The Heart's Invisible Furies

by John Boyne

  I frowned and watched him as he walked inside and, a moment later, followed him in.

  “I told you to wait outside,” he said when he saw me.

  “No, you didn’t. What’s wrong with you anyway?”

  He rolled his eyes. “It’s nothing,” he said. “Just a rash.”

  “What sort of a rash? Where is it?”

  “Never you mind where it is.”

  The pharmacist appeared from the dispensary behind him and handed something across. “Use it lavishly on the affected area twice a day,” he said, taking Julian’s money.

  “Will it sting?”

  “Not as much as it will if you don’t use it.”

  “Thank you,” said Julian, putting the packet in his pocket, handing across the money and marching off, leaving me to follow in his wake.

  “Julian,” I said when we were back on the street. “What was all that—”

  “Cyril,” he said. “It’s none of your business, all right? Just leave it. Come on, here’s the pub.”

  I said nothing more, not wanting to incur his wrath, but I was hurt and disappointed that he wouldn’t let me into his secret. There were two doors at the entrance, set out into the street like two sides of an equilateral triangle, and Julian chose the left-hand one, holding it open just long enough for me to follow him inside. A narrow corridor faced a long and colorful bar where a half-dozen men were seated at stools, smoking and staring at their pints of Guinness as if within that dark liquid the meaning of life could be discovered. Past the bar were a couple of empty tables and beyond them, a snug. The barman, a tetchy-looking character with pumpkin-orange hair and eyebrows to match, slung a towel over his shoulder and eyed us warily as we made our way toward the nearest table.

  “The snug is for women and kids,” whispered Julian to me. “Or for men hiding on their wives. We’ll stay out here. I’ve a terrible thirst on me!” he roared, making me jump as every head in the place turned in our direction. “But after a long day’s work at the docks there’s nothing I enjoy more than a pint. You’re the same, aren’t you, Cyril? Landlord, will you bring a couple of pints of the black stuff over here?” he shouted, smiling at the ginger behind the counter.

  “I will on my nelly,” he said. “How old are you pair anyway? Yous look like children.”

  “I’m nineteen,” said Julian. “And my friend here is eighteen.” He pulled all his money out of his pocket and nodded at me to do the same so the man could see that we could pay for what we ordered. “Why do you ask?”

  “Just making conversation,” he said, reaching for one of the taps. “You realize that I might have to charge lads your age a little more than usual? I call it the Youth Tax.”

  “Whatever you think is fair,” said Julian.

  “Ah fuck off,” said the barman, but he said it more from amusement than annoyance. A few minutes later, he brought over the drinks, set them down before us and returned to his station.

  “What time is it now?” asked Julian, and I nodded toward the clock on the wall.

  “Almost six,” I said.

  “Grand job. How do I look?”

  “You look like a Greek god sent down by the immortal Zeus from Mount Olympus to taunt the rest of us inferior beings with your astonishing beauty,” I said, which somehow, in translation, came out as “You look fine, why?”

  “No reason,” he said. “Just checking. You’re a good man, Cyril,” he added, reaching over and resting his hand on top of mine for a moment, and a current of electricity ran through me, as exhilarating as I imagined it would feel were he to lean forward and press his lips against my own. He looked into my eyes and held them briefly before frowning a little; perhaps he could sense an emotion that even he was not yet mature enough to understand.

  “You are too, Julian,” I began, and perhaps in the heat of the moment I might have been ready to become more rapturous in my praise and give myself away entirely but before I could say another word the door to the pub swung open and I looked across as two girls entered, one of whom, to my surprise, seemed familiar to me. They glanced around nervously, for they were the only women in the place, before catching sight of me and Julian, at which point the girl in front smiled and strode toward us.

  “Bridget,” said Julian, turning now, taking his hand from mine quickly and breaking into a wide smile. “There you are. I knew you’d come.”

  “You knew nothing of the sort,” she said, winking at him. “I bet you probably said a few novenas to make your wishes come true, though.”

  Of course, I realized then, it was the waitress from the Dáil tearoom, dressed to the nines in a tight-fitting red dress that drew attention to her breasts, her face a clown’s visage of makeup. Next to her was another girl, perhaps a year younger, shorter, no makeup, the very definition of mousey, with mud-brown hair, beer-bottle glasses and an expression that suggested she had recently eaten something that didn’t agree with her. The Cyril to Bridget’s Julian, so to speak. My heart sank as I realized that this was exactly why she was here and I turned to stare at Julian, who at least felt enough shame to avoid my eye.

  “What’ll you have, ladies?” he asked, clapping his hands together as they sat down.

  “Are these seats clean?” asked the second girl, taking a handkerchief from the sleeve of her blouse and wiping it against the fabric.

  “The arses of some of the best men and women in Dublin have sat in them,” he told her. “Sit yourself down there, sweetheart, and if you catch any diseases I promise to pay the vet bill myself.”

  “Charming,” she said. “You’re a real gentleman.”

  “We’ll have two Snowballs,” said Bridget. “This is my pal Mary-Margaret.”

  “You remember Cyril, don’t you?”

  “How could I forget him? Cyril the Squirrel.”

  “Cyril the Squirrel!” repeated Julian, bursting out laughing at her hilarious joke.

  “You have an angelic look about you, did anyone ever tell you that?” she asked, leaning forward and examining my face. “He looks as if he’s never been kissed,” she added to Julian, and I felt like a specimen under a microscope that two doctors were studying closely.

  “I’ll just have an orange juice,” said Mary-Margaret, raising her voice a little.

  “Two Snowballs,” repeated Bridget.

  “Two Snowballs!” shouted Julian to the barman, pointing at our glasses, which were perilously close to empty. “And two more pints of plain!”

  “I’ll be on my ear,” said Mary-Margaret. “And I have to be up for six o’clock Mass in the morning. Father Dwyer is on tomorrow and he says a lovely Mass.”

  “Sure you haven’t had a drop yet,” said Bridget. “One is hardly going to tip you over the edge into alcoholism.”

  “One,” she insisted. “But one is all I’ll have. I’m not a drinker, Bridget, as you know.”

  “Howaya, Mary-Margaret?” said Julian, winking at her and nodding toward me. “This is my pal Cyril.”

  “You already said that. Do you think I have the memory of a goldfish?”

  “What do you think?”

  “What do I think of what?”

  “Of Cyril? Cyril the Squirrel?”

  “What am I supposed to think of him?” she asked, looking me up and down like I was the creature from the black lagoon and she’d had the bad luck of standing close to the water while I crawled onshore.

  “A queer fella in a public toilet asked could he give him a blowie earlier.”

  My mouth fell open in horror, Mary-Margaret’s in disbelief, and Bridget’s in delight.

  “That never happened,” I said, and my vocal cords chose that unfortunate moment to crack a little. “He’s making it up.”

  “This isn’t my standard of conversation at all,” said Mary-Margaret, turning to Bridget. The Snowballs arrived at the same moment and she took a sniff of hers before swallowing almost all of it in one go without showing any particular reaction. “Are these going to be vulgar boys? Because I don�
�t care for vulgar boys, as you know. I’ll have another one of these if they’re going.”

  “Two more Snowballs!” roared Julian.

  In the silence that followed, Mary-Margaret turned to look at me again and if anything she seemed even less impressed by me now than she had before, which was something that I hadn’t thought possible.

  “Cecil, is it?” she asked.

  “Cyril,” I said.

  “Cyril what?”

  “Cyril Avery.”

  “Well,” she said with a little sniff. “It’s not the worst name I’ve ever heard.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I only came because Bridget asked me to. I didn’t know that we were making up a foursome.”

  “Neither did I,” I said.

  “That’s not my standard at all,” she said.

  “How was the tearoom today?” asked Julian. “Did President Eisenhower stop by to say hello?”

  “Mr. Eisenhower is the American President,” said Mary-Margaret, turning to him contemptuously. “Our President is Mr. O’Kelly. You can’t be that ignorant, surely?”

  “I was making a joke, Mary-Margaret,” said Julian, rolling his eyes. “Have you ever heard of one of those?”

  “I don’t care for jokes,” she replied.

  “I’ve never even heard of President Eisaflower,” said Bridget with a shrug.

  “Eisenhower,” I said.

  “Eisaflower,” she repeated.

  “That’s it,” I said.

  “Do you work in the tearoom too, Mary-Margaret?” asked Julian.

  “I do not,” she said, insulted by the very suggestion, despite the fact that her friend was sitting next to her. “I’m a junior cash assistant on the foreign exchange desk at the Bank of Ireland, College Green.”

  “You are not,” said Julian.

  “I am,” she said.

  “You are not. You’re making it up.”

  “Why would I do such a thing?” she asked.

  “Right then, say something in Norwegian.”

  Mary-Margaret stared at him as if she didn’t quite understand what he was getting at before turning to Bridget, who leaned forward and slapped Julian’s forearm playfully, leaving her hand there afterward, which made me want to pick up a stray knife from the next table and cut it off.

  “Don’t mind him,” said Bridget, full of fun. “He thinks he’s the bee’s knees.”

  “And the cat’s pajamas,” said Julian with a wink.

  “You’re the cat’s something.”

  “That doesn’t even mean anything,” I said quietly.

  “The Norwegians use Norwegian kroner,” announced Mary-Margaret, pulling a face and looking away. “I don’t care for it very much, if I’m honest. When you count it out, it leaves an ink stain on your hands and that’s not my standard at all. I prefer international currency that leaves no residue. Australian banknotes are very clean. As are those of their nearest neighbors, the New Zealanders.”

  “Christ alive, you’re a fascinating creature,” said Julian, and by now we’d finished another round and more had just arrived, on my orders after Julian had looked at the near-empty glasses and given me a nudge.

  “Actually, that’s a common misconception,” I said. “New Zealand isn’t Australia’s nearest neighbor at all.”

  “Of course it is,” said Mary-Margaret. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I’m not being ridiculous. Papua New Guinea is closer. We studied it in geography class.”

  “There’s no such place,” she said.

  “Well,” I said, uncertain how I could go about proving it, “there is.”

  “Stop flirting with the poor girl, Cyril,” said Julian. “She’ll be on you like a bear on a beehive if you keep this dirty talk up.”

  “I work on the foreign exchange desk at the Bank of Ireland, College Green,” she repeated, in case we had forgotten her telling us this a few minutes before. “I think I know a little more about world geography than you.”

  “Not if you’ve never heard of Papua New Guinea,” I muttered, burying myself in my pint.

  “I bought a new pair of nylons,” said Bridget, apropos of nothing. “I’m debuting them tonight. What do you think?” And she swung around to the left of the stool so her legs could stretch out before us. I had little to compare them against but I could tell that they were impressive enough, if you liked that sort of thing. From the top of her head to the soles of her feet, Bridget was a stunner and there was no point denying it. All I had to do was look at Julian to see how infatuated he was. I recognized the expression on his face only too well, for I wore it myself most of the time.

  “They’re absolutely gorgeous,” said Julian, winking at her. “But I bet I could talk you out of them.”

  “Cheek,” she said, slapping his arm again and laughing before turning her attention back to me. “Howaya anyway, Cyril?” she asked. “Do you have any news for me?”

  “Not too much,” I said. “I got a Highly Regarded for my essay on Pope Benedict XV and his efforts to pursue a peace settlement during the First World War.”

  “And you’re only telling me now?” said Bridget.

  “You never asked,” I said.

  “Jesus, there’s a pair of them in it,” said Julian, looking back and forth between Mary-Margaret and myself.

  “Is it just me or does this place smell?” asked Mary-Margaret, pulling a face.

  “It might be just you,” said Julian. “Have you had a bath this week?”

  “I meant, is it just me who thinks that there’s a smell?” she asked, snarling at him.

  “It does smell a bit like piss,” said Bridget.

  “Bridget!” said Mary-Margaret, scandalized.

  “That’s because we’re sitting at the top of the stairs,” said Julian. “And the men’s jacks are down there. All you need to do, Mary-Magdalen, is turn your head around that corner and you’ll be able to see all the oul’ lads with their things out.”

  “It’s Mary-Margaret,” said Mary-Margaret. “Not Mary-Magdalen.”

  “My mistake.”

  “And I’d rather you didn’t talk about things, if you please.”

  “Nothing wrong with things,” said Julian. “None of us would be here without them. I’d be lost without my thing. It’s my best friend, after Cyril here. Although I’ll leave you to figure out which one I have more fun with.”

  I smiled, the drink beginning to affect me a little, considering it quite a compliment to be higher ranked in his estimation than his penis.

  “Bridget,” said Mary-Margaret, turning to her friend. “I don’t care for this type of dirty talk. It isn’t my standard.”

  “Boys are obsessed with their things,” said Bridget, shaking her head. “It’s all they ever talk about.”

  “Not true,” said Julian. “Only last week I had a conversation with a lad from my mathematics class about quadratic equations. Although now that I think of it, we were taking a piss side by side at the time and I have to admit I took a quick look at his to see how I measured up.”

  “Who was it?” I asked, feeling a stirring in my crotch at the thought of it.

  “Peter Trefontaine.”

  “And how was it?”

  “Small,” said Julian. “And it curved to the left a little in a weird way.”

  “Would you please stop?” asked Mary-Margaret. “I have to be up for Mass in the morning.”

  “With Father Dwyer, yes, you mentioned. I bet he’s got a tiny thing.”

  “Bridget, I will leave if this boy continues to—”

  “Stop it, Julian,” said Bridget. “You’re embarrassing Mary-Margaret.”

  “I’m not embarrassed,” she insisted, her face turning puce now. “I’m repulsed. There’s a difference.”

  “No more talk of things so,” said Julian, taking a long drink from his pint. “Although it might interest you to know that many years ago, when Cyril here and I were only children, he asked whether he could see my thing.”r />
  “I did not!” I cried, horrified. “He asked me!”

  “There’s no shame in it, Cyril,” he said, smiling. “It was just youthful high jinks, that’s all. It’s not like you’re a queer or anything.”

  “I did not ask to see his thing,” I repeated, and Bridget spat a little of her Snowball on the table as she started laughing.

  “If this is the sort of conversation we’re going to have—” said Mary-Margaret.

  “I didn’t!” I insisted.

  “In fairness, I have a very nice thing,” said Julian. “Cyril will tell you.”

  “How would I know?” I said, blushing furiously.

  “Because we share a room,” he replied. “Don’t pretend you haven’t looked. I’ve looked at yours. You have quite a nice one yourself. Although it’s not as big as mine. But it’s bigger than Peter Trefontaine’s even when you don’t have a stiffie, which, let’s face it, isn’t very often. You’d be the first to admit that, wouldn’t you, Cyril?”

  “Oh my stars,” said Mary-Margaret, looking as if she was about to faint. “Bridget, I want to go home.”

  “Actually, Mary-Margaret, you’re the only one around this table who hasn’t seen my thing,” said Julian. “Which I suppose makes you the odd one out.”

  There was silence as we all took in what he had said. I felt my stomach slowly dip and realized that for all of our escapes from Belvedere College together, sometimes Julian escaped alone, or—worse by far—escaped with someone who was his sexual peer and with whom he could go in search of girls. The notion that he had a life outside our life, outside our friendship, was deeply hurtful to me. And the realization, as it slowly dawned, that Bridget had seen his thing, whether this meant she had simply touched it or looked at it or given him a blowie or gone all the way with him was almost too much for me to bear. For the first time since I was a child, I felt like a child.

  “You’ve an awful mouth on you,” said Bridget, half-embarrassed, half-aroused by his words.

  “Well, you have a great one on you,” he replied, leaning forward and smiling, and before any of us knew what was happening they were kissing. I glanced down at my drink, trembling a little before lifting it to my lips and finishing it off in one go, then stared around the room as if nothing at all was happening.