The Heart's Invisible Furies

by John Boyne

  At the top of the street, I passed the Irish Writers’ Center, where only a few weeks earlier I had attended the launch party for Ignac’s fourth children’s book, the latest in his hugely popular series about a time-traveling Slovenian boy that had captured the imagination of children (and many adults) around the world. All the Dublin writers were there, of course, and when word got around the room as to the identity of my adoptive mother, several came over to introduce themselves, asking questions about her novels that I had no way of answering. A publisher inquired as to whether I might like to write the foreword to an anniversary edition of Like to the Lark, but I declined, even when he told me there was two hundred pounds in it for me if I did a good job. A journalist whom I had seen several times on The Late Late Show informed me that Maude was Ireland’s most overrated writer, that women could never be trusted with the novel form, and proceeded to spend ten minutes explaining why until Rebecca, Ignac’s wife, came over and rescued me, for which I was eternally grateful.

  Along Dorset Street then and left toward the Mater Hospital, and even as I approached the jail I felt in uncommonly good spirits, for it was one of those fine mornings where one just feels happy to be alive. Seven years had passed since that terrible night in New York when I had lost the only two men I had ever loved within an hour of each other, six years since the trial, five since I had left the States forever after half a dozen operations on my leg, four since I had returned to mainland Europe, three since I’d come back to Dublin, two since Charles’s arrest for fraud and tax evasion and one since he found himself back in jail and had finally reached out to me in the hope of a little filial assistance.

  At first, I had been deeply unsure about returning to Ireland. Throughout my years of exile, I had often longed to explore the streets of my childhood once again, but it had seemed like an impossible dream.

  However, as things turned out, I felt immeasurably happy to be back and somehow glad that my years of travel were behind me. And I even found work in one of my old haunts, in the library of Dáil Éireann on Kildare Street, a quiet study area rarely frequented by the TDs themselves but more often populated by parliamentary assistants and civil servants searching for answers to questions that their ministers might be asked later that day in the chamber.

  It was in Dáil Éireann, in fact, that I encountered a figure from my past, Miss Anna Ambrosia from the Department of Education, alongside whom I had worked for a brief period during the mid sixties. Miss Ambrosia, it turned out, had gone on to marry her Jewish boyfriend with the non-Jewish name, Peadar O’Múrchú, and produced half a dozen daughters, each of whom, she told me, was harder to control than the last. Her career had prospered in the intervening years and at the age of fifty-three she found herself the senior civil servant in the department, a post once held by Miss Joyce. We recognized each other immediately on the morning she called into the library and arranged to meet again during my lunch break, when we went upstairs to the tearoom to catch up.

  “Guess how many ministers I’ve had to contend with in my years at the department?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Eight? Nine?”

  “Seventeen. A bunch of thickos, every one. Half of them are completely illiterate and the other half can’t do long division. There seems to be some irony to the fact that the least intelligent member of the government always seems to end up running Education. And you know who has to make them look good, don’t you? Muggins, that’s who. Who was the minister when you worked here, do you remember?”

  I mentioned the man’s name and she rolled her eyes. “That lunatic,” she said. “He lost his seat at the next election. Didn’t he punch you in the face when he got caught with his pants down?”

  “No, that was the Press Officer,” I said. “Happy memories.”

  “I don’t know why I’ve spent so long there, I really don’t,” she said wistfully. “Maybe I should have traveled like you did. You must have had a great time of it all the same.”

  “Good days and bad days,” I told her. “You never thought about leaving then?”

  “I thought about it,” she said. “But you know what it’s like, Cyril, with the civil service. You get your foot on the ladder and you’re set for life. And when they changed the rules to allow married women to stay on, I felt like doing it just to prove a point. Anyway, with six children, Peadar and I needed the money. I’m not complaining, I’ve been happy here for the most part. Except when I’ve been completely fucking miserable.”

  Out of the corner of my eye I could see a young waitress running into the room and looking up at the clock in a panic—she was red-faced and late for work, I assumed—and as she made her way behind the counter, another familiar face from the old days, the manageress of the tearoom, emerged from the kitchen area to give her a scolding.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Goggin,” said the girl. “It was the buses, they’re always so unreliable and—”

  “If that’s the case, Jacinta, then you might be a bus yourself,” came the reply. “Because your unreliability is on a par with that of the number 16.”

  Miss Ambrosia—Anna—watched the ensuing dressing-down and grimaced. “That woman is not to be crossed,” she said. “She rules this place with a rod of iron. Even Charlie Haughey was frightened of her. She threw him out one day when he put his hand on a waitress’s backside.”

  “He came into the library the other day,” I said. “I’d never seen him in there before. He looked around in amazement and said, I think I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere.”

  “Somebody should save that line,” said Anna. “They could put it on his gravestone.”

  “Mrs. Goggin must have been here for donkey’s years, all the same,” I said. “I remember seeing her here when I was just a boy.”

  “She’s retiring soon,” said Anna. “Or so I’ve been told. It’s her sixty-fifth birthday coming up in a few weeks. Anyway, tell me all your news. Is it right what I heard about you? That you ran out on your wedding day before you could say I do?”

  “Where did you hear that?” I asked.

  “Oh, I don’t remember. Gossip spreads quickly in this place, you know that.”

  “Well, it’s half true,” I admitted. “I got through the I do part. I waited until the reception to make a run for it.”

  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” she said, shaking her head and trying not to laugh. “You’re some bollix.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “And did you never marry again?”

  “No. But tell me,” I said quickly. “Whatever happened to the other pair we worked with, Miss Joyce and Mr. Denby-Denby? Do you stay in touch with them?”

  She put her cup down and leaned forward. “Well, therein lies a tale,” she said. “Miss Joyce lost her job after she had an affair with the Minister for Defense.”

  “No!” I said in surprise. “She always seemed so straight-laced!”

  “Oh they’re the worst ones. Anyway, she was mad as a hatter for the man but of course he was married and when she got a bit clingy and wanted more than he was willing to offer he saw to it that she was paid off and kicked out of the service. She wasn’t a bit happy about it, I don’t mind telling you, but what could she do? The ministers had it all their own way back then. They still do for the most part. She tried to sell her story to the papers but they didn’t want to upset the poor man on account of him having a family. The Archbishop intervened with the editor of the Irish Press.”

  “And what happened to Miss Joyce afterward?”

  “Last I heard she’d moved down to Enniscorthy to open a bookshop. And then I heard she wrote a song that almost made it to the Eurovision Song Contest. After that, I heard nothing more.”

  “And Mr. Denby-Denby?” I asked. “What about him? I presume he’s retired by now?”

  “Well, that was a very sad story,” she said, lowering her eyes, her smile fading.

/>   “Why, what happened?” I asked.

  “I suppose you didn’t keep up with the Irish papers when you were away, no?”

  “Not very often,” I admitted. “Why?”

  “Oh it was a terrible business,” she said, shuddering a little as she shook her head. “He only went and got himself murdered.”

  “Murdered?” I said, and perhaps my voice rose a little high, for I noticed Mrs. Goggin glancing over at me, although when our eyes met she looked away.

  “That’s right, murdered,” repeated Anna. “Of course, you know he was one of them, don’t you?”

  “One of who?” I asked innocently.

  “One of them.”

  “Them being…?”

  “A gay fella.”

  “Oh right,” I said. “Yes, well, I always assumed that he was despite his constant references to the legendary Mrs. Denby-Denby and all the little Denby-Denbys. Was he making them up?”

  “Oh no, they existed all right,” she said. “But then the country was littered with Mrs. Denby-Denbys back in those days who had no idea what their husbands were getting up to behind their backs. Well, you know that better than anyone, I suppose. Would I be right in thinking that you’re one of them too?”

  “I am,” I admitted.

  “I always thought so. I remember when we worked together you never seemed at all interested in me and one day I said to Miss Joyce that I thought you must be one of them but she said, no, you were far too nice to be one of them.”

  “I’m sure there’s a compliment in there somewhere,” I said.

  “It’s very popular now, isn’t it?”

  “What is?”

  “Being one of them.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Is it?”

  “Oh it is,” she said. “There’s Boy George and David Norris. And half of this place, of course, although they keep it to themselves. The woman who lives next door to me, her youngest son is one of them.” She shrugged and sniffed the air. “It’s a shame for her, of course, but I don’t say anything. I’ve never been judgmental in that way. And there are two women who run a flower shop near where I live and they share the upstairs flat and Peadar says they’re one of them—”

  “Two of them, surely?”

  “Yes, two of them. I never even knew that a woman could be one of them. You don’t mind it so much in a man but in a woman it’s just peculiar, don’t you think?”

  “I’ve never really given it much thought,” I said. “But I imagine there’s not a lot of difference.”

  “Oh you’ve gone very modern, Cyril. That’s what living abroad will do for you, I suppose. My second-to-eldest girl, Louise, she wants to go to America on a J-1 visa with her friends and I’m doing everything I can to stop her because they’re fierce modern over there. I just know that if she goes to America she’ll end up being raped by a black man and having an abortion.”

  “Jesus Christ,” I said, spitting out my tea. “For God’s sake, Anna, you can’t say things like that.”

  “Why not? It’s true.”

  “It’s not true at all. And you sound very small-minded saying it.”

  “I’m not racist if that’s what you’re implying. Remember, my husband is Jewish.”

  “Still and all,” I said, wondering whether I could just leave before she opened her mouth again.

  “Louise says she’s going, no matter what her father or I say. On your own head be it, I’ve told her but will she listen? She will not. Do you think we were like that when we were that age? Did you give your parents that level of grief?”

  “Well, I had a rather unconventional upbringing,” I said.

  “Oh that’s right. I remember you telling me something about that back then. Who’s your mother, Edna O’Brien or someone, isn’t it?”

  “Maude Avery,” I said. “Adoptive mother.”

  “That’s right, Maude Avery. You’d think she was bloody Tolstoy the way people carry on about her—”

  “Mr. Denby-Denby,” I said, interrupting her before she could get lost on this road. “You were telling me about how he was murdered.”

  “It was a terrible business,” she said, leaning in and lowering her voice. “So it turned out that Mr. Denby-Denby rented some cheap flat on Gardiner Street that his wife knew nothing about and every so often he’d go down to the canals to pick up some young lad and bring him back there for a bit of you-know-what. This had been going on for years apparently. Well, it all must have got out of hand on one of those nights because the neighbors reported a terrible smell coming from his apartment and he was discovered there, two weeks later, one hand chained to a radiator, half an orange in his mouth and his trousers wrapped around his ankles.”

  “Jesus,” I said, shuddering at the image. “And did they ever catch the boy?”

  “They did. Eventually. He got life.”

  “Poor Mr. Denby-Denby,” I said. “That’s a terrible way to go.”

  “I suppose you knew all about it back then, did you?”

  “About what?” I asked.

  “About Mr. Denby-Denby. Did you and him ever…?”

  “Of course not,” I said, appalled by the notion. “He was old enough to be my father.”

  Anna looked at me as if she wasn’t entirely convinced. “You have to be very careful of those boys, Cyril,” she said. “The rent boys down the canals, I mean. Think of the diseases they carry for one thing. They all have AIDS. And they’d kill you as quick as look at you. I hope you don’t go in for anything like that.”

  I didn’t know whether to laugh or be offended. The truth was that I hadn’t so much as kissed another man in seven years and had no interest in ever doing so again. The last thing I was going to do was cruise along the Grand Canal in the middle of the night looking for cheap trade.

  “Would you like another pot of tea?” asked the waitress, Jacinta, approaching us now, and before I could reply Anna shook her head.

  “I can’t,” she said. “I need to get back to the office. Those windows won’t stare out themselves all afternoon. But it was good to see you, Cyril,” she added, standing up. “I’ll probably run into you again in the library downstairs, will I? Are you there every day?”

  “Every day except Friday,” I said. “And only when the Dáil is in session.”

  “Grand,” she said. “Sure we’ll catch up again another time. Don’t forget what I’ve said now and stay away from trouble. I don’t want another Mr. Denby-Denby on my conscience.”

  I nodded and as she left I turned to the waitress and said that I’d have another pot of tea, and when it arrived a few minutes later it was Mrs. Goggin who was carrying it.

  “Do you mind if I join you for a moment?” she asked. “It’s Mr. Avery, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right,” I said. “Cyril. Please, sit down.”

  “I’m Catherine Goggin. I don’t know if you remember me but—”

  “I do, of course. It’s nice to see you again.”

  “And you’re back working in the Dáil again?”

  “I am, for my sins. In the library. It’s only been a couple of weeks but I’m enjoying it.”

  “This place sucks you in, doesn’t it?” she asked, smiling. “You can never get out of it. But I’m glad to see you back again anyway. Did I hear that you were in the States in the meantime?”

  “For a time, yes. And in Europe.”

  “And your leg,” she asked, nodding toward my crutch. “Did you hurt it recently?”

  “No, that goes back seven years,” I told her. “From when I was living in New York. My friend and I were walking through Central Park one night and were assaulted.”

  “Oh dear God,” she said. “That’s terrible. And what about your friend, was he all right?”

  “No, he died,” I said. “Very quickly. Before the ambulance even arrived.”

  “Well, I’m very sorry to hear it,” she said. “I suppose I shouldn’t even have asked. It’s none of my business.”

  “I don’t m
ind.”

  “It’s just that I remember you, from when you were here before. You always reminded me of someone I knew years ago. You have the look of him.”

  “Someone you were close to?” I asked.

  “Not really,” she said, looking away. “An uncle of mine, that’s all. A long time ago.”

  “I remember your son,” I said. “How is he these days?”

  “My son?” she asked, looking up sharply with a frown. “What do you mean?”

  “You have a son, don’t you?” I asked. “I met you both in a coffee shop once, more than twenty years ago now. You probably won’t remember. It was the morning I was getting married, so it’s burned into my memory. I can’t remember his name, though, and—”

  “Jonathan.”

  “Oh, yes. He was a precocious little fellow, as I recall.”

  She smiled. “He’s a doctor now. A psychiatrist. He got married himself only a few weeks ago to a lovely girl, Melanie. They’ve known each other since they were children.”

  “Do you have others?” I asked.

  “Other what?”

  “Other children?”

  She paused for a moment and shook her head. “No,” she said. “And how about you?”

  “I have a son,” I told her. “Liam. He’s twenty.”

  “Well, that must be nice for you.”

  I shrugged a little, uncertain why I was confiding in her. “We’re not very close,” I said. “I wasn’t there for him when he was growing up and he resents me for it. It’s fair enough but I don’t seem to be able to bridge the divide between us, no matter how hard I try.”