you in this one. Barefoot and pregnant. In a field of corn.’<br />
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© Copyright, 2008. Seamus Kearney. "The Dresses That Won't Be Chosen"S. Kearneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03976476273818980832noreply@blogger.com46tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22117802.post-1152500338413575882008-10-05T03:11:00.000+02:002009-02-16T17:13:15.409+01:00And from the poems archive ...<center><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/945/1242/1600/recent%20004.jpg"><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/945/1242/400/recent%20004.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><u>the captured rainbow</u><br /><br />from Aotearoa's milky tide<br />comes peculiar iridescent life,<br />perhaps a testament, an atlas,<br />or a sparkling purse of time<br /><br />a rainbow's captured in there,<br />a sunburnt lad screams out,<br />thinking of his favourite gran,<br />unsteady on seaweed paths<br /><br />they feel warm on his chest<br />can the colours mark the skin?<br />paua shell, says a dusty book,<br />Haliotis Iris, species of abalone<br /><br />this rainbow, caught off Raglan,<br />where surfers play with seagulls,<br />is ready to glow even further,<br />in a fine anniversary necklace<br /></center><br /><br />© Copyright, 2006. Seamus Kearney.S. Kearneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03976476273818980832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22117802.post-1165186282493998292008-10-04T23:37:00.001+02:002009-02-16T17:27:20.737+01:00A Musical PoemLooking for a new experience in poetry? I've taken one of my original poems, about Dublin, and set it to one of my original piano compositions; now they are one in the same. They both share the same title: <em>The Siren of Absence</em>. Hopefully, the experience is something new: words, music and images. Just click twice on the play button. <br /><br /><br /><center><object width="625" height="555"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Qw7T97n1NYY"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Qw7T97n1NYY" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="625" height="555"></embed></object></center><br /><br />© Copyright, 2007. Seamus Kearney. "The Siren of Absence".S. Kearneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03976476273818980832noreply@blogger.com41tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22117802.post-78247888282345769072008-10-04T23:26:00.000+02:002017-07-24T18:04:01.462+02:00A New Short Story<br />
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<u>Stirring Coffee With Scissors </u></center>
<br />
When Alice and her old friend Kelvin stepped off the train at Amsterdam’s main station, a gust of wind swept up a mix of paper and dust, forcing them to turn their heads and cover their eyes.<br />
<br />
She said, ‘I told you there was a risk of getting swallowed up. But what a wonderful risk, eh?’<br />
<br />
‘I think you’ll find they call that a bad omen, Alice.’ <br />
<br />
Kelvin’s friends had tried to warn him that Amsterdam wasn’t exactly the ideal destination for someone tortured by years of impotence. Punishment, temptation and degrading were some of the words that came to their lips. He wouldn’t have minded betting, though, that one or two of them had already seen the famous lights and animated window displays.<br />
<br />
The Amsterdam sun was on full beam; probably keeping indoors those who prefer to roam the streets in darkness, he thought. Tiger-coloured butterflies appeared beside them, making him wonder how creatures so fragile are able to survive the noise and pollution. Alice leaned into him and purred, touching his elbow in a motherly way. ‘Isn’t it just something, Kelvin? To think this has been here all this time and you didn’t know about it.’ <br />
<br />
She’d pestered him with the idea of a trip for weeks. The perfect summer break, she’d said, before starting her voluntary job at the library. He’d never been to the Netherlands, and the train specials did seem rather too good to refuse. Besides, what other plan did he have for the summer? She'd squealed with delight when he finally said yes. <br />
<br />
‘Amsterdam the lovely, Amsterdam the depressed,’ she said. She pointed out some unpleasant-looking men sitting together on a grass verge, drinking from wine bottles, with two or three dogs lying beside them. ‘They were probably such cute babies in their prams at one stage. Just imagine that. How terrible for the mothers to watch their babies grow into that.’ <br />
<br />
Alice was the sensible woman he knew he should’ve courted and married years earlier. Her no-nonsense bob was now grey, and her square face looser, but she hadn’t lost that caring aura. He could’ve so easily avoided all the complicated mysteries surrounding love and sex that life eventually threw up. People often asked why the two of them had never attempted some kind of fusion, what with their shared interests and their tendency to hover around the edge of social groups. <br />
<br />
They walked in silence for 15 minutes, glad not to have packed too much in their small suitcases. They crossed over small bridges, deeper into quiet suburbia, where pretty canals keep the cutest of Dutch homes afloat. Having studied a guide of the city on the train, Kelvin knew they were not too far away from the red light district. The air seemed to smell of chemicals, but he wondered if it might’ve just been his imagination. <br />
<br />
Before long they reached the house that Alice had unsuccessfully tried to describe. It was a mix of stucco, red brick and splendid dark wood, woven together as beautifully as a tapestry. The building was round, like a fat lighthouse, sandwiched in between more conventional structures. The whole thing appeared to slant to one side.<br />
<br />
‘Hasn’t changed since I used to come here as a little girl.’ She stepped back out onto the road to get a better view, putting her head to one side. ‘My dream home. Where I’d love to spend my dying days.’ <br />
<br />
‘Don’t be so morbid, Alice! Anyway, who said you’re going to have the luxury of dying at home?’<br />
<br />
She explained how she’d been invited to make use of the house by some friends of the family, away on a ‘six-month jaunt’ across Asia. The key didn’t turn in the lock at first, but when she gave the door a swift kick at the base everything worked as normal. ‘They told me that would be necessary, just in case you’re wondering if I have a habit of kicking in doors.’ <br />
<br />
The walls were graced with about half a dozen drawings that featured exaggerated genitals. One of the frames, on closer inspection, bore the title ‘Unashamed Nakedness’. Perfect for Amsterdam, he thought. There was no headroom and no space for nervy arms that wanted to swing and exercise. <br />
<br />
She said, ‘I’m going to try to see my niece while I’m here.’ <br />
<br />
He stepped back into the hallway so she could see his look of surprise.<br />
<br />
‘You didn’t know I had a niece living here?’<br />
<br />
‘If you’d told me I would’ve known.’<br />
<br />
‘Oops,’ she said. She held her suitcase up in front of her and mounted the stairs. ‘I can manage, thank you.’<br />
<br />
‘Oh, sorry. I’m just ...’<br />
<br />
‘Surprised. I know.’<br />
<br />
He was even more surprised three minutes later when Alice came back down the stairs and announced that she wanted to go and see her niece straight away, even before he had a chance to find out where he would be sleeping, and whether the house had a small terrace at the back that looked out over a canal. <br />
<br />
Her voice was shaky and her cheeks had turned red. ‘She went astray. A few years ago. Making a lot of cash, apparently.’<br />
<br />
He hadn’t left the hallway. He stood by a small cabinet and pretended to look at some shells and pieces of bark on display.<br />
<br />
‘I’m not sure if I’m being very clear,’ she said. ‘I find it hard to talk about.’<br />
<br />
He looked up and nodded. He had an inkling of what she was getting at, but he was worried that his mind had raced ahead and reached an outrageous conclusion. ‘You mean astray, as in ... the red lights?’<br />
<br />
‘Yes. Absolutely. That’s what I mean.’<br />
<br />
‘Oh dear.’<br />
<br />
She sighed and folded her arms. ‘You were the only one I could tell. No one else would’ve been able to come with me.’<br />
<br />
‘How awful for your sister.’<br />
<br />
‘It’s been awful for all of us. Sorry to have gotten you over here under false pretences.’ <br />
<br />
<center>
* * *</center>
<br />
When Alice painted a picture of her niece, Kelvin imagined a young woman the size of a cracker, flaunting her red bones in front of the curious and the serious. He’d been right of course, except she was neither the size of a cracker nor that young. <br />
<br />
They stood in front of a spotless window, which seemed oddly close to a Chinese restaurant, and watched Alice’s niece fill a bucket with water. He guessed she was probably in her mid 30s. The likeness between niece and aunt was incredible, though he dared not say anything. He could see Alice’s neck had gone red and her shoulders had bunched up. <br />
<br />
Lara turned and danced up to him. She wore a black velvet dress, which he thought looked very Al Caponish. She poked out her tongue and licked the glass, indicating with girly, lap-dancing enthusiasm that she wanted him to pay her attention. She obviously hadn’t yet spotted the anxious face of Alice. <br />
<br />
He felt uncomfortable watching Lara’s tongue make circles around the glass, and looked over at Alice to offer her an expression of solidarity. She didn’t look his way, though. She’d become crisp with shock. When Lara’s lingering tongue had finished, her hand took over the teasing, stroking her crotch. <br />
<br />
Alice banged on the door with frightening force.<br />
<br />
‘Aunty!’ Her tongue was now not so lingering. The expression of seduction switched into one of utter surprise. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ <br />
<br />
There was something pitiful in Lara’s voice. Her sass had gone. Her shoulders fell awkwardly. Her feet turned inwards.<br />
<br />
Alice said, ‘Please, Lara. Let me take you home.’<br />
<br />
‘I’m on ‘til four. You’ll have to come back.’ Her inflated brown eyes didn’t blink or turn away. <br />
<br />
He didn’t mean to, in the utterly tragic circumstances, but he couldn’t help but notice the wonderful generosity of Lara’s breasts, half exposed, creamy and soft. He looked away. <br />
<br />
‘What?’ Alice’s mouth dropped open. <br />
<br />
‘I can’t just go off when I like! I have to work until four.’ <br />
<br />
Kelvin thought she had a wonderful way of moving. <br />
<br />
‘I can’t believe you’re here again,’ said Alice, her voice breaking slightly. ‘You promised us you were making an effort ... and you were finished with Cedric.’<br />
<br />
‘Well, Cedric’s gone. And I am trying!’<br />
<br />
Kelvin took in the smoothness of Lara’s skin, although he did wonder whether he was being duped by the effect of the lights. He was fascinated by the hook-and-loop closures that ran down the side of her dress. Her imagined there might be a pistol tucked in behind a strap somewhere. <br />
<br />
Alice openly sobbed, her hands up around her face. ‘So this is what you do when you’re trying? You’ve got to let me help you, Lara. Can’t you see what harm you’re doing?’<br />
<br />
Lara raised her head, her snow-white hair spiked up with gel, like candyfloss under the lights. She gave that look that drag queens make when they’re about to unleash an insult. She walked back to get the bucket and started cleaning what looked like a massage table in the corner of the room, refusing to answer Alice’s tearful attempts to get her back to the glass. ‘Come back at four if you want. You’re bad for business!’<br />
<br />
After a strident walk back to the house, with not a word uttered, Alice and Kelvin sat on the stairs in the hallway, underneath a charcoal sketch of a woman sitting naked on a camel. She wept loudly and hugged her knees. He could do nothing but sit and try to listen to phrases he couldn’t understand. Dribbles and tears made her words frustratingly inaudible. She told the story of a stroppy niece and her life before the job in the window. ‘She always felt like she was totally unloved, no matter how many hugs we tried to smother her with.’ <br />
<br />
Kelvin thought the word ‘smother’ might’ve been the key to it. He tried to be a good listener. He nodded. He didn’t say anything. He almost took Alice’s hand. He felt enormous pity for her, and for Lara. He wished there was something he could do. <br />
<br />
‘She says she likes to feel the touch of a stranger. Likes to feel a hand touching her in intimate places, kind of like a fantasy. She assures me she never actually does it ... just lets them touch. Helped pay for her boyfriend’s drug habit, but she also says it’s the thrill of someone taking off her clothes.’ <br />
<br />
He felt embarrassed to hear Alice talk like that. They’d never had such a frank conversation before. He pictured Lara lying naked on her massage table, mesmerised by soft Chinese music and paper lanterns with twirling lights inside, and being touched by some happily married man with dry hands. <br />
<br />
‘Does your sister know?’ <br />
<br />
‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘That would kill her. Absolutely kill her.’ <br />
<br />
He thought back to that night when he was 18, when he still had the frailty and uncertainty of an eleven-year-old, and his father had taken him to London and dropped him off in a dark street behind a brewery. His father had told him that lots of nice girls would want to talk to him and he shouldn’t be afraid to give them money if they asked for it. Kelvin, puzzled and frightened, slowly figured out what he was supposed to be doing. As he stood there in the dark, letting himself be hopelessly groped, he realised that the woman who’d taken his money was actually a young man wearing a wig. He wondered what his father would say about the cold, masculine hand in his trousers. After a long drive home in silence, with Kelvin too angry to cry, he sat at the kitchen table and decided to tell his mother about what had happened. He made no effort to soften the words. She stared straight ahead, for what seemed like five minutes, and then cried. His father breathed heavily and spread his hands over his face. That night was the first time he’d ever seen his mother hit his father. <br />
<br />
A defeated-looking Alice stood up and said she needed to sleep. She said she had no energy to return to see her niece that afternoon and wondered if Kelvin would mind popping back to pass on a message. All the filth of the world seemed to be weighing her down. ‘I’ll go to where she lives in the morning. I’m not going to talk to her in that seedy place.’ <br />
<br />
‘It’s wonderful what you’re trying to do, Alice.’<br />
<br />
‘Sometimes I wonder why I bother. But I don’t want to have any regrets in this life, you know?’ She let her head fall back and then stretched her shoulders upwards, causing the shape of her breasts under her thin blouse to suddenly stand out. <br />
<br />
He hadn’t really noticed how beautiful she still was, despite the passing of the years. With her tears and heartfelt dialogue about her niece, she seemed to emit something extraordinary. He watched her close her eyes and sigh deeply, and he knew that some more profound feeling for her had manifested. He imagined that years ago he must’ve seen the outline of her breasts. He imagined, though, that in the midst of all his own anxiety and tension, they might just as well have been elbows or feet jutting out. He said, ‘You look tired. You really shouldn’t let this get you down.’ <br />
<br />
‘Yes, I need to recharge.’ She went over to a small table and began to write a note, using a pen and paper she found there. <br />
<br />
Kelvin walked over and saw it was elegant paper with roses printed on the bottom of the page. ‘Is that scented as well?’ He laughed. <br />
<br />
‘Yes, it is. What’s so funny?’<br />
<br />
‘Nothing.’<br />
<br />
‘No, tell me!’<br />
<br />
‘It’s just a bit strange, that’s all. Roses and perfume in this kind of situation.’<br />
<br />
‘I don’t see your point.’<br />
<br />
‘Forget it.’<br />
<br />
She dropped the pen and looked at him blank-faced. ‘Please tell me what I’m missing.’<br />
<br />
‘It’s just something you can’t explain. You either know what I’m talking about or you don’t.’<br />
<br />
‘You’re strange,’ she said. She picked up the pen and carried on writing.<br />
<br />
‘No, it’s OK. I think it’ll probably work. It’ll probably be exactly what’s needed.’<br />
<br />
‘I’m really lost here, Kelvin.’<br />
<br />
‘Really, it’s nothing.’ <br />
<br />
‘If you’re lucky, I’ll make up a bed for you on the sofa.’ She walked up the stairs. ‘Take the key with you. I really do appreciate you doing this.’<br />
<br />
He said goodnight and then took a quick look in the living room where he’d be sleeping. The room was very overcrowded with antiques, and at one end he noticed carpet went halfway up the wall. In amongst some very old European pieces – vases, china, dolls - there were modern, raw-looking objects. One carving showed a warrior with a huge penis sticking out from behind his shield; further along the mantelpiece there was a po-faced Victorian doll and a statue of what looked like a town crier decked out in splendid gold.<br />
<br />
As he closed the door behind him, he felt tired and depressed. He continued on down the street, though, deciding that if he breathed in deeply enough the city would empower him with its passion and energy.<br />
<br />
<center>
* * *</center>
<br />
It took only five minutes to find that seedy place that Alice didn’t want to see again, where the softness of the red could make anybody’s skin seem silky and inviting. He passed on the perfumed message through a gap in the door, his fingers suddenly fat and grubby, the veins swollen under his grey skin. <br />
<br />
‘Good evening,’ she said. ‘I thought you’d come back.’<br />
<br />
‘I’m sorry?’<br />
<br />
‘You have desperate written all over your face.’ She winked.<br />
<br />
He had to concentrate so as not to stammer. ‘It’s just to give you this message from your Aunt Alice.’<br />
<br />
‘Yeah, right.’ She laughed and sat down.<br />
<br />
The street stunk of human piss and kebabs, which is why it was so appealing to catch a whiff of what seemed to be red berries wafting out from the shop. He stood in the doorway and tried to decide whether he should risk going in. He smiled at the insanity of it. <br />
<br />
‘I don’t bite,’ she said, swinging a leg.<br />
<br />
‘I’m not here for any other reason except to give you that message, and to tell you how worried your aunty is about you.’<br />
<br />
‘And who are you?’<br />
<br />
‘Kelvin.’<br />
<br />
‘Pull the curtain Kelvin, or they’ll think I’m available. Unless you don’t have time for a chat.’<br />
<br />
‘A chat?’<br />
<br />
‘I wouldn’t dare suggest anything else.’<br />
<br />
They settled down on chairs across from each other. Kelvin folded his legs and tried to look concerned. He couldn’t help but imagine what she might be like with a client, allowing them to touch her soft terrain, where perfect valleys rose up to magnificent peaks. He reminded himself that she was someone’s baby girl.<br />
<br />
She kept staring at him, like the all-knowing.<br />
<br />
‘What do you mean I look desperate,’ he asked, clearing his throat.<br />
<br />
‘I get to know the faces.’<br />
<br />
‘That’s a very personal thing, and you don’t know me. I don’t like to judge but ... ’<br />
<br />
‘I know. No one likes to judge what we do. Don’t worry about it. Forget I said anything.’<br />
<br />
He was annoyed with himself that he’d agreed to sit down. He didn’t want to be there. ‘Alice is very worried about you.’<br />
<br />
‘I know she is.’ She stood up to rearrange her dress, grappling with the hoops and loops, which seemed to be the only things stopping the dress from falling to the floor. ‘You have a problem with sex. That much I can tell.’ She kept tugging on the top of her dress. <br />
<br />
‘You don’t know me.’<br />
<br />
‘I know enough about you from one look at you.’<br />
<br />
‘That’s very interesting.’ His face flushed and he wanted to get up to leave. He almost believed that she had the power to see that he hadn’t had sex for a long time, that there was a problem with his lower region. ‘They do it then?’<br />
<br />
‘Do it?’ She looked confused. <br />
<br />
Her eyes weren’t the simple brown he saw before. There were many different shades in there: flecks of yellow, green and marble grey. Small, broken veins were everywhere, like a tiny spider had been crawling around trying to lay a web of glass. ‘I mean, do they go the whole way?’ He coughed to cover his embarrassment.<br />
<br />
‘That’s what I’m here for.’ She dropped her head back and looked up at the ceiling. ‘For old men like you.’<br />
<br />
Kelvin opened his eyes wide. ‘Old men like me? Thank you very much.’<br />
<br />
‘Well, they’re hardly ever young and good-looking, are they?’<br />
<br />
‘Thanks for the compliment.’<br />
<br />
‘I’m sorry.’<br />
<br />
‘No, it’s just that Alice is under the impression you never actually let them .... that you only ever allow touching.’<br />
<br />
‘Oh, I just told her that to stop her worrying. This whole thing’s caused her enough drama, let alone tell her that some men actually do get the three-course meal.’ <br />
<br />
He checked to make sure that the curtain Lara had pulled around the bed was still in place and that no one was able to see them from the street. <br />
<br />
‘You’re a funny man, with your bald head and round cheeks.’ She went up close to his face. ‘Nice to make your acquaintance. Are you going out with screwed-up Alice?’<br />
<br />
‘No, we’re old friends. And she thinks it’s you who’s screwed-up.’ <br />
<br />
Behind a screen, in the corner of the room, was a packet of what looked like chocolate biscuits and a large bottle of Fanta. There was also a pile of books, the titles of which he couldn’t see. He imagined her sitting there during her breaks, reading and making a mess with her crumbs, not at all looking sexy or glamorous.<br />
<br />
She said, ‘We’re all screwed-up though, aren’t we? I mean, when I wasn’t working here, I was having sex with men I didn’t like anyway, trying to have fun, sleeping with men because that’s the way things always ended up. Why not get paid for it? Why not get something out of it?’ <br />
<br />
He wondered if her hair was real blonde or fake. There were no signs of dark roots, as far as he could see. ‘Have you ever had a boyfriend?’<br />
<br />
‘Yes, but they were all losers. Just looking for women to replace their mothers. I always wanted someone romantic, but he never came along.’ She searched the wall in front of her.<br />
<br />
‘Alice is quite worried about you ... and so are your parents.’<br />
<br />
‘They don’t really care. They just don’t want me doing this because it’s not a good look for the rest of the family. It challenges all of their values. They tried to sort me out with a job in a bakery, owned by one of their good Christian friends. Got me a nice little flat, bought me some sweet little dresses, told everyone I was doing well. It was just to keep me out of the way though, out of sight, so they could tell their friends and old relatives I was doing well. Didn’t last long, though.’<br />
<br />
It looked like there were pearls across her head, with the light reflecting off the small clips that kept her hair tight against her scalp. Gel wasn’t enough? He could understand wanting to clip back long flowing hair, but hers had no length to it, already minimal and cropped. <br />
<br />
He eventually said, ‘It’s a shame you haven’t found the man you’re after.’ He made some slight movement to indicate he wanted to get up, suddenly conscious of the time and the need to return to Alice. ‘It’s been nice having a chat.’<br />
<br />
‘Maybe we could go and get something to eat?’ she asked.<br />
<br />
‘I’d love to, but it really is late.’ <br />
<br />
Just before he left, he took in the view of Lara struggling with her dress again. He felt a surge of grief in his stomach. He realised he might just be in a place of profound truth. He wished he’d had the courage to talk to her about his problem, the desperateness that she so perceptively managed to see in his face. ‘Promise me you’ll meet up with Alice. She really means well.’ <br />
<br />
She didn’t answer. She just nodded with tiredness and pulled open the curtain. Back in business. <br />
<br />
He ventured through the confusing, narrow streets, where the silhouettes of men skirted along in the dark, no doubt fathers and husbands who had to race back to their families, the dull pain in their loins temporarily relieved. The memory of Lara’s face made him feel incredibly sad.<br />
<br />
He stopped off at a small food kiosk nearby and ordered a lemon and sugar crêpe. He was served by a plain young woman, whose floral clothes looked as if they’d been chosen by her mother. She took great care in making sure there were no breakages around the edges of the crêpe when she lifted it and placed it on a cardboard tray.<br />
<br />
He said, ‘I think it’s marvellous you’re doing this, not tempted by all of this around here.’ He could see she wore no make-up. <br />
<br />
‘What did you say?’ She had a severe, clipped accent.<br />
<br />
‘I mean, I don’t want to be rude, but many young girls fall into it.’<br />
<br />
‘Just take your pancake.’<br />
<br />
‘They could probably all find some kind of job like this couldn’t they, something more honest?’<br />
<br />
‘Goodnight, sir.’<br />
<br />
‘Have you ever wondered about doing that?’<br />
<br />
‘What are you trying to say, mister?’<br />
<br />
‘No, I mean, it’s only money isn’t it.’<br />
<br />
‘Good evening, sir.’<br />
<br />
‘You’re a good woman. Goodnight.’<br />
<br />
He walked briskly back to the slanting house, feeling pity for Alice and the job she had on her hands. He turned the key, but had to give the door a small kick. Luckily it opened without further bother and noise. As he crept down the hallway, trying not to make any more racket, Alice yelled out to ask how things had gone. He thought she must be in a room just by the landing, with the door open. Her voice was strong and clear, indicating she hadn’t been to sleep. <br />
<br />
‘No problem.’ He tried to choose his words carefully. ‘I think she’ll be more open about seeing you. We had a chat. I told her you mean well.’ <br />
<br />
‘Thanks, Kelvin. Let’s just hope she phones.’<br />
<br />
‘I’m sure she’ll call. Sleep well.’<br />
<br />
He didn’t put any lights on. He just felt his way into the lounge, where Alice had made up a bed on a comfortable-looking sofa. He lay down in his clothes and listened for a while to the house’s low creaking. As he drifted off it seemed the noise was coming out of the drawings on the walls. He dreamed he was nervously introducing Alice to his mother and father when he was younger, telling them how she would make a perfect wife. He was then looking out of a window in a house by the sea. He could suddenly see the transvestite from behind the brewery talking to Alice, revealing the truth about his first experience with naked flesh. His father was then licking Lara’s hands, ignoring an icy glare from his mother. <br />
<br />
A few hours later he heard a faint tapping on the door and then watched as the shape of Alice came into the room. ‘I can’t sleep,’ she said. <br />
<br />
‘What time is it?’ He tried to find his watch on the floor beside the sofa.<br />
<br />
‘I don’t know. Can I lie down with you?’<br />
<br />
Kelvin was shocked by the suddenness of it, and the way she asked the question with such ease. ‘Oh.’ He struggled to clear his throat.<br />
<br />
‘It’s not to do anything,’ she said firmly. ‘I just need to be with someone strong. Do you mind if I lie down beside you?’<br />
<br />
He nodded, half sitting up, not sure whether he should pull back the blanket or let her find her own way. He wanted to tell her that he wasn’t actually that strong. He held his breath and waited for their positions to become comfortable. Had she heard about his lack of action down below? <br />
<br />
Her warmth was incredible, her breath heavy and slow. She was tentative about how close she got, settling on the gentle touch of a knee behind his leg and her fingers on his shoulder. He stayed turned away from her, concerned that she may have something more exploratory in mind. <br />
<br />
There was nothing but talking, though. Warmth and talking, slow breathing, only the smallest amount of movement. They talked about their childhoods, their families, their failed marriages. The absence of a sexual feeling made Kelvin relax. After a few hours he was so elated and energised by the experience that he knew for certain that Alice had become even more special to him. He wanted to turn and touch her face after a while, but he just stayed in his curved position, soothed by the soft, sweet pull of her voice. It came to him that he might just tell her about his old attraction for her. He felt close enough to her at that point that he almost uttered the words. Sleep overtook them, though. Deep, rich and restful. <br />
<br />
<center>
* * *</center>
<br />
The next morning they sat in a great waterfall of sunlight in the kitchen, with a view over a pretty canal. Kelvin turned to Alice and wondered how she was going to react when he told her that he’d been pleased to spend the night with her, even if there had been no physical contact. He would tell her about the attraction he felt all of those years earlier, about how he found it hard to understand why they’d never tried to get closer. He would even tell her about his impotence. As soon as he caught her eye again, he would tell her everything. <br />
<br />
Suddenly, she said, ‘Sex, and our useless craving for love, have made so many people unhappy.’ Her eyes looked like they stung, the pupils dark and dilated. Strangely, she stirred their cups of coffee with a large pair of scissors. <br />
<br />
‘What?’ He looked down at the scissors, stuck on the thought that surely there must be some teaspoons in the house. He couldn’t say anything. The only words he had in his head were no longer possible, no longer a part of anything.<br />
<br />
‘No, I’m just starting to think that maybe I should be glad to be alone now,’ she said. ‘This whole love, sex, companionship thing really does leave me cold. It was nice to feel your warmth last night, Kelvin, but the rest of it has left me now. Do you know what I mean?’<br />
<br />
‘I’m not sure.’ He couldn’t lift his eyes. <br />
<br />
‘I was thinking about Lara, about what she’s doing. I think I was actually shocked by her resolve when I saw her, her total disregard for everything we say. Could it be that we’ll never rescue her, and we should leave her alone now? Could it be that on some level she’s closer to the raw truth about all of that business.’<br />
<br />
Kelvin stood up without thinking and had to hold his breath to stop himself from gasping. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. A young girl on the other side of the canal threw a large rock into the water, scaring away some swans being fed by some other children. <br />
<br />
Alice didn’t seem to notice his reaction. ‘Thank goodness we’re over the hill now. We don’t have to worry about all that nonsense, do we?’ <br />
<br />
He stood behind her and stared at her bare shoulders. ‘I think I’m going to head off into the city. I really could do with a brisk walk.’ <br />
<br />
Alice pretended to look hurt. ‘Without me? Without your favourite guide?’<br />
<br />
‘You need to be here for when Lara calls.’<br />
<br />
She sat back in her chair and looked out over the canal. ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right. For what it’s worth.’<br />
<br />
He got up and went to fetch his wallet.<br />
<br />
‘Don’t go and get lost on me now, Kelvin. Remember that this city can swallow people alive.’ <br />
<br />
The phone rang as he headed out the door, but he didn’t stop. The last thing he needed was for Alice to ask him about his tears. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
© Copyright, 2008. Seamus Kearney. "Stirring Coffee With Scissors". All rights reserved.S. Kearneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03976476273818980832noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22117802.post-5859499003926427922008-10-03T01:44:00.000+02:002017-07-24T18:03:20.140+02:00To Be Rescued<center>
<br /></center>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<u>To Be Rescued </u></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Hello? Can anyone hear me?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Yes. Hello. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Where the hell am I?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Where do you want to be?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Look, I really don’t know. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
So it doesn’t matter where you are then.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I actually hadn't thought about it.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Well now. You’re on a quiet beach.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Oh. So I am. A deserted island?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
You must be romantic. Or perhaps melodramatic?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Both, to be honest.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Would it matter if it weren’t an island?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I guess not.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Okay, so it is an island.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Oh. Will I be rescued?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Why does it have to be about getting rescued?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Because I’m alone on a beach. A deserted island. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
That’s all it means to you? Lost and alone? Deserted?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Well, unless it was my dream island.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Maybe it is.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
But would I really be alone?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Your dream island is crowded?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Well, no.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Be happy then.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
That’s it?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
What do you mean?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I just sit here and be happy?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
What else can you do?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I could explore. Go swimming. Sunbathe. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Yes, you could.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
But then what would I do?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
You could just take the time to enjoy things.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And then what?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Oh dear. I suppose you’d then want to be rescued.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
If this is all there is.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
All there is?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Sorry, but the options are quite limited.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
You haven’t experienced anything yet, and just listen to you. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Maybe you’re right.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And what if you really do belong here?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And what if I really do not?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Well, I don’t think you would’ve ended up here.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
What do you mean?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
If that’s the way it was, that’s the way it was meant to be.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Oh. I see. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And maybe you just need to be alone.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I’ve always been alone, even when surrounded by people.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
There. So you might as well stay here then.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Do you think so? Maybe you're right.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Good. Now you’re talking.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Talking? I thought I was thinking ... Hello? ... Are you still there? </div>
<br />
<br />
© Copyright, 2009. Seamus Kearney.S. Kearneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03976476273818980832noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22117802.post-80800126039583439382008-08-17T15:53:00.005+02:002008-09-16T02:47:50.605+02:00Featured Poem<center>Out of all my poems online, this is the one currently attracting the most hits as a result of referrals from search engines. It was written especially for identical twins.</center> <br /> <br /><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/therellbetwobadgebig-1.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><center><u>there'll be two</u><br /><br />two moons will manifest,<br />medallions in a purple sky,<br />so while one illuminates<br /><br />a country lane, the other<br />guides a stray fisherman<br />back to familiar shores.<br /><br />there’ll be two willows,<br />laughing in the breeze,<br />so while one protects<br /><br />delicate baby finches,<br />the limbs of the other <br />become climbing ropes.<br /><br />two flowers will rise,<br />burgeoning with colour,<br />so while one is plucked<br /><br />to offer some comfort,<br />the other willingly<br />surrenders to bees.<br /><br />there’ll be two rivers,<br />forging their own paths,<br />so while one might slow<br /><br />down to broaden and <br />explore, the other gives <br />way to vital rapids.<br /></center><br /><br /><br /><center>(This year we became the godparents of the little delights above - Roman and Simon - and this is dedicated to them).<br /><br />© Copyright, 2008. Seamus Kearney. "There'll be two - a poem for identical twins." This may be reproduced for non-commercial purposes, but only when Seamus Kearney is identified as the author. </center>S. Kearneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03976476273818980832noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22117802.post-45106296358701043672008-08-15T14:46:00.000+02:002009-01-24T18:25:37.585+01:00A Christmas Poem <br /><center><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/Non-stopxmasnew.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />Father Christmas has come to live with us,<br />Accepting an offer of the kids’ old room,<br />Keen to oblige with evening sing-alongs,<br />Satisfy our desire for unashamed humour.<br /><br />We found the old boy wandering the street,<br />So alone with his tales of good tidings,<br />Competing with all those big neon lights,<br />The families galloping from sale to sale.<br /><br />Some might think we’ve been horribly rash,<br />But we’re sold on our colourful new lodger,<br />Our home was in such urgent need of glee,<br />After those lengthy states of distraction.<br /><br />As long as he stays in his red and whites,<br />And doesn’t ever feel the urge to shave,<br />We’re so ready for a non-stop Christmas,<br />A permanent feast of heartening memories.<br /></center><br /><br /><br />© Copyright, 2008. Seamus Kearney. "A Christmas Poem - a non-stop Christmas"S. Kearneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03976476273818980832noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22117802.post-35389985845341594702008-08-15T03:14:00.000+02:002008-09-16T03:55:25.300+02:00A Musical Poem <br /><center>This is one of my poems, <em>The Captured Rainbow</em>, set to some original piano music and images that I filmed in New Zealand.</center> <br /><br /><center><object width="488" height="390"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/1_yNy5ZByS8"></param><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/1_yNy5ZByS8" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" width="488" height="390"></embed></object></center>S. Kearneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03976476273818980832noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22117802.post-22629892849317235582008-08-14T22:47:00.003+02:002008-11-11T23:17:03.421+01:00Photos of Rome - October, 2008<center><br /><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/Rome2008170.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/Rome2008068.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/Rome2008080.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/Rome2008199.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/CopiedeRome2008148.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/CopiedeRome2008326.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/CopiedeRome2008044.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/Rome2008007.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/Rome2008195.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/Rome2008292.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/Rome2008008.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/Rome2008185.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/Rome2008017.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/Rome2008126.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/Rome2008026.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/Rome2008125.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/Rome2008034.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/Rome2008376.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/Rome2008051.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/Rome2008116.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/Rome2008077.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/Rome2008123.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/Rome2008189.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/Rome2008152.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/Rome2008163.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/Rome2008155.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/Rome2008196.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/Rome2008314.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/Rome2008157.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/Rome2008254.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/CopiedeRome2008368.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/Rome2008194.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/Rome2008257.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/Rome2008288.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/Rome2008260.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/Rome2008253.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /></center><br />© Copyright, 2008. Seamus Kearney. "Photos of Rome". All rights reserved.S. Kearneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03976476273818980832noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22117802.post-40899118354264007212008-08-13T09:32:00.007+02:002008-12-11T10:14:20.647+01:00The Festival of Lights, Lyon - Dec, 2008 <br /><center><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/LightFestival2008003.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/LightFestival2008005.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/LightFestival2008010.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/LightFestival2008014.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/LightFestival2008015.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/LightFestival2008049.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/LightFestival2008053.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/LightFestival2008055.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/LightFestival2008058.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/LightFestival2008064.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/LightFestival2008069.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/LightFestival2008117.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/LightFestival2008073.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/LightFestival2008082.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/LightFestival2008097.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/LightFestival2008105.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/LightFestival2008107.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/LightFestival2008052.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/LightFestival2008071.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/LightFestival2008108.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/LightFestival2008112.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/LightFestival2008121.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/LightFestival2008132.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/LightFestival2008134.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a></center><br /><br /><br />© Copyright, 2008. Seamus Kearney. Photographs taken during <em>The Festival of Lights</em> in Lyon/Lyons, France - December, 2008. (La Fête des Lumières à Lyon, France).S. Kearneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03976476273818980832noreply@blogger.com99tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22117802.post-26011620214181203962008-05-26T02:18:00.009+02:002017-07-24T18:01:00.579+02:00Au revoir<center>
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I'm terrible at making goodbye speeches, and I usually avoid them, so forgive me if this one is a bit all over the place. (Is there a hanky in the house?) Yes, the above photo represents new pastures - as if I would go for the cliché of a field full of green grass!<br />
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Seriously, though. I realised recently that I really had to make a decision about this blog, which I set up as an outlet for my interest in writing and books, and which has given me enormous pleasure over the past two years. But, for many different reasons, the time has come to acknowledge that this wonderful experience has come to its natural end.<br />
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I thought I could just leave things unattended, like many people do, and dip back in every now and then. But I'm just not like that. I don't like to leave things hanging in space, in a state of hiatus, and that's why I've decided to be brave and close things down. It goes without saying that this has been a very difficult decision to make. That old issue of time has been a big factor - juggling between work, travel, relationships, projects - but, of course, it's not the only reason. <br />
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I'd just like to say that I've really enjoyed your visits and truly appreciated your interest and support. I've also thoroughly enjoyed the blogs I discovered along the way. I will still be lurking behind the scenes (even if I don't leave comments) to check up on how everyone is getting on. And, of course, I will still be plugging away with my own creative writing. There will always be time and energy for that. <br />
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I've been wondering whether I should leave all the archives up or not. What do you think? It would be so hard to push the delete button on all those words. But it would also seem strange to leave the blog just sitting there on its own, staring out into the big wide world, without someone there to stop the dust from settling. <br />
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Anyway, from Muffin and me, from our little corner of the planet, I wish you all great success and happiness and the best of luck with your personal projects.<br />
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S. Kearneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03976476273818980832noreply@blogger.com33tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22117802.post-64715340363957462512008-05-14T14:48:00.004+02:002008-05-14T15:53:24.450+02:00Novels, Nomads and Shadows<center><a href="http://photobucket.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg151/Shamelesswords/7b1ce4bb.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a></center><br />I have my diary out, making sure there are sufficient gaps for the above literary festival, The International Forum on the Novel, which kicks off here in Lyon at the end of the month. Wow, what a great list of writers attending (the full list is below). This year's theme is: The Novel, What An Invention! I hope it will inspire me to bulldoze ahead with my own novel - if bulldoze is the right word to use! <br /> <br />Really, my feet aren't touching the ground at the moment, amid lots of travelling, work, visitors, sunshine. I just haven't had the time for the internet of late, which explains why it's been quiet here and why I've not been visiting my favourite sites as often as I'd like. There is so much going on, and it's all good, but I wish there were more hours in the day. I'm not home often, and that looks likely to be the case until after the summer. Just call me Mr Nomad.<br /><br />I'm probably going to be a shadow member of this on-line writing community for a while, I'm afraid. I hope to be able to post the odd thing, so please do check in on me, but my non-cyber life has elbowed its way in and is refusing to budge. Something has to give. On top of everything else, like many of you, I am trying to put aside more time for my creative writing. The year is slipping by fast and I really want to make more progress! <br /><br />I suppose you could say that I will be here, but won't be here ... if you know what I mean.<br /><br />Here's the list of the writers attending the literary festival:<br /><br /> Nelly Arcan (Canada) <br /> Geneviève Brisac (France) <br /> James Cañón (Colombia) <br /> Jean-Yves Cendrey (France) <br /> Upamanyu Chatterjee (India) <br /> Rafael Chirbes (Spain) <br /> Hélène Cixous (France) <br /> Karen Connelly (Canada) <br /> Dennis Cooper (USA) <br /> Rachel Cusk (UK) <br /> Duong Thu Huong (Vietnam) <br /> Rachid El-Daïf (Lebanon) <br /> Péter Esterházy (Hungary) <br /> Monika Fagerholm (Finland) <br /> Nuruddin Farah (Somalia) <br /> Nicolas Fargues (France) <br /> Alain Fleischer (France) <br /> Rodrigo Fresan (Argentina) <br /> Alberto Garlini (Italy) <br /> Xiaolu Guo (China) <br /> Yannick Haenel (France) <br /> Aleksandar Hemon (Bosnia/USA) <br /> Jacques Henric (France) <br /> Christophe Honoré (France) <br /> Arthur Japin (The Netherlands) <br /> Thomas Jonigk (Germany) <br /> Etgar Keret (Israel) <br /> Jonas Hassen Khemiri (Sweden) <br /> Fatos Kongoli (Albania) <br /> Dany Laferrière (Haiti/Québec) <br /> Jonathan Lethem (USA) <br /> José Carlos Llop (Spain) <br /> Nicole Malinconi (Belgium) <br /> Daniel Mendelsohn (USA) <br /> Joseph O’Connor (Ireland) <br /> Ludmila Oulitskaïa (Russia) <br /> David Peace (UK) <br /> Annie Proulx (USA) <br /> Éric Reinhardt (France) <br /> Pedro Rosa-Mendes (Portugal) <br /> Olivia Rosenthal (France) <br /> Suhayl Saadi (UK) <br /> Elif Shafak (Turkey) <br /> Tarun J. Tejpal (India) <br /> Adam Thirlwell (UK) <br /> Dimitri Verhulst (Belgium) <br /> Anne Weber (Germany-France) <br /> Alissa York (Canada)S. Kearneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03976476273818980832noreply@blogger.com7