The South

  Praise for The South

  “A book of sustained lyrical beauty and power.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “A highly impressive debut . . . with a haunting emotional resonance.”

  —The Boston Globe

  “Tóibín’s talent is amazing . . . a stunning and very particular novel.”

  —The Washington Post Book World

  “A strong and moving work of fiction about the hard truths of changing one’s life. Colm Tóibín, like his characters, never says too much and never lets us grow too comfortable. A grand achievement.”

  —Don DeLillo

  “A daring, imaginative feat; the world it conjures is at once familiar and strange, and strangely moving. A splendid first novel.”

  —John Banville

  “Tóibín’s first novel is a broad and beautifully worked canvas . . . an imaginative, deeply felt, and evocative tale.”

  —The Sunday Times

  “This is a truly distinguished, beautifully written first novel which seems to well up from the author’s deepest preoccupations, becoming, on the surface at least, limpid and clear.”

  —The Sunday Tribune

  Praise for Colm Tóibín

  “Tóibín . . . [is] his generation’s most gifted writer of love’s complicated, contradictory power.”

  —Floyd Skloot, Los Angeles Times

  “Reading Tóibín is like watching an artist paint one small stroke after another until suddenly the finished picture emerges to shattering effect.”

  —The Times Literary Supplement (UK)

  “[Tóibín writes] with a sparseness and intensity that gives the minutest shades of feeling immense emotional impact.”

  —The New Yorker

  “Tóibín is an expert, patient fisherman of submerged emotions.”

  —Liesl Schillinger, The New York Times Book Review

  “Tóibín’s prose is as elegant in its simplicity as it is complex in the emotions it evokes.”

  —Alex Witchel, The New York Times Magazine

  “Tóibín is an immensely gifted and accomplished writer . . . intelligent and affecting . . . Tóibín’s prose is graceful but never showy, and his characters are uniformly interesting and believable.”

  —Jonathan Yardley, The Washington Post

  “Tóibín creates suspense out of the simplest emotions: fear, love, and, most poignantly, regret.”

  —Time

  “Tóibín has a gift that Tolstoy and Chekhov have also been credited with: a seeming ability to render real life, undiluted and unornamented, on the page.”

  —Craig Seligman, Bloomberg News

  “Tóibín has as profound a sense of the shape and pace of a novel as any living writer I can think of.”

  —Benjamin Markovits, The New Statesman (UK)

  Thank you for purchasing this Scribner eBook.

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  CONTENTS

  Part I

  Katherine Proctor

  Barcelona

  The House

  Barcelona: A Portrait of Franco

  Pallosa

  A Letter From Pallosa

  The Magic Mountain

  Dublin: 1955

  Isona

  A Diary: 1957

  A Letter to Michael Graves

  Carlos Puig

  Autumn

  Tirvia

  Miguel

  Part II

  Barcelona: 1964

  Dublin in Winter

  A Letter From Faro

  Home

  The Sea

  The Slaney

  The Road to Dublin

  Afterword

  About Colm Tóibín

  For Catriona Crowe

  Part I

  KATHERINE PROCTOR

  24 October 1950, Barcelona

  Night is coming down and there is a hum of noise from the street. I have been here for several weeks. I am grateful that the fat woman who runs this hotel and her little mouse of a husband do not speak English. I remain a mystery to them; they cannot get through to me. The man in the next room—as far as I can understand a word he says—goes to the opera every night and listens to opera on his radio all the time.

  They want to know about my husband. They found a man who would act as interpreter for them and he asked me: “Where is your husband?” The fat woman was there looking at me and the opera man. I told them he was coming soon and I was waiting for him. “Where is he now?” the man asked me and I told him that my husband was in Paris.

  It is difficult for me being on my own and it has been since I left. In the street sometimes I think I am being followed. I try not to move too far away from the hotel. The journey here, however, has been the worst so far. There are men everywhere watching you. I came in from France to San Sebastian and stayed there in a small hotel looking over the beach and the calm sea.

  I was lonely there. I felt bad. In the greyness of the city everything was closed. The streets were deserted every afternoon. The last few holiday-makers were trying at the end of September to wring some satisfaction from the fading sun.

  I took the night train to Barcelona. I found what I was looking for in a phrase book: a coche cama single, for one person, no sharing. We started at seven in the evening and by eleven I felt tired enough to make up my bed and close the curtains on the small lights which the train flew past.

  Barcelona. I did not know what to expect. Bigger than San Sebastian certainly and seedier with a different light coming in from the sea. The Mediterranean. The wide streets bright in the morning. The side streets offering shade. I imagined, but I did not know what to expect. Maybe the sound of the word Bar-ce-lo-na, the sense of pleasure which I caught from the sound of the words, maybe it was the sounds which exerted themselves and held me.

  The moment I awoke I knew someone was in the compartment. The train was moving fast. It was still dark so I could see nothing. I stayed still and tried to keep breathing as though I were asleep. There was no question of this being a dream. I knew I was awake; I knew what was happening. This was the night train to Barcelona, some hours before the dawn. This was 1950, late September. I had left my husband. I had left my home. I was not clear about where I was going. I did not wish to be disturbed.

  There was a figure standing close to me beside the bed and the door was closed behind him. I had locked the door before I went to bed.

  First the hand settled on my wrist for a moment, holding it softly, then harder, then pinning it down. When I stirred and tried to sit up he held my shoulder. He whispered something I didn’t understand. I scratched his hands with my nails. I could smell beer on his breath when he put his mouth near mine.

  It was a while before I began to shout, I don’t know why I waited. He moved back for a moment as though startled but it did not put him off. He was almost on top of me. I tried to scratch his ears and his face. I shouted “Go away” as loudly as I could over and over.

  I was almost free of him and standing on the floor in my nightdress but he still had a firm grip on my wrist. From his voice I could tell that he was thirty, maybe forty, but no more than that. I was still shouting “Go away” and I could sense that he was becoming afraid, and that scared me even more because I was worried about what he would do to me before he left—that he would try to hit me or hurt me.

  I managed to open the door with my free hand. He tried to pull me back in but I shouted out into the corridor. He let me go and I ran down the corridor. I don’t know how but I was still calm enough and clear enough in my mind to rem
ember where the toilet was and I went in and locked the door.

  He did not take anything from the compartment. I must have been calm and clear-headed because I checked that immediately; everything was there. He had hurt my wrist and later I would find a bruise on my shoulder which would take a week or two to disappear. I locked the door again by turning the dangling clasp around into its metal holder. It was easy to see how a piece of cardboard or wood or even a nail file held from outside could have pushed the little clasp right around again and unlocked the door. Still, I locked it and I left it locked.

  For a week I felt as though I had jumped through glass, as though every bit of me had been cut or broken or beaten. I walked in a daze through Barcelona in the early morning: the shops pulling up their steel shutters to start the day, children going to school. I noticed the grey blue light softening the stone. I came to a corner, this corner, the corner I am looking out onto now, and I saw a fat woman with tightly permed black hair looking down at me from a balcony. The sign said pensión and I shouted up at her and pointed to my luggage. She made a sign with her hands that I was to wait and soon the little mouse, her husband, scuttled down and carried my suitcase up to the first floor. When I gave her my passport she showed me into this room.

  For days I stayed in bed marking the time by the sound of the steel shutters of the shops in the street being pulled up and down. First at eight, half eight, nine. That was the morning. Then at one, half one, two, then a few hours later when the siesta was over when it was time for me to get up and even then I was wrecked, pummelled. Even then I only wanted to lie there.

  I found a bar just down the street and as the light began to give, at six o’clock or so, I would go there and have a huge milky coffee and a sandwich made of rough bread and ham or tuna fish. I have to point my finger at what I want. For those early days I wanted nothing but this walk from here to the café and back.

  On my first Sunday there were no shutters opening or closing so I was guided only by the cathedral bells. I got up and walked down to the square for my coffee. The sky was warm blue and the sun gave off a surprising heat for late September in Barcelona.

  I was careful not to move too far away from my pensión. I knew I would have to steel myself. I had bought a map so I knew that I lived close to the cathedral, in the small cluster of streets just up from the port.

  I knew that I would have to push myself. I had bought a white cotton dress and a white cotton jacket and a red hat. I was wearing them for the first time. I would have to stop being afraid. I would have to make a decision to go into bars, cafés, restaurants. I would have to be brave. I would have to do as I pleased.

  I knew too that there was nothing seriously wrong with me and that I would be all right. I knew that the panic caused by a man I didn’t know coming into my compartment in the middle of the night had left a small mark like the bruise on my shoulder which was fading.

  The bar was busy this Sunday morning and the square outside was bright, as though specially lit for Sunday. There were paintings on display all around the centre of the square. I was curious. I had been thinking for days about paint; I had avoided letting anything form in my mind. I just knew that I wanted to use paint here. I had known this feeling before and it had always led to intense disappointment and bitter regret. I was having dreams of paint.

  I am absorbed in myself most of the time. Sometimes I don’t see things around me. I think about myself all the time. What I’m going to do now; how in God’s name I’m going to survive.

  Plans and fantasies take up most of my waking time. I have all day to think about the future, to plot it out, to dream it, to imagine everything.

  The past has happened: it is grey and empty like the narrow streets of San Sebastian at four in the afternoon with the shops all closed and their shutters pulled down. The future is wide open.

  I did not go to look at the paintings in the square that day. I felt too well-dressed, too conspicuous. I turned instead into the bar and ordered a coffee. The waiter brought it over to me and I asked for a croissant, but he didn’t understand and I had to go up to the bar and point at what I wanted. I had already noticed the man who was standing at the bar. He was wearing a red pullover and brown corduroy trousers; his shirt was open at the neck.

  I noticed that every so often he would glance over at me. There was a manic look about him. His dark eyes were close together and his mouth was wide. His teeth were perfect. I noticed he was clean shaven. I looked away. I was not wary of him or afraid. He did not seem like the sort who would follow you in the street. When I looked again he was leaving. He turned and glanced back for a moment and smiled when he found that I was watching.

  I walked out into the Plaza del Pino, into the mild heat of midday, and looked at the paintings. The man who had been watching me in the bar was sitting on the ground but when he saw me coming he stood up and put his hands in his pockets. There was a woman, a small dark woman with long hair who was standing behind the easel; she was also selling jewellery. He seemed to be with her. I wasn’t sure about this. I nodded my head and smiled at her as I passed by. She said something, it sounded like a greeting, but I didn’t understand.

  That night I found the real Barcelona for the first time. I had dinner in the Hotel Colón opposite the cathedral and afterwards it was dark and I walked up by the church. I had not been this way before. I had not seen this before. The streets were deserted and there were shadows everywhere cast by the lamps which shone from the walls. The stone of these buildings—the churches, the libraries and museums—was solid and thick. There was hardly anything modern: even the electric light from the walls resembled light from a torch. I found it overwhelming.

  Eventually, I walked down a narrow passage which I had thought was a cul-de-sac. The air was still warm and when I touched the stone I was shocked at how cold it was. I remember I stood there and I shivered. I was going to turn back but around the corner I could see an archway leading into a square so I kept on.

  There was a small fountain in the middle with two trees on either side. The trees had been pruned down to their essentials: gnarled branches which seemed deformed and grotesque like arms and legs with bits chopped off. It was impossible to imagine how they could grow again.

  The square was irregular and dimly lit; there seemed to be another narrow passageway at the other side and I made a note that I would go out that way, although I did not know where it would lead. There was a small church on one side, its walls all damaged by what looked like bullet marks or shrapnel marks. I went over to the opposite side and sat on a ledge. I had been in Barcelona for about a week and suddenly I felt as though I had found the place I had been looking for: the sacred core of the world, a deserted square reached by two narrow alleyways, dimly lit, with a fountain, two trees, a church and some church buildings.

  I thought of Enniscorthy. I thought of Tom sitting in the draughty house thinking about me, trying to come to some conclusion about me. I thought of what it would be like to be there. I thought of what it would be like to settle down for the night there with the crows and the jackdaws chattering in the bare oak trees near the river.

  I thought of the desolation of the place and I stared at this desolation, this desolation of stone, this stunning, broken-down square behind the cathedral of Barcelona and I knew that I was right to be here. I knew I had to be here.

  I thought of my mother’s garden in London in late August before I left, when I could not make up my mind what to do. The soothing garden with the huge cherry tree and the run-down sheds, the distant light in late afternoon, the grey flagstones of the garden path, the rickety bird-table, the faint sound of London traffic, the shadows.

  My mother told me I was preoccupied. It sounded like an accusation.

  “Yes, I am preoccupied,” I told her.

  “Are you sure you are right to be preoccupied?” Her tone was mocking and annoyed.

  “Did you ever regret leaving my father?”

  “No, I did not.”
/>
  “Did you never feel guilty?”

  “I felt nothing except relief.”

  “Even when he died, did you not feel bad?”

  “Your father was a nice man.”

  “What do you think I should do?”

  “Go, go.”

  “What about Richard? He’s only ten.”

  “His father can look after him. He’ll be all right.”

  “What will I do?”

  “Go away somewhere. Spain. I told you, I’ll get you the visa. I know someone in the embassy. I’ll give you money.”

  “Go away somewhere? What do you mean go away somewhere?”

  “Abandon ship.”

  “I’m thinking of leaving my husband,” I suddenly said to her. She looked at me sharply.

  “Yes, I know. I understand that that is what we are talking about.”

  I was thinking. I did not notice the figure at the other side of the square that night. When I saw him I was startled for a moment and considered which way I should run if it should happen that I would need to run. I had thought I was on my own. When he moved from the doorway where he had been sitting and walked towards the fountain I knew who he was. I recognised him by the red pullover. He did not look over until I stood up to leave.

  It is late now and I must soon go to eat before the restaurants close. I spend all day doing nothing. I have taken the armchair from the corner of the room and moved it up to the window. I spend hours looking on to the house opposite, looking down on to the street. Nothing happens. After my dinner I drink a brandy with coffee and I am always slightly drunk when I wander back into the Barrio Gótico. And always I light a cigarette in Plaza San Felipe Neri and sit down on the same ledge as I sat on that first night, look around at the square and think about how I am going to manage this.

  I have tried to write to Tom. I have tried to say that I want to get away for a while and maybe I will see him soon. That is not what I want to say. I want to say that I am starting my life now. This is not my second chance; this is my first chance. I want to say that I did not choose what I did before, I am not responsible for what I did before. I want to tell him that I have left him. My son is withdrawn from me, my son will look after himself. There is nothing more I can do for him. No matter how guilty I feel I must look after myself.