The Heart's Invisible Furies

  “No, I knew,” I said. “I never had any confusion on that score.”

  “Oh good. Because you’re not a real Avery, don’t forget.”

  “Yes, I knew that too,” I said, smiling.

  “But I’m glad we adopted you,” he added. “You’re a good boy. A kind boy. You always were.”

  I felt a curious sensation inside myself and was unable to identify it until, on further examination, I realized that I was a little moved. This was probably the nicest thing he had ever said to me in the forty-nine years that we’d known each other.

  “And you weren’t a bad father,” I lied. “All things considered.”

  “Oh I think we both know that’s not true,” he said, shaking his head. “I was terrible. I showed no interest in you at all. But that’s just who I was. I couldn’t help it. I put a roof over your head all the same, and that’s something. Some men don’t even do that for their children. Do you still live there, Colm?”

  “It’s Cyril,” I said, correcting him. “And no, if you mean in the house on Dartmouth Square, then no. You lost that after you went to prison the first time, remember? Max bought it.”

  “Oh yes, that’s right. I suppose that boy of his lives there now with his—” He made quotation marks in the air. “Partner.”

  “No, Julian doesn’t live there,” I said. “I told you, Julian is dead.”

  “No!” he cried. “That’s terrible! Wait, I remember now. He got attacked, didn’t he? By a gang of some sort. They beat him up and left him for dead.”

  I sat up straight and closed my eyes, wondering how much more of this I would have to endure. “No,” I said. “That wasn’t Julian. That was Bastiaan.”

  “Max told me that he was dead before he even got to the hospital.”

  “Max didn’t tell you that,” I said. “I did. And anyway, that wasn’t Julian,” I repeated. “That was Bastiaan.”

  “Who’s Bastiaan?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said, shaking my head, even though it did matter. It mattered a great deal. “Look, Charles, I’m getting a little worried about you. Have you seen a doctor?”

  “Not lately, no. Why do you ask?”

  “You seem a little…confused, that’s all.”

  “I’m not dementia, if that’s what you mean,” he said.

  “You don’t have dementia,” I said. “Is that what you’re trying to say?”

  “I’m not dementia,” he insisted, wagging a finger in my face.

  “All right,” I said. “You’re not dementia. But look, I don’t think it would do any harm for a doctor to take a look at you.”

  “Only if I can go to him,” he said. “Or her. I hear there are some wonderful lady doctors these days. Whatever’s next?” he added, laughing. “They’ll be driving buses and allowed to vote if someone doesn’t do something to stop them!”

  “The prison isn’t going to allow you out on day release to see a doctor,” I said. “They’ll insist that one comes here instead. Unless you need tests. And you might, you know. You might need tests.”

  “Well, you do whatever you think is best,” he said. “The only thing that’s really important to me is that when I get out of here, I can go home.”

  “Where are you living now anyway?” I asked, for the truth was that I didn’t have any idea. Ever since his most recent divorce—his third, if my calculations were accurate, following his fifth marriage—he’d lived a rather nomadic existence.

  “Where do you think?” he asked. “Dartmouth Square. The same place I’ve always lived. I love that house. They’ll carry me out of there in a box.”

  “They probably won’t,” I told him. “Since you don’t live there anymore. It’s been decades since you sold it.”

  “Just because I don’t live there,” he said, “doesn’t mean that I can’t die there. Use your imagination, why don’t you? What kind of writer are you anyway?”

  “One who doesn’t write,” I told him.

  “I refuse to die in prison like Oscar Wilde or Lester Piggott.”

  “Neither of whom died in prison.”

  “They would have if the fascists had had their way.”

  “Look, leave it with me, all right?” I said. “I’ll figure it out. We’ve got six months after all.”

  “Unless I get out early for good behavior.”

  “Do me a favor, Charles,” I said. “Try not to be too good, all right? Serve out your time. It’ll make things a lot easier for me if you do.”

  “All right,” he said. “I don’t mind. I’ll kick up a fuss over breakfast one day and that’ll keep me here till the bitter end.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I appreciate that.”

  “No problem. Now, where shall we go today?”

  “You’ll probably stay here,” I said. “Don’t you have art classes on a Tuesday afternoon?”

  “I stopped doing them,” he said, pulling a disgusted face. “We were doing life drawing and this three-hundred-pound, morbidly obese passport forger with tattoos all over his body was posing in the nip for us. He even had the word Mother tattooed on his penis, which Freud would have had a field day with. It made me want to tear the eyes from my head. You’d probably have loved it, though. Or Max’s son, Julian. He would have been all over that.”

  “Well, go back to your cell then,” I said. “And maybe have a nap. You might feel better when you wake up.”

  “I will. I didn’t sleep at all well last night. What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know. I thought I might go to see a film. I was supposed to be meeting Liam but he canceled on me. Again.”

  “Who’s Liam?”

  “My son.”

  “I thought your son’s name was Inky or something?”

  “You’re thinking of Ignac. He’s a different son.”

  “Gosh, you really love the ladies, don’t you?” he asked, grinning in delight. “A real chip off the old block! How many children do you have by how many different women now?”

  I smiled and stood up, reaching out to shake his hand. He took it, but his grip was nowhere near as firm as it had once been.

  “I’m not dementia,” he told me again, quieter this time, and there was a pleading expression on his face as he said it. “I just get a little confused sometimes, that’s all. It’s old age. It comes to us all. It’ll come to you too, you mark my words.”

  I said nothing, just walked away thinking how wrong he really was. Old age hadn’t come for Maude. Or for Julian. Or for Bastiaan. Or for the hundreds of young men and women I’d counseled in New York at the height of the plague years. Old age didn’t necessarily come for everyone at all. And I still didn’t know whether it would come for me.

  Two Bars

  The television was broken in my apartment, so I made my way along Baggot Street toward Doheny & Nesbitt’s to watch the match. There was great excitement over it, of course; once again the country was losing its collective mind and the same English players that were vilified on a Saturday afternoon when they played for Arsenal or Liverpool were now being worshipped because they found themselves in an Ireland jersey, thanks to their grandparents having got out of the country fifty years before.

  The bar was as busy as I had expected it to be but after I ordered a pint I discovered a table in the corner with a good view of the screen. I leaned my crutch against the wall and, with a bit of time to kill until kick-off, took Ignac’s latest Floriak Ansen novel from my pocket and picked up where I’d left off the night before. In this one, our time-traveling hero had gone back to the Ice Age and was causing mayhem among the Eskimos, who were teaching him how to drill holes in the ice to catch fish, which was no good to him at all, as he was a strict vegetarian. I was only a few pages in when the volume went up and every head in the place turned to the massive screen hanging from the ceiling. The teams were coming out onto the pitch. As the anthems played, you could see the players squinting in the sunshine of Giants Stadium and the commentator made a few remarks about the h
eat and how it would surely be more advantageous to the Italians than it was to the Irish, who were not accustomed to such luxuries.

  Glancing over toward the bar, I noticed a couple of young lads paying for their pints and turning around in search of somewhere to park themselves for the next couple of hours. As they looked in my direction, I caught the eye of one, and he caught mine in return, and I had no choice but to point out the empty seats at my table. He glanced at his friend for a moment before whispering something in his ear and a moment later they came over and sat down.

  “This is a surprise,” I said, doing my best to sound friendly. “I didn’t expect to run into you here.”

  “Me neither,” said Liam. “I didn’t think you’d be interested in football.”

  “Sure everyone is interested in it right now, aren’t they?” I said. “You’re considered a traitor if you go into work and can’t discuss every tackle that you saw on TV the night before.”

  He took a sip from his pint as he looked up at the screen. “Jimmy, this is Cyril,” he said after a moment to his friend, who was about the same age as him—twenty—but larger, a big bear of a lad who I could imagine charging down the rugby field at Donnybrook with a look of pure determination on his face and sinking ten pints of Guinness in Kielys afterward without blinking an eye. “He’s my…” He seemed to struggle for the word even though there was only one legitimate way to finish the sentence. “He’s my father,” he conceded finally.

  “Your oul’ lad?” said Jimmy, clinking his glass against mine and looking at me with genuine delight on his face. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Woodbead.”

  “Actually, it’s Avery,” I said. “Although please call me Cyril. No one calls me Mr. Avery.”

  “Cyril?” he said. “You don’t meet many of them anymore. That’s one of the old names, is it?”

  “I suppose so,” I said. “I’m ancient.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Forty-nine.”

  “Jesus, that’s mad.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “I can’t even imagine being that old. Is that why you have the crutch? Have the oul’ knees gone?”

  “Shut up, Jimmy,” said Liam.

  “Here, Liam,” said Jimmy, giving his friend a dig in the ribs. “Your da’s the same age as my ma. Are you married, Cyril, or are you on the market? My oul’ wan broke up with her fella about a month ago and she’s been a fuckin’ nightmare to live with ever since. Any interest in taking her out for a night on the town? An oul’ pizza and a few beers, something like that? She doesn’t take much lookin’ after.”

  “Probably not,” I said.

  “Why not?” he asked, looking offended. “She’s still a good-lookin’ woman, you know. For an oul’ wan.”

  “I’m sure she is, but I don’t think we’d be right for each other.”

  “Do you just go for the young ones, is that it? Fair fucks to you if you can still manage to pull them.”

  “He’s not interested in women,” said Liam.

  “How can he not be interested in women?” he asked. “He’s still alive, isn’t he? He’s got a pulse? The oul’ knees might be gone, but the oul’ jackanory still works, doesn’t it?”

  “He’s not interested in women,” repeated Liam. “Any women. Think about it.”

  He thought about it.

  “You don’t mean he’s a queer, do you?” He looked across at me and held his hands in the air. “No offense meant, Cyril,” he added.

  “None taken.”

  “I have no problem with the gay lads. Let them all be gay, that’s what I say. All the more moths for me.”

  I laughed and took a drink from my pint. Even Liam turned around with a half-smile on his face, which was about all I ever got from him.

  “There’s a fella lives three doors down from me,” continued Jimmy. “He’s one of your lot. Alan Delaney’s his name. Do you know him?”

  “I don’t,” I said.

  “Tall fella. Dark hair. Has a gammy eye.”

  “No, doesn’t ring a bell,” I said. “But we don’t all gather together for conventions, you know.”

  “Why not? Would that not be a good way to meet someone?”

  I thought about it; it wasn’t the stupidest idea I’d ever heard.

  “Nice fella, this Alan lad,” he continued. “A bit of a player too. You never know who you’re gonna see coming in and out of his front door in the morning. What sort of fellas do you like, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “I’m not really looking for anyone at the moment,” I told him. “I’m happy in my own company.”

  “Ah that can’t be right. You’re old but you’re not that old. Would you like me to introduce you to Alan?”

  I looked across at Liam, hoping for a little support, but he seemed amused by both the exchange and my discomfort and happy for it to continue.

  “Give us your number, Cyril,” said Jimmy. “Write it down on a beer mat there and I’ll make sure he gets it.”

  “There’s really no—”

  “Give us your number,” he insisted. “I’m good at this sort of thing. Matchmaking and the like.”

  I took a beer mat and wrote a random number on it and handed it across; it seemed the easiest way to end this.

  “Now, if you end up getting the oul’ shift off Alan Delaney, you have me to thank, Cyril,” he said, putting it in his pocket. “And you can stand me a pint another time.”

  “I will so,” I said.

  “So has it always been fellas for you?” he asked.

  “Jesus Christ,” said Liam, shaking his head. “Is this going to go on all night?”

  “I’m only asking,” said Jimmy. “I have a deep interest in human sexuality.”

  “You do on your hole.”

  “Yes,” I said. “It’s always been fellas.”

  “Still and all, you must have been into the women once. To produce this fine figure of masculinity, I mean.”

  “Just leave it, will you?” said Liam. “Watch the match.”

  “It hasn’t started yet.”

  “Then watch the ads and shut up.”

  “Ads are for talking through, everyone knows that.” He took a breather for a minute or two, then came back with this: “So was Liam’s mother the only woman you ever did it with?”

  I noticed Liam glance over, as if he was interested in the answer to this question himself.

  “Yes,” I said, uncertain why I was revealing so much of myself to a perfect stranger, other than the fact that his questions seemed entirely guileless. “The only one.”

  “Fuck me,” said Jimmy. “I can’t imagine that. I’m nearly at double digits.”

  “Five is not nearly double digits,” said Liam.

  “Fuck you!” roared Jimmy. “It’s six.”

  “Blowjobs don’t count.”

  “They fuckin’ do. Anyway, five is still two better than you, ya skinny fuck.”

  I looked away; I wanted to know more about my son but not necessarily this much.

  “So how come you two don’t have the same surname?” asked Jimmy after a pause when I managed to catch the barman’s eye and three more pints arrived at our table.

  “What’s that?” I said.

  “You and Liam. He’s a Woodbead and you’re an Avery. I don’t get it.”

  “Oh right. Well, Liam uses his mother’s surname,” I explained.

  “My uncle’s, actually,” added Liam. “My Uncle Julian was like a father to me growing up.”

  I took the blow with the force with which it was intended and said nothing as Jimmy glanced back and forth between the pair of us with a wide smile, as if he couldn’t understand whether this was some form of teasing that we enjoyed or if it was something more serious.

  “Was this Julian lad your brother?” asked Jimmy, looking at me.

  “No,” I said. “He was Liam’s mother’s older brother. He died some years ago now.”

  “Oh right,” he said, lowering his voice
a little. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “I loved him very much,” said Liam, in an uncharacteristic show of emotion on his part that was clearly directed more at me than his friend.

  “Kick-off,” said Jimmy, nodding toward the screen, where the ball was now in play and both sides were moving around the pitch, starting tentatively enough. A few of the customers at the bar were roaring encouragement at the players but it seemed a little early for anyone to be getting too dramatic and after a few minutes they quieted down.

  “So how do you pair know each other?” I asked, and Liam shook his head as if he couldn’t be bothered to reply to such a tedious question, leaving Jimmy to answer.

  “We’re in Trinity together,” he said.

  “Are you studying History of Art too?”

  “Jesus, no. I’m studying Business. Some of us want to make money, Cyril. I want a big house, a fast car and a Jacuzzi full of revolting birds.”

  “Do you mean revolving?” I asked.

  “Oh, yeah. That. Do you wanna know what my big goal in life is?”

  “Wait till you hear this,” said Liam.

  “Go on so.”

  “I want to buy a house on Vico Road next to Bono.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Why not? Can you imagine the parties we’d be having? I’d be looking over the fence and saying, Here, Bono, ya ponce, why don’t you and Madonna and Bruce and Kylie come over here and we’ll all jump in the Jacuzzi and have an oul’ laugh? And Bono will be like, Give us five minutes, Jimmy, and we’ll all be over. Do you know Salman Rushdie used to live in the shed at the end of Bono’s garden?”

  “I didn’t,” I said. “Is that true?”

  “That’s what I heard. During the…what do you call it?”

  “The fatwa?”

  “That’s the one. Oul’ Salman was down in the shed with the lawnmower writing his books and oul’ Bono was up in the house cleaning his sunglasses, and I suppose they got together once in a while for a game of chess or whatever.”

  The Italians got a shot on target and the place erupted in dismay and then relief when it cleared the top of the goal. Watching the two boys react in the exact same way that everyone else in the pub did, I wondered whether they might have more in common than I realized, for in the short space of our acquaintance they seemed completely different types to me.