The Heart's Invisible Furies

by John Boyne

  “Are you in the hospital?” I asked when she answered.

  “I am,” she said. “Where are you?”

  “I’m in the lobby. Would you do me a favor and come down and get me?”

  “Have you lost the use of your legs?”

  “No, but I’ll get lost in this place if I try to find you. I have no idea where I’m going.”

  A few minutes later, the doors of the elevator opened and Alice, looking elegant in her Christmas outfit, stepped out and beckoned me over. I leaned in to kiss her cheek, inhaling a breath of perfume, lavender and rose, that brought me instantly back in time to dates, engagement parties and weddings of the past. “You’re not going to run out of the hospital before the baby’s born, are you?” she asked.

  “Hilarious,” I said. “That joke never gets tired, does it?”

  “Not to me, it doesn’t.”

  “How’s it going anyway? Is there any news?”

  “Not yet. We’re waiting.”

  “Who’s up there?”

  “Just Laura’s parents,” she said.

  “Where’s Liam?”

  “He’s in with Laura, of course,” she said as the doors opened and we stepped out onto the corridor. A sound to my left made me turn around and I noticed a middle-aged woman embracing two small children, locked in grief with tears streaming down her face. Our eyes met for a moment before I turned away.

  “Poor woman,” I said. “Has she lost her husband, do you think?”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “I don’t know. It seems like the natural thing to assume.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “On Christmas Day too. How awful.”

  “Don’t stare,” said Alice.

  “I’m not staring.”

  “You are. Come on, they’re down this way.”

  We turned a corner and made our way down a corridor that was almost deserted except for a middle-aged couple sitting in the waiting area. They stood up as we approached them and I extended a hand when Alice introduced us.

  “Cyril, you remember Peter and Ruth, don’t you?” she said.

  “Of course,” I replied. “Happy Christmas. Nice to see you both again.”

  “Happy Christmas to you,” said Peter, an enormous man bursting out of an extra-large shirt. “And may the blessings of Jesus Christ, our Lord and Savior, be with you on this momentous day.”

  “Fair enough,” I said. “Hello, Ruth.”

  “Hello, Cyril. Long time no see. Alice was just talking about you.”

  “All bad things, I imagine.”

  “Oh no, she was being very complimentary.”

  “Don’t mind them,” said Alice. “I haven’t said much about you at all. And if I did, I’m sure it wasn’t very nice.”

  “Well, this is a great way to spend Christmas morning,” I said, smiling as we all sat down. “I was hoping to be at home with the mince pies.”

  “I can’t eat mince pies,” said Peter. “They give me terrible gas.”

  “That’s a shame.”

  “Although I must admit I ate four before I left the house earlier.”

  “Right,” I said, sitting back from him a little.

  “I keep the mince pies locked away,” said Ruth, smiling at me. “But he always manages to track them down. He’s like a truffling pig!”

  “Maybe you just shouldn’t buy any,” I suggested. “Then he wouldn’t be able to find them.”

  “Oh no, that wouldn’t be fair to Peter,” she said.

  “Right,” I said, glancing at my watch.

  “If you need Mass,” said Peter, “they have one in the chapel here at eleven.”

  “No, I’m grand.”

  “They do a lovely Mass here. They really put the effort in since it’ll be the last one for a lot of the patients.”

  “We got Mass last night,” said Ruth. “So there’s that to be grateful for at least. I couldn’t face it later.”

  “I’m not really the Mass-going type, to be honest,” I said. “No offense.”

  “Oh,” she said, sitting back a little and pursing her lips.

  “To be honest, I haven’t been inside a church since Alice and I got married.”

  “Well, don’t brag about it,” said Peter. “That’s nothing to be proud of.”

  “I wasn’t bragging. I was just saying.”

  “If you’d known it was your last time in a church, you would have made the most of it, wouldn’t you, Cyril?” said Alice, smiling at me, and I smiled back.

  “Maybe,” I said.

  “Where did you get married?” asked Ruth.

  “Ranelagh,” said Alice.

  “Was it a lovely day?”

  “It was a lovely morning,” said Alice. “It seemed to go downhill a bit after that.”

  “Well, the ceremony’s the important part. And where did you have your reception?”

  “The Shelbourne. You?”

  “The Gresham.”

  “Nice.”

  “Let’s not talk religion,” I said. “Or weddings.”

  “All right,” said Ruth. “What will we talk about then?”

  “Anything you like,” I suggested.

  “I can’t think of anything,” she said, looking distressed.

  “Do you think I should get my rash looked at while I’m here?” asked Peter.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “I have a terrible rash on my unspeakable,” said Peter. “This place is full of doctors. Maybe I should get one of them to look at it.”

  “Not today,” said Ruth.

  “It’s getting worse, though.”

  “Not today!” she snapped. “Peter and his unspeakable! He’s a martyr to it.”

  “The snow never came,” I said, desperately trying to change the subject.

  “I wouldn’t believe the weather forecasters. They’re all in it for whatever they can get for themselves.”

  “Right,” I said.

  “Did it take you long to get over here?” asked Ruth, looking at me.

  “Not long, no. The roads were empty. You don’t get too many people out on a Christmas morning. Has there been any news at all anyway?”

  “Not for a while. She’s been in labor for a few hours, though, so I expect we’ll hear something soon enough. It’s exciting, isn’t it? Another grandchild.”

  “It is,” I said. “I’m looking forward to it. How many do you have now?”

  “Eleven,” said Ruth.

  “That’s a lot,” I said.

  “Well, we do have six children. Peter here would have had more if I’d let him,” she continued. “But I said no. Six was enough. I closed up shop after Diarmaid.”

  “She did,” agreed Peter. “The shutters came down and they haven’t been lifted since.”

  “Stop it, Peter.”

  “She might as well have put a sign on her unspeakable saying, Gone to lunch. Won’t be coming back ever.”

  “Peter!”

  “Isn’t the paint on the walls a funny color?” asked Alice, looking around her.

  “Who sang that song ‘Unchained Melody’?” I asked.

  “Cyril and I might try France this summer,” said Alice.

  “I have an ongoing pain in my left knee that doesn’t seem to be shifting,” I said.

  “I always wanted a big family,” said Peter with a shrug, ignoring our desperate attempts to stop talking about their private parts.

  “Six was plenty,” insisted Ruth.

  “Six is more than plenty,” said Alice. “I thought one was difficult enough.”

  “Well, of course, there were the two of us to look after them,” said Peter. “You didn’t have the same luxury, Alice, did you?”

  “No,” she said after a brief hesitation, perhaps wondering whether she should defend me in front of outsiders. “Although Liam’s uncle was very involved. He helped me a lot in the early years.”

  I threw her a look; we liked to tease each other, but our jokes rarely if
ever involved Julian.

  “You and Liam are very close, aren’t you?” said Ruth, looking at me.

  “Well, we’re doing well, yes.”

  “The poor boy needed a strong father figure, from what I hear.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, after what his real father did. Alice was lucky that she met a real man in the end.”

  “Ah,” I said.

  “I prefer a masculine man, don’t you, Alice?”

  “I do,” said Alice.

  “Me too,” I said.

  “It takes a big man to take on another man’s child,” said Peter, slapping a hand down on his knee. “Especially the son of a gay homosexual. No offense, Alice. I meant your ex-husband. No, I admire you, Cyril. I really do. I don’t think I could have done what you did.”

  “No offense taken,” said Alice, beaming from ear to ear.

  “All I can say is that it’s a good job Liam didn’t turn out like his father,” continued Peter. “Do you think that sort of thing runs in families?”

  “Ginger hair can,” said Ruth. “So it’s a possibility.”

  “Will you tell them or will I?” I asked, looking at Alice.

  “Oh I don’t think either of us should,” she said. “Let’s hear what else they have to say. I’m enjoying this.”

  “What’s that?” asked Ruth.

  “Alice tells us that you’re a wonderful violinist,” said Peter. “I play the ukulele myself. Have you ever played the ukulele?”

  “I haven’t,” I admitted. “Nor have I ever played the violin.”

  “Oh I thought that’s what you said he played, Alice,” said Ruth. “Is it the cello?”

  “No, it’s the violin,” said Alice. “But you’re thinking of my husband, Cyril, who plays in the RTÉ Symphony Orchestra. This isn’t him. This is my ex-husband, Cyril. Don’t you remember meeting him before? I thought you realized. It’s been a few years, I suppose.”

  “Cyril I,” I said, to clarify things. “Where is Cyril II anyway?” I asked, turning to Alice.

  “Don’t call him that. And he’s at home putting the dinner on.”

  “Woman’s work,” I said. “I prefer a masculine man.”

  “Shut up, Cyril.”

  “Am I still invited?”

  “If you promise not to run away before we serve the meal.”

  “Hold on there,” said Peter, looking back and forth between the pair of us. “This is your ex-husband, is that right?”

  “Correct,” I said. “The gay homosexual.”

  “Oh but you should have told us!” said Ruth. “We never would have said such things if we’d known that you were the gay homosexual. We thought you were Alice’s second husband. You’re quite alike, the pair of you, aren’t you?”

  “They’re nothing alike!” cried Alice. “Cyril II is a lot younger for one thing and much better looking.”

  “And a straight heterosexual,” I added.

  “Well, we can only apologize. We’d never say such things to a person’s face, would we, Peter?”

  “No,” said Peter. “No hard feelings. It’s all forgotten.”

  “All right,” I said.

  “Of course, I should have realized,” said Ruth, laughing. “Now that I look at that jumper you’re wearing, I suppose I should have guessed.”

  “Thank you,” I said, glancing down at myself, uncertain what my jumper had to do with my sexuality. “It’s like Christmas morning here with all the compliments. Oh wait, it is Christmas morning.”

  “Am I right in thinking that you work in the Dáil?” asked Ruth.

  “That’s right,” I said. “In the library.”

  “Now, that must be very interesting. Do you get to see any of the TDs or the ministers?”

  “Yes, of course,” I said. “I mean that’s where they work, after all. I see them most days wandering around the place in search of drinking companions.”

  “What about Bertie? Do you ever get to see Bertie?”

  “Yes, quite often,” I said.

  “What’s he like?”

  “Well, I don’t really know him,” I said. “Other than to say hello, that is. He seems friendly enough, though. I’ve had a drink with him in the bar a few times and he’s always full of chat.”

  “I love Bertie,” said Ruth, putting a hand to her chest as if she needed to control her palpitations.

  “Do you?”

  “I do. I don’t mind at all that he’s divorced.”

  “That’s good of you.”

  “I always say that he’s a fine figure of a man. I always say that, don’t I, Peter?”

  “Ad nauseam,” said her husband, reaching down and picking up a book that he had left on the table between us, the latest John Grisham. I wondered whether he was going to start back into it now. “You should hear her, Cyril. All day long it’s Bertie this and Bertie that. She’d run off with Bertie if she could. Whenever she sees him on the television, it’s like watching a teenage girl at a Boyzone concert.”

  “Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” said Ruth. “Bertie’s a lot better looking than any of those lads. The thing is, Cyril, Peter doesn’t like politicians. Fianna Fáil. Fine Gael. Labor. They’re all the same as far as Peter’s concerned. Crooks.”

  “Scumbags,” said Peter.

  “That might be going a bit far,” I said.

  “It’s not going far enough,” he said, raising his voice. “I’d string them all up if I could. Do you never get the urge to take a machine gun in to work and just blow all those politicians away?”

  I stared at him, wondering whether he was joking or not. “No,” I said. “No, I don’t. The idea’s never crossed my mind, to be honest.”

  “Well, you should think about it,” he said. “That’s what I’d do if I worked there.”

  “Cyril will be putting the turkey in the oven around now,” said Alice.

  “Cyril II,” I said, clarifying things for Peter and Ruth.

  “Don’t call him that.”

  “We’re going to our eldest boy’s for dinner,” said Ruth. “Joseph. He works for an animation company, if you can believe it. We don’t mind. It takes all sorts. He makes lovely roast potatoes, though, doesn’t he, Peter? He hasn’t taken a wife yet even though he’s thirty-five. I think he’s very particular.”

  Her husband looked at her and frowned, as if this was a matter that needed deep thought. “His roast potatoes,” he said finally, “would stand comparison with those of a Michelin-starred chef. I don’t know what his secret is. He didn’t get it from me, that’s for sure.”

  “Goose fat,” said Alice. “That’s the trick.”

  “Peter couldn’t boil an egg,” said Ruth.

  “I never needed to,” he protested. “I had you for that.”

  Ruth rolled her eyes at Alice as if to say Men! But Alice refused complicity and glanced at her watch instead. It was just coming up to noon.

  “Your daughter is a credit to you,” I said, changing the subject. “She’s a wonderful mother to young George.”

  “Well, we brought her up properly.”

  A door to our right opened and a nurse walked out and we all turned our heads in anticipation, but she walked away from us toward the nurses’ station, where she gave an almighty yawn before leaning down to peruse a copy of the RTÉ Guide.

  “I wonder what would make a man want to be a gynecologist,” said Peter in a thoughtful voice, and Ruth threw him a look of warning.

  “Be quiet, Peter,” she said.

  “I’m only saying. Laura’s gynecologist is a man and I think it’s a funny job. Looking at unspeakables all day. A fourteen-year-old boy might think it was fun, but I couldn’t be up to it. I was never a big fan of looking at women’s unspeakables.”

  “Am I right in thinking that you’re a psychiatrist, Alice?” asked Ruth, and my ex-wife shook her head.

  “No,” she said. “I’m nothing of the sort. What made you think that?”

  “But you’re a doctor,
that’s right, isn’t it?”

  “Well, yes. A Doctor of Letters. I teach Literature in Trinity College. I’m not a medical doctor.”

  “Oh, I thought you were a psychiatrist.”

  “No,” said Alice, shaking her head.

  “I actually considered cardiology for a while myself,” said Peter. “As my specialty, I mean.”

  “Oh, are you a doctor?” I asked, turning to him.

  “No,” he said, frowning. “I work in construction. Why would you think that?”

  I stared at him. I had no answer.

  “Peter and I actually met in a hospital,” said Ruth. “Not the most romantic place in the world, I suppose. He was a porter and I was in to have my appendix out.”

  “I wheeled her down to the operating theater,” said Peter. “And I thought there was something very attractive about her as she lay there under the sheet. After they put her under, I stayed to watch the operation. When they took the sheet off her, I took a look at her body and said to myself, That’s the woman I’m going to marry.”

  “Right,” I said, telling myself not to look at Alice in case her expression would make me laugh.

  “And how about you two?” asked Ruth, and now we did exchange a look. “How did you two meet?”

  “We’d known each other since we were children,” I said.

  “Well, not quite,” said Alice. “We met when we were children. Once. When I ran screaming out of Cyril’s house. And we didn’t even meet then, to be honest. Cyril just saw me, that’s all.”

  “Why did you do that?” asked Peter. “Did he do something to upset you?”

  “No, his mother frightened me. It was the only time I ever met her, which is unfortunate because she ended up being my particular field of study. Cyril’s mother was a brilliant novelist, you see.”

  “Adoptive mother,” I said.

  “But anyway, we met again when we were a little older.”

  “Alice’s brother was a friend of mine,” I said carefully.

  “Is this the brother who helped out with Liam?” she asked.

  “Yes,” said Alice. “I only had one.”

  “This’d be the lad who died over there in America, would it?” asked Peter, and Alice turned to him and gave a brisk nod. He’d obviously heard the full story.

  “Christ, you haven’t had an easy time of it either, have you?” he asked, laughing a little. “You got it on both sides.”