The Heart's Invisible Furies

by John Boyne

  “I glanced at it,” I said. “I didn’t read it cover to cover. The woman he presented seemed very different from the woman I knew. As if she was a fictional character, not a real person. Or one of them was. The Maude I knew or the Maude who comes through from the pages of her books. Or both of them, who knows?”

  “You feature in it, you know.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  We were silent for a few moments until Alice spoke again. “I still find it astonishing that I live in the house that was once hers,” she said. “And yours, I suppose. It was a nasty thing that Max did, buying it out from under Maude’s feet when your father went to jail. And at such a knock-down price.”

  “Well, Charles had it coming,” I said with a shrug. “If he hadn’t seduced your mother, then Max wouldn’t have wanted revenge.”

  “My mother likes to play the innocent victim in that story,” she told me. “But she was equally culpable. No woman is ever truly seduced. It’s a mutual decision on the part of the seducer and the seduced. Ironically, the only person who really suffered was the one who had done nothing wrong.”

  “Maude.”

  “Exactly. Maude. She lost her home. She lost her writing room. She lost her sanctuary. To have a place where you feel safe, where you can work, is more important than anyone can realize until it’s gone. Especially for a woman. And of course, she died not long afterward.”

  “Yes, but that was the smoking,” I said, beginning to feel a little upset by the turn the conversation was taking. The grief and pity that Alice felt for my adoptive mother had never been equaled by me in the twenty years since her death and it shamed me that this was the case. “It wasn’t as if she died of a broken heart or anything.”

  “But it couldn’t have helped. Don’t you think the two things were connected? That the cancer took over completely because of all the things she’d lost?”

  “No, I think she died because she spent all her adult life puffing on cigarettes non-stop from the moment she woke up in the morning until the moment she went to sleep at night.”

  “Well, perhaps you’re right,” said Alice in a conciliatory tone. “Of course, you knew her and I didn’t. Perhaps you’re right,” she repeated. Another long silence followed and I thought we were finished talking about Maude but, no, she had one more thing to tell me.

  “I met her once, you know,” she said. “When I was just a child. I was about five or six years old and Max had taken me and Julian over to Dartmouth Square for a meeting with your father. I think it was around the time of the court case. Anyway, I needed the bathroom and went upstairs in search of it but, of course, the house is so large and there are so many floors that I got lost and wandered into what I suppose was her office. At first I thought the house was on fire because the room was simply filled with smoke—”

  “Yes, that was her office,” I said.

  “I could barely see through it to the other side. But gradually my eyes grew accustomed to it and I saw a woman seated at a desk wearing a yellow dress staring at me and trembling slightly. She didn’t move but just raised her hand like the Ghost of Christmas-Yet-to-Come, pointed in my direction and then she uttered a single word, a question—Lucy?—and I froze, terrified and uncertain what to do. She stood up and walked slowly toward me and although she was pale as a ghost she stared at me as if I was the ghost and when she reached out to touch me I became so utterly terrified that I ran from the room and went screaming down the stairs before charging out the front door. I didn’t stop running until I got to the other side of Dartmouth Square, where I hid behind a tree waiting for my father and brother to reappear. I’m pretty sure I wet my pants in fright.”

  I stared at her, astonished and delighted by the story. I had always remembered the strange little girl in the pale-pink coat running through the house as if the Hound of the Baskervilles was after her but had never known what had happened to frighten her so badly. Now, at last, I knew. There was something comforting in laying that story to rest.

  “Lucy was her daughter,” I said. “She must have thought that you were her.”

  “Her daughter? There’s no mention of a daughter anywhere in Malleson’s biography.”

  “She was stillborn,” I explained. “Maude had a terrible pregnancy, I believe. Which is why she couldn’t have children afterward.”

  “Right,” said Alice, and I could see that this information was something that might be useful to her in her thesis. “Anyway, that was my only encounter with her,” she continued. “Until I decided to make a study of her work, that is, two decades later.”

  “She’d be dismayed if she knew that you had,” I said. “She hated any form of publicity.”

  “Well, if it wasn’t me it would be someone else,” she replied with a shrug. “And there will be others. She’s simply too important not to write about, don’t you think? What was she like anyway? Sorry, I’m not fishing for my thesis. I’m genuinely interested.”

  “It’s hard to say,” I replied, wanting to move on to other subjects. “I lived with her for the first eight years of my life but our relationship was never what you would call close. She wanted a child, which was why she and Charles adopted me, but I think she wanted one in the same way that she wanted a Persian rug or a light fitting from the Palace of Versailles. Just to have, you know? She wasn’t a bad woman, not really, but I can’t say I ever got to know her. After Charles went to prison, it was just the two of us for a few months but she was already dying by then so we never had a chance to talk as parents and children should.”

  “Do you miss her?” asked Alice.

  “Sometimes,” I said. “I almost never think of her, if I’m honest. Except when people mention her books. They’ve become so highly thought of that I occasionally get letters from students asking for help with their theses.”

  “And do you offer it?”

  “No. It’s all there in the books themselves. There’s nothing much I can add that would be of any use to anyone.”

  “You’re right,” said Alice. “So why any of them feel the need to talk about their work in public or give interviews is beyond me. If you didn’t say what you wanted to say in the pages themselves, then surely you should have done another draft.”

  I smiled. The truth was that I wasn’t a big reader and knew next to nothing about contemporary literature but I liked the fact that Alice did. Maude without the coldness.

  “Do you write yourself?” I asked, and she shook her head.

  “No, I wouldn’t be able,” she said. “I don’t have the imagination. I’m a reader, pure and simple. I wonder how long I have to stay here anyway. There’s nothing I’d like more than to go home and curl up with John McGahern. Metaphorically speaking, of course.” She blushed almost immediately and reached out to touch my arm. “I’m so sorry, Cyril,” she said. “That was rude of me. I don’t mean I’m not enjoying your company—I am.”

  “It’s all right,” I said, laughing. “I know what you meant.”

  “You’re very different from Julian’s other friends,” she remarked. “They’re all so boring and vulgar and whenever I’m around them they say things to try to shock me. They think because I’m bookish and mousy that I will squeal at their vulgarities but they’re wrong. I’m actually quite unshockable.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” I said.

  “Have you spoken to the Finnish twins?”

  “No,” I said. “What’s the point? They’ll be gone by the next time I see Julian.”

  “True. Life’s too short to make the effort. And what about you, Cyril? Do you have a set of Finnish twins of your own hidden away somewhere? Swedes? Norwegians? Or just one girl if you want to be old-fashioned about things?”

  “No,” I said, feeling a little uncomfortable that the conversation was turning toward my romantic life, or lack thereof. “No, I’ve never had very much luck in that department, I’m afraid.”

  “I don’t believe that for a moment. You’re nice looking and you have a good j
ob. You could probably get any girl you want.”

  I glanced around. The music was so loud that no one could overhear us. And something inside me felt suddenly tired of subterfuge.

  “Can I tell you something?” I said.

  “Is it something scandalous?” she asked, smiling at me.

  “I suppose so,” I said. “It’s something I’ve never told Julian. But somehow…I don’t know why, I just feel I can trust you with it.”

  The expression on her face changed a little, from amused to intrigued. “All right,” she said. “What is it?”

  “Promise you won’t tell your brother?”

  “Promise she won’t tell her brother what?” asked Julian, appearing behind our seat suddenly, and I jumped as he leaned between us, planting a quick kiss on his sister’s cheek and then a quick kiss on mine.

  “Nothing,” I said, the moment lost, pulling away from him and feeling my heart rate elevating dramatically within my chest.

  “No, go on, tell me!”

  “Just that I’m going to miss you when you’re gone, that’s all.”

  “Well, I should think so too! Best friends are hard to come by, after all. Now, who’s for another drink?”

  Alice raised her empty glass at him and he scampered off back to the bar as I looked down at my shoes.

  “So?” she asked. “What was it?”

  “What was what?”

  “You were about to tell me something.”

  I shook my head. Another time, maybe. “It was what I said,” I told her. “That I’ll miss him, that’s all.”

  “Well, what’s so scandalous about that? I was hoping for something far more juicy.”

  “Sorry,” I said with a shrug. “I suppose it’s not the sort of thing men generally say about their friends, is it? We’re supposed to be stoical and keep our feelings to ourselves.”

  “Who says so?”

  “Everyone,” I told her.

  A few days later, after Julian had departed for South America, I was at home one evening when the telephone rang.

  “Cyril Avery,” I said when I lifted the receiver.

  “Oh good,” said a voice. A female voice. “I was hoping I had the right number.”

  I frowned. “Who’s this?” I asked.

  “It’s the voice of your conscience. You and I need to have a little talk. You’ve been a very bad boy, haven’t you?”

  I said nothing but pulled the receiver away from my ear for a moment and stared at it in bewilderment before slowly bringing it back. “Who is this?” I repeated.

  “It’s me, silly. Alice. Alice Woodbead.”

  I hesitated for a moment, uncertain why on earth she was calling me.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked, panicking slightly. “It’s not Julian, is it? He’s all right, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, he’s fine. Why shouldn’t he be?”

  “No reason. I’m just surprised to hear from you, that’s all.”

  “You mean you weren’t waiting by the phone for me to call?”

  “No. Why, should I have been?”

  “You really know how to flatter a girl, don’t you?”

  My mouth opened and shut a few times. “Sorry,” I said. “That came out wrong.”

  “I’m starting to feel a little foolish now.”

  “No, no,” I said quickly, aware that I was behaving quite rudely. “I’m sorry. You caught me unawares.”

  “Why, what were you doing?”

  Not much, just sitting around flicking through some pornography and wondering whether I had time for a quick wank before dinner, would have been the truthful answer.

  “I was reading Crime and Punishment,” I said.

  “Never read it. Always meant to. Any good?”

  “It’s OK. There isn’t a lot of crime but rather a lot of punishment.”

  “Story of my life. Look, Cyril, say no if you want to—”

  “No,” I said.

  “What?”

  “You told me to say no if I wanted to.”

  “Yes, but let me ask the question first. Good God, you don’t make this easy on a girl, do you?”

  “Sorry. What did you want to ask?”

  “I wondered…” She trailed off and coughed for a moment, and for the first time she began to sound less confident. “Well, I wondered whether you might like to join me for dinner some evening?”

  “Dinner?” I asked.

  “Yes. Dinner. You do eat, don’t you?”

  “I do,” I said. “I have to. Otherwise I get hungry.”

  She paused. “Are you teasing me?”

  “No,” I said. “I’m just not used to this, that’s all. So I’m probably saying stupid things.”

  “I don’t mind. I say stupid things all the time. So we’ve established that you eat to fend off the hunger pangs. Would you care to eat with me? This weekend perhaps?”

  “Just the two of us?”

  “And the other people in the restaurant. I won’t be cooking for you; I’m not that domesticated. But we don’t have to talk to any of the other people there unless we run out of things to say.”

  I thought about it. “I suppose we could do that,” I said.

  “I think I need to sit down,” she replied. “Your enthusiasm is overwhelming me.”

  “Sorry,” I said again, laughing now. “Yes. Dinner. You and me. And a restaurant. This weekend. That sounds good.”

  “Excellent. I’m going to pretend that wasn’t like pulling teeth and look forward to it. I’ll drop you a line before Saturday with a time and place. All right?”

  “All right.”

  “Goodbye, Cyril.”

  “Goodbye, Alice.”

  I hung up and looked around, uncertain how I was supposed to feel. Was this a date? Was she asking me out on a date? Were women even allowed to ask men out on dates? I shook my head and went back to my room. I didn’t feel like a wank anymore. And I didn’t feel like dinner either.

  A few days later, however, I found myself sitting opposite Julian’s sister in a restaurant talking about something inconsequential and she reached across, placed her hand atop mine and looked me directly in the eye.

  “Can I just get something out in the open, Cyril?” she said, the scent of her lavender perfume a pleasant note in the air.

  “Of course,” I said, nervous about what she might be about to say.

  “The thing is, I felt a strong connection with you at Julian’s going-away party and hoped that you might call. Actually, I always liked you whenever we met in the past, but of course I was with Fergus then. But of course you didn’t call, so I called you instead. I’m shameless, I know. Anyway, I don’t know whether you’re seeing anyone or not, I assume not or you probably wouldn’t have agreed to come out tonight, but if you are, or if you’re not interested in me in the slightest, could you just let me know, because I don’t want any misunderstandings between us. Not after everything I’ve been through. I quite like you, you see.”

  I looked down at the plate before me, breathing deeply in and out. I knew immediately that this would be one of the defining moments of my life. I could tell her the truth, as I had intended the previous week, confide my secrets in her and ask for her friendship. If I did so, there was a good chance that she would be a better friend to me than her brother had ever been. But at that moment, lacking the courage to be honest, I simply didn’t feel ready. A few dates wouldn’t hurt anyone. I enjoyed her company. It wasn’t as if were getting married or anything.

  “No, I’m not seeing anyone,” I told her, looking up and smiling, despite myself. “And of course I’m interested in you. What normal man wouldn’t be?”

  Eight Words

  I imagine that everyone around that table assumed that I was a virgin when the fact was I had probably had more sex than any of them, even Julian, albeit in far less romantic settings. But they had experienced things that I never had, pleasures that I felt certain were superior to the ephemeral thrill of a quickly forgotten climax.
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  I knew nothing, for example, of foreplay or seduction, of how it might feel to meet a stranger in a bar and strike up a conversation, mindful of the possibility that it might lead somewhere more interesting. The truth was, if I was not screwing within ten minutes of meeting a man, then it was probably never going to happen at all. My Pavlovian response to an orgasm was to pull up my pants and run away. I had never had sex during daytime; instead, it was a shameful activity to be conducted in haste, in hiding and in darkness. I associated sexual congress with the night air, with the outdoors, with my shirt on and my trousers around my ankles. I knew the sensation of tree bark imprinting itself against the palms of my hands as I fucked someone in a park and the smell of sap against my face as a stranger pushed against me from behind. Sex was not scored by sighs of pleasure but by the scurrying urgency of rodents in the undergrowth and the sound of cars rushing past in the distance, not to mention the associated fear that from those same roads might come the unforgiving scream of Garda sirens, responding to the outraged phone call of a traumatized dog-walker. I had no idea what it would be like to wrap my arms around a lover beneath the sheets as we fell asleep, whispering words of gentle affection that drifted carelessly into sleepy tenderness. I had never woken with another person or been able to satisfy my tenacious early-morning desire with an unapologetic partner. I could number more sexual partners in my history than anyone I knew but the difference between love and sex could be summed up for me in eight words:

  I loved Julian; I had sex with strangers.

  And so I wonder what would have surprised them more: to have known all that or to have learned that I had, in fact, had sex with a woman. Only once, granted, but the extraordinary moment had taken place three weeks earlier when, to my surprise, Alice insisted that we go to bed together and, even more surprisingly, I had agreed.

  Intimacy was one of the things that I had managed to avoid over the eighteen months of our courtship and for once I found myself grateful to be living in Ireland, a country where a homosexual, like a student priest, could easily hide their preferences by disguising them beneath the murky robes of a committed Catholic. Naturally, as it was only 1973 and we were children of our time, it was a subject that Alice and I were shy of discussing aloud and so we used the person we had in common, Julian, as our conduit into the subject.