The Heart's Invisible Furies

  “Right,” he said, putting on his coat. “Well, you’ve been warned.”

  “Go,” I said.

  And he went.

  I ordered another drink and sat quietly in the corner of the bar watching the couples and the groups of friends enjoying their evenings. And nothing changes, I thought. Nothing ever changes. Not in Ireland.

  A Real Avery

  A month before he was due to finish his sentence, Charles was diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor and released from prison early on compassionate grounds. With no desire to return to his solitary penthouse apartment in Ballsbridge, he begged me to allow him to spend his final weeks in the house on Dartmouth Square where, he claimed somewhat improbably, he had spent the happiest days of his life. I explained that I hadn’t lived there in forty years, but he seemed to think that I was just being difficult and so I found myself phoning Alice to explain the predicament. Three years after our testy reunion in the Duke, we were on slightly better terms and to my delight she agreed immediately, finding a wonderful opportunity to remind me how good Charles had been to her after I had walked out on our reception, humiliated her in front of all her friends and family, left her alone to bring up our child and generally ruined her life.

  “I’m glad you don’t hold a grudge,” I told her.

  “Shut up, Cyril.”

  “No, really. You’re a very easy-going person. How some man didn’t snap you up years ago is beyond me.”

  “Is that supposed to be a joke?” she asked.

  “It was,” I admitted. “As I heard the words coming out of my mouth, they sounded less amusing than I thought they would.”

  “Some people just shouldn’t try to be funny.”

  “Well, joking aside, I do appreciate it.”

  “I think it’s the least my family owes him,” she said. “Max bought the house for far below market value when Charles was incarcerated the first time around. And let’s face it, it was partly Max’s fault that he got locked up at all. But the house will be Liam’s eventually and he’s Charles’s grandson as much as he was Max’s. There’s just one thing that you should be aware of. Has Liam told you that I’ve made a few changes to my living situation?”

  “No,” I said. “He’s not answering my calls at the moment.”

  “Why not?”

  “I have no idea. He seems to hate me again.”

  “Why? What did you do?”

  “Nothing, as far as I’m aware. It’s possible that he took a remark I made about his girlfriend the wrong way.”

  “What did you say? And which girlfriend?”

  “The Julia one. I asked whether it was trendy for girls not to shave their legs or armpits anymore.”

  “Oh, Cyril! Although you’re right. She’s like a gorilla. So what did he say?”

  “He said that only old people used the word trendy.”

  “Well, that’s true too. The correct term is with-it.”

  “Do you know, I really don’t think it is.”

  “Cyril, I’m a university lecturer. I’m around young people all day, every day. I think I know the lingo.”

  “Still,” I said doubtfully. “With-it does not sound anymore with-it than trendy. And I don’t think people say lingo anymore either. Anyway, for whatever reason, Liam seemed to take offense at what I’d said. I don’t know why; I wasn’t trying to be rude.”

  “Oh I wouldn’t worry about it. He’ll get over it. He takes offense at everything these days. I asked him what he wanted for his birthday last week and he just sneered and said a new teddy bear.”

  “Get him a really hairy one. He’s obviously into that.”

  “I don’t think he was serious.”

  “He might have been. Lots of grown men have a teddy bear. I know a fellow who carries a Pooh Bear with him everywhere he goes and dresses him up in appropriate clothing on national holidays. It’s a comfort thing.”

  “Trust me, he didn’t mean it. He was just being snarky.”

  “You said that you’d made some changes to your living arrangements,” I said, trying to get things back on track. “What sort of changes?”

  “Oh yes. Well, the thing is, I’ve moved someone in,” she said. “A man.”

  “What sort of a man?”

  “What do you mean what sort of a man? What kind of question is that?”

  “Are you saying that you’ve moved a boyfriend in?”

  “I am, yes. Problem?”

  “Need I remind you that you’re still married to me?”

  “Is that another one of your jokes?”

  “It is,” I said. “Well, I’m very happy for you, Alice. It’s about time you shacked up with someone. What’s this fellow’s name and are his intentions honorable toward you?”

  “You promise you won’t laugh?”

  “Why would I laugh?” I asked.

  “His name’s Cyril.”

  I couldn’t help myself. I laughed.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said. “The only two men in Dublin named Cyril and you end up with both of them.”

  “I didn’t end up with you, Cyril,” she pointed out. “I barely got to the starting line, remember? And look, it’s just a rather awful coincidence, so please don’t make a fuss about it. It’s embarrassing enough as it is. All my friends already think he’s a homosexual.”

  “It’s not the name that’s gay, you know.”

  “No, they think Cyril is you and that we’ve got back together.”

  “Would you like that, Alice?”

  “I’d rather bore a hole to the center of the earth with my tongue. Why, would you?”

  “Very much. I miss your body.”

  “Oh, shut up. But if Charles moves in here, you are not allowed to make fun of Cyril.”

  “I’ll probably have to,” I said. “It’s too good an opportunity to pass up. So what does he do, Cyril II?”

  “Don’t call him that. And he plays violin with the RTÉ Symphony Orchestra.”

  “Very posh. Is he age appropriate?”

  “Not really. He’s only just turned forty.”

  “Seven years younger,” I said. “Good work. And how long has he been living in our marital home, cuckolding me?”

  “It’s not our marital home. It might have been if you hadn’t run off to Dublin Airport screaming like a girl. And he’s been here slightly over two months.”

  “Does Liam like him?”

  “He does, actually.”

  “Has he actually said that or are you just saying it to annoy me?”

  “A little of both.”

  “Well, I have to say I’m surprised, because as far as I can tell, Liam doesn’t like anyone.”

  “Well, he likes Cyril.”

  “Good for Cyril. I can’t wait to meet him.”

  “I don’t think there’ll be any need for that.”

  “Will he mind your father-in-law moving in? A cuckoo in the nest, so to speak.”

  “It’s not a nest; it’s a house. And don’t call Charles my father-in-law; it’s irritating. And, no, Cyril won’t mind. He’s very easy-going. For a violinist.”

  And so a few days later my adoptive father returned to the first-floor room that had been his when I was a child, although now, instead of being out in the city carousing with women until the small hours of the morning, he kept to his bed and began fulfilling his last major ambition in life: to work his way through all of Maude’s novels in chronological order.

  “I only ever read one when she was alive,” he told me one afternoon during one of his more lucid moments, which seemed to come and go with alarming frequency. “And I remember at the time thinking that it was terribly good. I told her that it was the sort of book that could get made into a film if it found its way into the hands of a David Lean or a George Cukor and she replied that if I ever said anything that crass about her work again she would put arsenic in my tea. Not that I ever knew that much about literature, you understand, but I could tell that she had something.”
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  “Most people seem to think so,” I said.

  “I’ve made a very good living from her, I have to admit. That will all be yours soon.”

  I looked at him in surprise. “What did you say?” I asked.

  “Well, you’re my next of kin, aren’t you? Legally speaking. I’ve left everything to you, including the rights to Maude’s books.”

  “You haven’t?! But that’s millions!”

  “I can change it if you like. There’s still time. I could give it to one of those homeless charities. Or leave it to Bono, because I’m sure he’d know what to do with it.”

  “No, no,” I said quickly. “Don’t do anything hasty. I’ll take care of the homeless charities myself when the time comes. And Bono can probably take care of himself.”

  “Good old Maude,” he said, smiling. “Who knew that a writer could actually make such a good living? And they say that the world is full of philistines. Your wife wrote her thesis on her, didn’t she?”

  “She did,” I admitted. “She even turned it into a book. But it’s probably best not to call Alice my wife. She really doesn’t care for it.”

  “I must have a chat with her about the novels, because reading them now, one by one, I can finally see what all the fuss is about. The only thing I’d tell Maude, if she was here, is that she runs the risk of sounding a little anti-man at times, don’t you agree? All the husbands in her novels are stupid, insensitive, faithless individuals with murky pasts, empty heads, micro-penises and questionable morals. But I suppose she had a good imagination, as all writers must, and she was simply making things up. I seem to recall that she didn’t have a very good relationship with her father. Perhaps that’s come into play in her work a little bit.”

  “That must be it,” I told him. “I can’t think where else she might have got such ideas.”

  “Did your wife mention that in her biography?”

  “A little bit, yes.”

  “Did she mention me in her biography?”

  “Of course.”

  “How did I come out of it?”

  “Not well,” I said. “But perhaps a little better than expected.”

  “All right. How about you? Were you in it?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you come out of it?”

  “Not well,” I said. “Perhaps a little worse than expected.”

  “Such is life. By the way,” he said. “I don’t mean to sound indelicate but I’m finding it a little hard to sleep with the constant sounds of lovemaking coming from your bedroom. Last night I woke up to hear your wife screaming your name out in rapturous pleasure with all the passion of a young nymphomaniac let loose in the dressing room of an under-seventeen boys’ football team. Good for you, my boy, especially after all these years. I admire your ardor! But if you could keep it down a little, I’d appreciate it. I’m a dying man and I need my sleep.”

  “Actually, I don’t think it was my name she was calling,” I said.

  “Oh it was, it certainly was,” he insisted. “I heard it over and over again. Oh God, Cyril! Yes, Cyril! Right there, Cyril! Don’t worry, that happens to everyone sometimes, Cyril!”

  “That’s not me,” I told him. “That’s Cyril II. The boyfriend. I haven’t actually met him yet but I’m assuming that you have.”

  “Tall, miserable-looking streak of piss?”

  “I don’t know, but let’s assume so.”

  “Yes, I’ve met him. He looks in on me every so often and shouts at me as if I’m deaf, the way English people do with foreigners because they think it’ll make them understand them better. He told me that he was playing Pugni’s La Esmeralda all week in the National Concert Hall and I just shook his hand and said Good for you.”

  A nurse came to visit every second morning to check up on him, and most afternoons Alice would take him for a walk around Dartmouth Square. As it became clear that he was reaching the end, however, I asked Alice whether I might move in too so that I could be with him when he departed this life for the next.

  “What?” she said, looking at me with an expression on her face that suggested she was astonished that I would even ask such a thing.

  “The thing is,” I explained, “if he were to take a turn for the worse, you’d have to phone me and by the time I got here he might already be gone. But if I was already here, that wouldn’t happen and there’s the added advantage that I could help you with his care. You’ve done so much for him as it is. You must get exhausted. What with your job and looking after Liam and having raucous sex with Cyril II.”

  She stared out the window as if she was trying to think of a good reason to say no. “But where would I put you?” she asked.

  “Well, it’s not as if it’s a small house,” I said. “I could take the room at the top, the one that was mine when I was a boy.”

  “Oh no,” she said. “I haven’t been up there in so long. It’s probably very dusty. I consider that part of the house to be closed.”

  “Well, I could reopen it. And I’d be happy to clean it up myself. Look, if you’d rather I didn’t, then that’s fine. If you don’t want Charles to spend his last moments on earth with his son—”

  “Adoptive son.”

  “Then I can’t blame you. It would be totally understandable. But if not, then I really would like to.”

  “And what about Cyril?” she asked.

  “I am Cyril. You don’t have a brain tumor too, do you?”

  “My Cyril.”

  “I thought I was your Cyril.”

  “You see, this is why it will never work.”

  “Cyril II, that’s who you’re talking about, is it?”

  “Stop calling him that.”

  “Well, he’d have to be incredibly insecure to be threatened by me,” I said. “I am, as has been clearly established by this stage, not exactly a ladies’ man. Look, I know it would be an unconventional arrangement but it wouldn’t be for very long. I won’t cause any trouble, I promise.”

  “Of course you will,” she said. “You always cause trouble. That’s your role in life. And I don’t know what Liam would say.”

  “He’d probably be very happy to have his mummy and daddy together under the same roof at last.”

  “You see? I haven’t even said yes yet and you’re already causing trouble. With your little jokes.”

  “I just want to be with him,” I said quietly. “Charles, I mean. I’ve made a mess of most of my relationships and it’s been a strange one between the two of us but I’d like it to end well if possible.”

  “Fine,” she said, throwing her hands in the air. “But this won’t be a long-term arrangement, as long as you understand that. When he’s gone, you’re gone too.”

  “I’ll take a lift from the undertaker as he carries the box out the door,” I said. “Promise.”

  That night, when Liam returned home, he seemed startled to find both his parents eating dinner together in front of Coronation Street.

  “What’s this?” he asked, stopping in the center of the kitchen and staring at us both. “What’s going on?”

  “Everything’s changed,” I told him. “We’re getting back together. We’re even thinking of having another child. You’d like a little brother or sister, wouldn’t you?”

  “Shut up, Cyril,” said Alice. “Don’t worry, Liam. Your father is just teasing.”

  “Don’t call him that,” said Liam.

  “Cyril is just teasing you then. He’s moving in while your grandfather is still with us.”

  “Oh, all right,” he said. “But why?”

  “To help out.”

  “I can help out,” he said.

  “You can,” said Alice. “But you don’t.”

  “It won’t be for long,” I told him. “And he is my father after all.”

  “Adoptive father,” said Liam.

  “Well, yes,” I said. “But still, the only father I’ve ever known.”

  “And what about Cyril?” he asked.

 
“What about me?”

  “No, the other Cyril.”

  “Cyril II.”

  “Stop calling him that,” said Alice. “Cyril is fine with it. He’ll be home soon and I’ll make the introductions then.”

  Liam shook his head and walked over to the fridge and began building a mountainous sandwich. “I don’t know what to think,” he remarked. “For years, it was just the two of us. And now the house is full of men.”

  “Full of Cyrils,” I said.

  “It’s hardly full of men,” said Alice. “There’s just two of them.”

  “Three,” said Liam. “You’re forgetting Charles.”

  “Oh, yes. Sorry.”

  “Four if you include yourself,” I pointed out to him. “The number just keeps growing, doesn’t it?”

  “You’re not to go anywhere near my room, is that understood?” he said, glaring at me.

  “I’ll try to resist the overwhelming urge,” I replied.

  A couple of hours later, Cyril II arrived home and we shook hands as Alice stood between us, looking extremely flustered. He was a pleasant enough fellow, I thought, if a little dull. Within five minutes he asked me whether I had a favorite symphony and, if I did, would I like him to play it as an anthem of welcome to Dartmouth Square. I told him that I didn’t but thanked him for the thought. That was him for the night, other than to ask me whether I knew a good cure for bunions.

  A week later, as I made my way upstairs to my bedroom with a mug of hot milk close to midnight, I heard crying coming from Charles’s room and I listened at the door for a few moments before tapping quietly and walking in. He was sitting up in bed with Maude’s final novel by his side, wiping his eyes.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  “I’m feeling very sad,” he said, nodding toward the book. “That’s the last one, you see. I’ve read them all now, so I think I’ll probably be gone soon. There’s nothing left. I wish I’d realized at the time how much talent she had. I wish I’d praised her more. And been a better husband to her. She was so tired of life by the end. And tired of me. I treated her poorly. You didn’t know her in the thirties, of course, but when she was a young woman, she was full of fun. Spirited is the word people used back then. The type who would jump over streams and not think anything of it. The type who carried a hip flask in her handbag and took it out for a swig if the Sunday sermon went on too long.”