The Heart's Invisible Furies

by John Boyne

  I nodded, hoping that he would put the blasted thing away and return to the question of what I was going to wear, but he flicked through the pages instead, shaking his head and bursting out laughing at the specimens of masculinity that, if I was honest, were not entirely to my taste but who I appreciated for their willingness to disrobe for a camera.

  “Do you remember Jasper Timson?” he asked.

  “From school?” I asked, recalling the annoying boy from our year at school who played the piano accordion, was constantly trying to steal Julian away from me and over whom I’d nevertheless had the occasional wank.

  “Yes. Well, he’s one of them.”

  “One of what?” I asked innocently. “A swimmer?”

  “No, a queer.”

  “Get out of town,” I said, employing a line I’d heard recently in The French Connection.

  “It’s true,” he told me. “He’s even got a boyfriend. They live together in Canada.”

  “Christ,” I said, shaking my head in disbelief. What, he just “had” a boyfriend and they just “lived together”? Could it really be that simple?

  “Actually, I always knew that he was of them but I never told a soul,” said Julian.

  “How did you know? Did he tell you?”

  “Not in so many words. But he made a pass at me once.”

  My eyes opened wide in disbelief. “Get. Out. Of. Town,” I repeated, pausing for effect between each word. “When? How? Why?”

  “It was back when we were in third or fourth year, I can’t remember which. Someone had snuck a bottle of vodka into school and a few of us knocked it back after a maths exam. Do you not remember?”

  “No,” I said, frowning. “I don’t think I was there.”

  “Maybe you weren’t invited.”

  “So what happened?” I asked, trying not to allow the semi-insult to wound me too deeply.

  “Well, the pair of us were sitting on my bed,” he said. “Backs to the wall. We were pretty drunk and talking a load of old nonsense and the next thing I knew he’d leaned over and had his tongue halfway down my throat.”

  “You are fucking kidding me,” I cried, appalled and excited all at once, the room spinning slightly as I tried to take this in. “And what did you do? Did you hit him?”

  “Of course I didn’t hit him,” he said, frowning. “Why would I do that? I’m a peaceful guy, Cyril. You know that.”

  “No, but—”

  “I kissed him back, that’s what I did. It seemed like the polite thing to do at the time.”

  “You did what?” I asked, wondering whether my head was about to spin around my shoulders in three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turns while my eyes popped from my head, like that little girl in The Exorcist.

  “I kissed him back,” repeated Julian with a shrug. “I’d never done that before. With a boy, I mean. So I thought what the hell. Let’s see what it’s like. I’ll try anything once. When I was in Africa, I ate a crocodile steak.”

  I stared at him, astonished and devastated at the same time. Julian Woodbead, the one boy with whom I’d been in love all my life and who had never shown the slightest romantic interest in me, had gone lips to lips with Jasper Timson, a boy whose greatest passion in life was playing the piano fucking accordion! In fact, I could remember walking in once to find the pair of them giggling away. It must have happened only a few minutes earlier. I sat down, anxious to hide the massive erection that had built in my trousers.

  “I don’t believe it,” I said.

  “Hey, don’t bug out,” said Julian nonchalantly. “It’s 1973 for Christ’s sake. Get with the program. Anyway, it didn’t last very long and did nothing for me, so that was the end of that. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Jasper wanted more, of course, but I said no. I told him that I wasn’t a dirty queer and he said he didn’t care if I was or wasn’t, he still wanted to suck my cock.”

  “Jesus Christ!” I said, sitting up now, practically trembling in a mixture of rage and desire. “You didn’t let him, did you?”

  “Of course I didn’t let him, Cyril. Give me some credit. Anyway, he didn’t seem too bothered, because he didn’t try again. Although one good thing came out of it: he said that if I was going to go around kissing people then I should clean my teeth first because my breath smelled of Tayto crisps. That was sound advice. I’ve stuck with it over the years and it’s got me far.”

  “But you were friends with Jasper until the end of school,” I said, recalling how I had always felt a twinge of jealousy whenever I saw them together.

  “Of course I was,” said Julian, looking at me as if I was mad. “Why wouldn’t I be? He was a right laugh, was Jasper. I looked him up when I was in Toronto last year but he and his fella had gone off on a dirty weekend somewhere. He’d love this though,” he added, tossing the copy of Tomorrow’s Man on an armchair and returning to the bedroom, where he pulled open my wardrobe and looked inside judgmentally. “But you should get rid of it, Cyril. People could get the wrong idea. Now, let’s have a look at what you’ve got in here. This maybe?” He held up a purple, wide-collared shirt that I’d bought in the Dandelion Market a few months earlier and had never got around to wearing.

  “Do you think?” I asked.

  “Well, it’s better than that granddad gear. Come on, put it on and let’s get the night started. Those pints won’t drink themselves.”

  I felt slightly self-conscious as I took my shirt off, and the fact that he continued to watch me as I dressed filled me with anxiety.

  “How’s that?” I asked.

  “Well, it’s an improvement. If I’d had a couple of extra hours, I could have taken you into town and got you some proper gear. Doesn’t matter.” He threw his arm around me and I carefully inhaled the scent of his cologne, my lips unbearably close to his jawline. “How are you feeling anyway? Ready for the big day?”

  “I suppose,” I said, not the most confident of replies, as we left the flat and made our way toward Baggot Street. I’d been living alone on Waterloo Road for a few years by now, employed as a researcher at RTÉ, where my workload was divided equally between religious programing and farming shows. I knew next to nothing about either but found out quickly enough that all you had to do was hold a microphone in someone’s face and he’d talk till the cows came home.

  We’d arranged to go to Doheny & Nesbitt’s, where some of my colleagues were gathered for the stag party, and I was a little anxious about introducing them to Julian. I’d spoken about him often, describing the many milestones of our friendship, but this would be the first time that these two important elements of my life had come into contact with each other. Over the years, I had created two fundamentally dishonest portraits of myself, one for my oldest friend and another for my newest ones, and they had only a few brushstrokes in common. Revelations from either side could see the whole artifice fall apart and with it the plans I had made for my future.

  “I was sorry to hear about you and Rebecca,” I said as we crossed the Grand Canal, trying hard to conceal my delight that Julian had broken up with his latest squeeze. “I thought you and her were well suited.”

  “Oh that’s old news,” he said with a wave of his hand. “Anyway, there’s been an Emily since then, a Jessica, and now I’m on to a new Rebecca. Rebecca mark two. Smaller tits but, fuck me, she’s a spitfire in the sack. Not that it will last very long, of course. Another week or two, I’d say, at most.”

  “How do you get bored with people so quickly?” I asked, for the concept was one that I simply couldn’t grasp. Had I been lucky enough to find a person with whom I wanted to have regular sex while still being able to walk hand in hand with him on the streets of Dublin without being arrested, I would never have let him go.

  “It’s not exactly boredom,” he said, shaking his head. “But there’s a whole world of women out there and I’m not interested in being stuck with the same one for the rest of my life. There’s been a few along the way, of course, that I wouldn’t have minded a longer rel
ationship with but they insist on monogamy and I’m not built for that. This might surprise you, Cyril, but I’ve never once cheated on a girlfriend.”

  “No, you just dump them instead.”

  “Exactly. And isn’t that a more honest way to behave? But here’s the thing, and I think everyone secretly believes this if they’d just let themselves admit it: the world would be a much healthier place if we allowed each other to do exactly what we wanted, when we wanted, with who we wanted, and didn’t lay down puritanical rules for how to conduct our sex lives. We could live with the person we love the most, for companionship and affection, but we could go out and have sex with willing partners and perhaps even talk about it when we got home.”

  “By that logic,” I said, “you and I could get married and live together forever.”

  “Well, yes,” he replied, laughing. “I suppose we could.”

  “Just imagine it!”

  “Yes.”

  “Anyway, these things are easy to say,” I told him, trying not to linger on that idea too deeply. “But you wouldn’t like it if your girlfriend slept with someone else.”

  “If you think that,” he said, “then you don’t know me at all. I genuinely couldn’t care less. Jealousy is an utterly futile emotion.”

  We passed Toners on our left-hand side and he marched across the road, the traffic coming to a halt to let him pass; when I followed in his wake a moment later, every car honked their horn at me. Pushing open the door to the pub I could hear the buzz of the crowd within and looked around for my colleagues. I was expecting three of them: Martin Horan and Stephen Kilduff, two fellow researchers who shared an office with me, and Jimmy Byrnes, an on-air reporter who thought he was one of Ireland’s biggest celebrities just because he’d appeared on a few episodes of 7 Days. When I found them seated together at a corner table, I raised a hand in greeting but my smile faded when I saw that they’d been joined by a fourth person, Nick Carlton, a cameraman who worked on Wanderly Wagon and whom I had gone to great pains to ensure heard nothing about this gathering.

  “Cyril!” they shouted, and I wondered how it would look if I bolted for the door and made a run for it down Baggot Street. Bizarre, I assumed, and so I introduced Julian to each of them in turn and he took orders for a fresh round of drinks, striding over to the bar where the crowd parted like Moses before the Red Sea to let him through.

  “Nick,” I said, glancing at him as I sat down. “I didn’t expect to see you here tonight.”

  “Well, it’s not my usual sort of establishment, I grant you,” he said, lighting a Superking and holding it in his left hand, which he held at a right angle to his arm, his elbow resting on the table before him. “But I thought I’d come out and see how the other half lives.”

  The truth was, I envied Nick Carlton. He was the only homosexual I knew who not only embraced his sexuality but sang it proudly from the rooftops. But such was his good humor and his resolute lack of shame that no one seemed to mind. The other lads made jokes about him behind his back, of course, in order to emphasize their own rigid heterosexuality, but nevertheless they usually included him in their outings and seemed to have adopted him as something of a mascot.

  “And I’m very glad I did now,” he continued, glancing toward Julian, who was returning with a tray of pints. “Nobody said you were bringing Ryan O’Neal with you.”

  “Ryan O’Neal was on The Late Late Show a few weeks back,” said Jimmy. “I’m surprised you didn’t come down and stake out his dressing room, Nick.”

  “I was under strict instructions from the powers that be to leave him in peace,” said Nick. “Spoilsports. Anyway, it was Miss O’Mahoney’s birthday that night and she’d never have forgiven me if I hadn’t shown up.”

  The lads guffawed and I laid into my Guinness, downing about a third of it in one go.

  “Have I seen you on 7 Days?” Julian asked Jimmy, who beamed with delight at being recognized. “It’s all showbiz here, I’d say, is it? You must get to see all the stars out at RTÉ.”

  “I’ve met Princess Grace of Monaco,” said Stephen.

  “I’ve met Tommy Docherty,” said Martin.

  “Occasionally, I write the script for Mr. Crow,” said Nick.

  Perhaps it was his clothes, or the way he talked, or the way he looked. Perhaps it was the aura of sex that always emanated from him, as if he’d just risen from the bed of a model and left the house without even bothering to take a shower. Whatever it was, men, women, straight or gay, everyone wanted Julian to like them.

  “Mr. Crow,” said Julian, considering this for a moment. “He’s the lad that pops out of the clock on Wanderly Wagon, is that right?”

  “Yes,” said Nick, flushing a little in glory.

  “Get out of town!”

  “That’s my line,” I said irritably, to no avail.

  “Why, do you watch it?” asked Nick, ignoring me.

  “I’ve seen it.”

  “It’s a kids’ show,” I said.

  “Yeah, but it’s mad stuff. Are you all on drugs when you’re making it or what?”

  “I couldn’t possibly comment,” said Nick, winking at him. “But let’s just say it’s always a good idea to knock before entering anyone’s dressing room.”

  “What is it you do yourself, Julian?” asked Stephen, offering him a cigarette, which he refused. Julian didn’t smoke. He had a phobia about it and always told girls that they would have to quit if they wanted a relationship with him.

  “I don’t do very much at all, to be honest,” he said. “My old man’s ridiculously rich and he gives me a monthly allowance, so I just go off and do a bit of traveling. Once in a while I write an article for Travel & Leisure or Holiday. Last year I visited Mauritius with Princess Margaret and Noël Coward and wrote a piece about the wildlife there.”

  “Did you fuck her?” asked Nick casually.

  “I did, yes,” replied Julian, as if it was neither here nor there. “Only once but, trust me, once was enough. I’m not keen on being ordered around.”

  “Did you fuck him?”

  “No, but he was polite enough to ask. She didn’t. She just seemed to assume that’s what I was there for.”

  “Jesus Christ!” said Jimmy, utterly enthralled.

  “That must be why you have such a good color,” said Nick. “All that time spent on private islands populated by Old Money whores and nouveau riche chi-chi men. Any chance you’d take me with you next time?”

  Julian burst out laughing and shrugged his shoulders. “Why not?” he said. “There’s always room in my suitcase for a little one.”

  “Who says I’m a little one?” asked Nick, faking offense.

  “Get me drunk enough and maybe I’ll find out,” said Julian, and the whole table, with the exception of me, exploded in laughter.

  “I don’t want to point out the obvious,” said Nick when the merriment died down. “But are you aware that you’re missing an ear?”

  “I am,” said Julian. “And look.” He held up his right hand to display the four fingers that remained there. “I’m down a thumb too. And the little toe from my left foot.”

  “I remember when you were kidnapped,” said Martin, for I had told them all before about the most famous incident of Julian’s (and my own) life so far. “We had bets in class on which body part would arrive in the post next.”

  “And let me guess,” said Julian. “You all hoped it would be my dick.”

  “Yeah,” said Martin with a shrug. “Sorry.”

  “It’s OK. Everyone wanted that. Fortunately, it’s still where it should be.”

  “Prove it,” said Nick, which made Stephen spit a mouthful of Guinness across the table, narrowly missing me.

  “Sorry,” he said, grabbing a napkin to clean up the mess.

  “Actually, they said they were going to pop an eye out next,” said Julian. “But I was found before that could happen. I asked Damien last year whether he thought they would have gone through with it and he said t
hey would.”

  “Who’s Damien?” I asked, having not heard him mention any friend by this name before.

  “One of the kidnappers,” he replied. “Do you remember the guy who threw me in the boot of the car? Him.”

  We were all silent for a few moments and I stared at him in bewilderment. “Wait a minute,” I said finally. “Are you telling me that you’ve been in touch with one of those IRA guys?”

  “Yes,” he said with a shrug. “Did you not know that? We’ve been pen pals for quite a while now. I go in to visit him in jail occasionally too.”

  “But why?” I asked, raising my voice. “Why would you do that?”

  “Well, it was a very intense experience,” he said casually. “I spent a week living with those guys under very trying circumstances. And you must remember that they weren’t very much older than we were back then. They were almost as frightened as I was. Their overlords, or whatever you call them, had tasked them with kidnapping me and they wanted to do it right. To get promoted up the ranks, so to speak. Actually, we got along quite well most of the time.”

  “Even when they were cutting parts of you off?” I asked.

  “Well, no. Not then. Although Damien never did that. In fact, he threw up when they cut my ear off. We get along very well now as it happens. He’s due for release in about ten years. I daresay I’ll take him out for a pint. Forgive and forget, that’s my motto.”

  “Well, good for you,” said Nick. “No point holding a grudge, is there?”

  I felt utterly uncomfortable sitting next to him, because, although we didn’t know each other well, he had seen a side of me that the others hadn’t. Shortly after I’d started working at RTÉ, a party had been organized for the spurious reason of celebrating Dana winning the Eurovision Song Contest and a large group of us had ended up in a city-center pub in the small hours of the morning. I was already three sheets to the wind when I found myself out in a back alley taking a piss and a moment later Nick appeared in the laneway too. I had never even fancied the man but, depressed and horny, I took a chance and made a lunge for him before he could even start what he’d come out there to do, pressing him back against the wall and kissing him while grabbing his hand and pushing it down toward my cock. He went with it for about half a minute before shaking his head and pushing me away.