The South

by Colm Toibin

  Miguel turned to Michael Graves and said everything happened years ago, before the war. Now nothing happened. They used to make their own flour before the war. Now there was nothing, no life. He went to the window and looked out.

  Michael Graves sang The Lass of Aughrim and there was silence.

  She watched Miguel but he gave no sign that he was paying attention to the song. When Michael Graves finished, there was applause from the men and Miguel went across the room to order more drink. One of the men started a song in Catalan.

  * * *

  She stood at the door with her coat on waiting for them to finish their drinks and come home with her.

  “There’s brandy at home. Come on.”

  They didn’t want to go. It was always like this when they had more than a few drinks. They would warm to each other and want to stay talking and singing all night. She walked back to the window where Miguel had stood earlier in the evening; by the few lights left on in the village she could see stars of frost on the road.

  They moved out into the cold to begin the long climb to the house. At first it was difficult to see anything in the dark. Michael Graves asked them to stop until his eyes adjusted to the absence of light. They stood and listened to the small noises: the rush of water, the wind, their breathing. “Let’s go,” Michael Graves said and she held his hand for a while as they walked along.

  After several minutes Katherine realised that Miguel was not with them, that he must have lingered. She called. There was no reply. She called again. Her voice came back as an echo. She let Michael’s hand go and retraced her steps a little. Michael followed. She told him to remain completely quiet. She stood still. She could hear no third presence, no one else’s breath. “Miguel,” she called again. Suddenly, she could feel him close by her, felt as though he were watching her in the dark. She found herself clutching Michael Graves.

  “What is it?”

  “I feel he’s standing here, near us.”

  “He’s not. He couldn’t be.”

  They stood together, saying nothing.

  “Maybe he went on ahead,” Michael Graves said. “Maybe if we go fast we’ll catch up with him.” He began to walk on and she followed. She was afraid.

  * * *

  Miguel did not appear during the night and when she woke in the morning it took her a moment to realise that the sound that woke her was her own sound, that she had cried out with whatever pain had filled her dream.

  She lay for a while and watched the full-bodied light of the morning.

  The sun was well up. She took in every object in the room. She began to conjure up Enniscorthy, her last year at home, how they had gone out in the old Morris Oxford on a Sunday afternoon to Blackwater. It must have been November or December and she remembered that the sky was a sheer ice blue without a trace of cloud and the day was calm, as though winter was over and spring had come. They walked down by the river, Tom, herself and Richard, along what they took to be a right-of-way. They passed an old ruin and later they crossed a footbridge to where there was a small whitewashed cottage.

  She remembered that Tom had wanted to turn back; he thought they might be trespassing, but Richard wanted to go on and so did she. The house was well kept; there were roses in front, or maybe other red flowers, or maybe the galvanised roof was painted red. Tom insisted on going back.

  They had not noticed the other people out walking, and she did not recognise the man coming towards them until he spoke and she remembered him as the man who had painted the downstairs rooms of the house for them. He said it was a fine day.

  “Yes,” she said. “It is like a day in spring.”

  “It’s a nice place for a walk,” he said.

  “Yes, it is nice,” she replied. Tom said nothing.

  “You’d feel sorry for them inside,” the man said and pointed at the house. Tom left them and walked on ahead without a word but Richard and she stood while the man continued.

  “Poor things. We were just saying it was awful,” the man’s wife said.

  “Once it gets into a house, that’s the end then,” the man added. Katherine could see Tom was waiting for them to finish the conversation. Tom did not mix with Catholics.

  “Sorry, I don’t know what you mean,” she said.

  “The TB,” the man said, “all four daughters dead with it. The four of them gone. She’s no one left now, the mother.”

  “I don’t understand,” Katherine said.

  “The last of them was buried—when would it be?—just two weeks ago last Friday,” he continued.

  “What happened to them?” Katherine asked. “How did they all die?”

  “The TB, tuberculosis,” the man said, “it’s ruined nearly the whole country.” He began to move away. “Good day to you now,” he said.

  “Goodbye,” Katherine said and she and Richard joined Tom who was waiting for them.

  * * *

  Katherine was worried about the silence, about where Miguel had gone. Maybe Miguel was in the house and he would come if she called out.

  How sharp Enniscorthy still was in her mind as she lay in bed. How precise her memory now of the hills in the town, of the greenness of the grass around the Protestant church, of the bracken trapped at the parapets of the bridge. Of the fire blazing in the reading room of the Atheneum and the long wooden table with its carved legs, the table full of newspapers and magazines. Of the map of the county on the wall, its faded yellowish colours and the huge mouth of the Slaney, which was now filled up on newer maps. The billiard room at the back where the silence was even more sacred than in the reading room, the green baize and the huge light over the table.

  * * *

  When she heard footsteps in the hall, she was sure Miguel had come back. She felt suddenly relieved, almost happy. But when the door of the bedroom opened, she saw that it was Michael Graves.

  “Has he come back?” she asked.

  “I haven’t seen him,” he said.

  “He must have stayed out all night. I thought that he would have arrived back before us last night. I wonder where he is.”

  “Have you been awake long?” he asked.

  “I’ve been awake all morning.”

  “I’ve only just woken up,” he said.

  “You’ve slept right through the morning. We should really go down and collect Isona.”

  “No, it’s early still. I don’t think that Lidia has taken in the cows yet.”

  “Of course she has. She brought them in four or five hours ago. Look at the light.”

  “It’s not eight o’clock yet,” he said.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “My watch says five to eight.”

  “It’s wrong, it’s past midday. I’ve been awake for hours.”

  “No, my watch hasn’t stopped. That’s really the time.” He went into the kitchen and brought in the clock. It was five to eight.

  “I’ve misunderstood everything then, haven’t I?” she said. “Haven’t I?”

  MIGUEL

  He was missing. She believed that he was close by. She stood at the big window in the long room, the spot from which she had watched the first snow, and looked out. The valley in autumn. He was another being amongst all the life out there, a small element, as important as a tree in the great sweep of things. Neither his consciousness nor hers were of any significance. Her love for him, she thought, was another small pattern of grief and happiness. Her love for him was like breath on glass.

  She left Isona with Fuster’s wife and told her that Miguel had gone to Barcelona. Then she took Michael Graves to the small graveyard on the promontory at Alendo where Carlos Puig was buried.

  They sat down in the graveyard and looked on to the valley and the village. Michael Graves took out the new binoculars he had brought with him and searched the valley. Eventually he asked: “Are you going to come down with me?”

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “Come now, today, let’s just get into the jeep and g
o,” he said.

  “Go where?”

  “Barcelona.”

  “I don’t know what to do. He was fine last night. He was in good form when he saw you.”

  “Leave him for a while.”

  “I’ve done that before.”

  “Was it a good decision?”

  “Wonderful, wonderful thing to do, leave a father with his ten-year-old son,” she laughed.

  “Was it a bad thing then?”

  “Yes, of course it was bad.”

  “This is different though.”

  “Leave me alone, Michael. Don’t give me advice.”

  “Let’s go now,” he said.

  “I want you to know that I will never leave Miguel.”

  “Leave him a note saying that you’ve gone to Barcelona with Isona for a few days.”

  “What? Pinned to the door?”

  “On the table.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It’s not as though you’re leaving him for good.”

  “Do you think I could come back?”

  “I think you should both leave here.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Have you got your passport back?”

  “No, but I’ve written to the embassy in Madrid telling them I lost it. I sent them Isona’s birth certificate as well, so she’ll be on my passport.”

  “You can ring them from Barcelona.”

  Michael Graves had leaned back and was staring at the sky. He suddenly sat up.

  “Is that your jeep?” he asked, and she listened for the sound of the engine, but heard nothing at first. Then from the village she heard it and knew it was her jeep.

  “Is it your jeep?” he repeated.

  “Yes, but I can’t think who is driving,” she said. The revving became louder as though the jeep was stuck in the wrong gear. She was puzzled.

  “It might be the milk jeep, I’m not sure.” They heard the jeep moving off, but it still sounded as though it was in the wrong gear.

  “It’s someone who can’t drive,” Michael said as they stood up.

  When the jeep came into view she knew it was hers. She reached for the binoculars, but Michael wouldn’t let her have them.

  “It’s Miguel driving, isn’t it? Let me have them.” She snatched the glasses from him. Through them she could see Miguel’s face clearly.

  “He can’t drive,” she said, staring across.

  “Who else is in the jeep?” Michael asked.

  “No one. It’s just him.”

  “Give me the glasses,” he insisted. She handed him the binoculars.

  “There’s someone else in the jeep,” he said and then let out a cry. “Oh Jesus!”

  Again she took the glasses from him, but had difficulty focussing, finding the jeep. Then she found it. “He’s got Isona in the car. He has her on the front seat.”

  “Run,” Michael said. “We should try and get to them.” She handed him back the binoculars.

  She could not move. She heard the gears grinding. “Oh God,” she said, “let this be all right. Let this be all right.” She willed Miguel to find the first gear.

  “Come on,” Michael said. “Let’s get over there.”

  She knew how easily the gears slipped. She knew, too, how stubborn Miguel was, how he hated giving up.

  “They’re going to crash, they’re going to go down.” At that moment the jeep lurched back to the edge of the track. It went over, tumbling and somersaulting. Within a few seconds it was lying at the bottom of the steep incline, leaving a trail of dust and loose stones in its wake.

  Michael Graves was already running ahead, shouting back at her. She looked down at the stillness, below, where the jeep had settled. She heard him shouting at her to follow, but she could not move.

  Part II

  BARCELONA: 1964

  Miguel, five years dead, I am in Barcelona now. Last evening the swifts came back to the city. I remember how we sat one evening as the sky darkened and stared at them frantic in the air above Calle Carmen. We had been drinking. I remember it. The swifts frantic in the air.

  I am watching them now, Miguel. They fly into the gaps in the stone of the houses in the Barrio Gótico. I am the woman at the window with the chair half out on the balcony, the cane chair with the footrest which I rescued from a rubbish heap on Calle Ancha.

  The swifts criss-cross over Calle Condesa Sobradiel.

  Every morning now I walk up to Plaza Regomir, just as the children are being led to school. I go to a café there. I sit looking out on to the plaza.

  Miguel, I am in Barcelona now. At night the blare of the fog horn comes up here from the port. I sleep in the front room when I am low. I like the noise at night, the shouts in the street, the conversations going on beneath the window, a taxi roaring by. I often switch on the light and try to read but I can’t concentrate. At first light, five or maybe six—it depends—I dress and go out. I walk up to Calle Fernando and then to Plaza San Jaime. In the faded grey light I walk through the Barrio Gótico. I sit in Felipe Neri where we used to sit. I walk down Santa Eulalia to Baños Nuevos, into Plaza del Pino, along Petritxol to the Ramblas.

  They are used to me in the markets. The men bringing in produce from the country don’t even comment now. Two of the bars there open early and I will drink coffee if I know that there is no chance of going back to sleep.

  Once, it must have been in the back room of someone’s flat, we had been together some time, I’m not sure how long, but a year, it was certainly a year. It was not a familiar room, I woke to find your arms around me. It was as though we had been touching each other for a long time. We made love over and over for the rest of the night with small snatches of sleep in between. We were locked in each other’s arms. This had never happened before and would never happen again with such intensity.

  Every night after you were killed I took sleeping pills. Two, I was told, never take more than two, be careful. And I did as they said. Never more than two.

  Miguel, my battle now is with sleep. Now that I don’t want pills, I have no control over the tides of sleep which ebb and flow. For weeks I haunt the markets and Barrio Gótico. For weeks I lie in the dark in the front room of this flat in Calle Aviño and hear every noise. I can do nothing all day; I am weak and can’t concentrate.

  And then it stops: the sleep wells up slowly like blood from a cut and I try to hold it. I move into the back room, into the thick air of the room with no window and I sleep all night.

  Miguel, I am the woman who wanders about inside the port as the daylight goes, carrying a canvas, an easel and oils. This is my work now. As the day wanes I paint the port of Barcelona. I paint the sound of the fog horn and the fog. The warehouses, cranes, containers. I paint trade.

  How could I explain to those two men in the port authority? The office was all polished wood and brass, full of the smell of old papers piled up everywhere: permits for goods going to Valencia, Marseilles, Genoa, New York. And the two men listening to me at the other side of the desk and me showing them the catalogue of my exhibition and trying to explain why I wanted to paint the port.

  They could see nothing there for a painter. They felt that I should go to the coast like Sunyer—they used his name—or to the mountains like Mir. A port was not for painting. A port was ugly, oily, smelly. I told them I had already been to the mountains and the sea. One of the Catalans was brown, with a small greying moustache. He frowned. I said you must let me, you can lose nothing. He nodded his head, the brown one. “Bueno,” he said, “si vol vosté pintar el port . . .” and shrugged his shoulders. I took it to be an agreement and thanked them both. I asked for a letter that would give me access to the port at all times.

  I went at twilight to paint the light; the objects stayed in the background. Everything muted, faded, about to be subsumed into the night. It is the most mysterious place in the whole world. Cargoes arrive and are held for a day on the wharf or in a warehouse and then moved; ships dock and more goods are taken on an
d off; the port buildings are vast and beautiful. I paint what is transient as it pulses faintly in the light.

  All the work has been dull recently: I have dulled every colour. Now I have started painting sections of the port on small square canvases.

  * * *

  Listen Miguel, Ramon Rogent is dead. I saw him every day when I came back here first. Ramon and Montserrat made me stay. Ramon was driving, he was a good driver. I don’t know why he was killed.

  All my grief came back. I re-lived your death. I wondered how the next day would go, would I still have to brood for hours, would I still want you back in the room now, want to make love, to go around the bars with you?

  It is impossible, despite the fact that you have died and that I will die too, despite the fact that I often suffer from intense loneliness here, it is impossible not to consider the miracle of being alive, of watching the swifts skirting the air just before night falls, the old man moving up Calle Condesa Sobradiel—the gift of consciousness, the life still left in me.

  I can turn my head now and gaze over at the painting I bought from Ramon Rogent—The Hammock. All the techniques he learned from Dufy and Matisse are there, but in the colours of the woman’s dress, the sheer luxury of the paint, there is Ramon. Ramon curling his lip to smile with his thin face. I have that painting as a symbol of joy in this room.

  I work hard sometimes. I live with paint and delight in the pleasure it gives. It feels as though it were clay I was plastering across the canvas with the brush or with my fingers, it feels like some essential element. I leave the picture there to rest and settle and I return then to see how it looks when the experience of doing it is over, when it is merely what is left of a certain time, when it adds to the store of things.

  There are friends: other lives to brush against. But there will be no new intimacies like the old ones. There will always be reservations, things one must leave out, events one can’t explain without handing over a full map of one’s life, unfolding it, making clear that all the lines and contours stand for long days and nights when things were bad, or good, or when things were too small to be described at all: when things just were. This is a life.