‘So you went on a date?’
‘I suppose so. Yes. He said he was going to whisk me away. To Rome. That’s where he was from. Rome.’
‘What happened then?’
‘He took me to dinner every night after my shift. And afterwards, we’d go dancing. He was a fantastic dancer. And we’d walk. We’d walk for hours, the two of us, just talking and laughing. He could tell a good story, your father. I suppose I should have known.’
‘Known what?’
‘Just ... I suppose ... that none of it was real. None of his plans for us.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, he came into the cafe, as I said, every day for two weeks, until one day ... he didn’t. I went down to the port that night after work and his boat was gone and so was he and that was that.’
‘Oh.’
Mama looked at Roman then, put her hand on the curve of his shoulder. ‘I don’t regret it, Roman. I don’t want you to think that I do. Those two weeks, they were ... I was happy. And then, you were born, nine months later, and that was the best thing that ever happened to me. You were the best thing that ever happened to me. You believe me, don’t you?’
Roman nodded slowly. ‘So my father ... doesn’t know about me?’
Mama shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, my love. I tried to contact him. When I ... when I found out that you were on your way. But ... I didn’t know the name of the boat or the company he worked for. I didn’t know anything in the end.’
‘What was his name?’
‘Alessandro Romano.’
‘Is that why you called me Roman?’
Mama nodded, her face flushing pink.
‘I like my name.’
‘I like it too.’
She bent towards him, cupped her hands around his face, careful not to touch the bandage across his eye. ‘When Mr Hartmann wakes up, he will tell the police the truth,’ she said. ‘I know he will.’
Roman felt something grab hold of him. Hope maybe. He wasn’t sure. It was the way she said it. Like she was sure.
Her phone rang and she reached for her handbag, fished it out, answered it.
‘Hello?’
‘Yes, this is Rosa Matus.’
‘No! But—’
‘I don’t—’
‘But can’t you—?’
‘OK, yes, OK. I will come straight away.’
And Roman knew, the way some part of him had always known, that things would not work out. That everything would not be OK. He saw it in her falling face, the way she let the phone drop into her bag, the way she didn’t look at him.
‘I have to go now, Roman.’
‘Where?’
‘I’ll be back, my love. As soon as I can.’
‘Where are you going?’
She stood up and he could see her arranging her face before she lifted it towards him. She didn’t want him to know that things would not work out. That everything would not be OK.
‘It’s Mr Hartmann. He’s ... The nurse said that he ...’
‘He’s going to die, isn’t he?’ said Roman. His voice sounded flat. Disinterested. His heart hammered against the wall of his chest.
Rosa shook her head. ‘No! I mean, there’s no way to tell for sure, is there? He could ...’ She stood up. Picked up her coat from the end of his bed.
‘Mama? What did the nurse say? Tell me.’
Rosa looked at Roman then. Her eyes were a darker grey now, against the white skin of her face. She opened her mouth and Roman knew that what she said now would be the truth.
Her voice, when she spoke, was quiet. Steady. ‘The nurse said I should say my goodbyes.’
Twenty Four
When Martha got home from her coffee with Cillian, she sat on her sofa. It seemed vast. Even bigger than usual. She thought it might be because of Cillian. Seeing him reminded her of how much space he had filled. How empty the spaces were after he’d gone.
She should get back to her Valentine’s Day article. She thought about cleaning the bathroom instead. Or maybe the kitchen. Certainly not both. It could only be one or the other.
Instead, she grabbed her coat and her keys and drove to Dan’s house.
She saw him through the window in his sitting room when she pulled up in the driveway. He was kneeling on the floor, waist-deep in what he would later call IKEA-gate. Much later. When his sense of humour returned.
Every inch of floor was covered in screws, pieces of wood, sheets of glass, handles, nails, brackets, a measuring tape, a selection of calculators, two coffee pots – both empty – a bendable ruler, a step-ladder and lavender-scented tea lights: an impulse buy when Dan had finally reached the sanctuary of the checkout.
‘Did you not get a hard hat?’ she asked when he let her in.
‘The man in IKEA told me I wouldn’t need one,’ said Dan indignantly.
‘Why on earth did you buy a self-assembly cabinet?’ Martha asked, stepping over a brand new toolbox crammed with brand new tools.
‘Because ... that’s what people do, isn’t it?’ Dan said.
‘People, yes. But you? Did you even read the instructions?’
‘It’s thirty-two pages! Of course I didn’t.’ Dan pointed a shaking finger at a set of instructions that looked like they’d been crumpled into a ball and thrown at something.
In front of him stood what could be the beginnings of a cabinet, in a Picasso painting perhaps.
‘All the tools I bought,’ said Dan, shaking his head. Martha didn’t have the heart to tell him about the Allen key and screwdriver that came with each flatpack and were, pretty much, all each assembly required.
‘On the plus side,’ she said, ‘you don’t have to open the door to reach inside it. Look.’ She slid her hand through the gap between the two doors at the front of the cabinet, wiggled it about.
‘It’s not funny.’ Dan looked dejected.
‘Do you want me to help you?’ said Martha
‘No, thank you.’
‘Do you want me to do it for you?’
‘No, thank you.’ His voice was smaller now.
‘I won’t ask again.’
‘OK, then, fine, have it your way,’ said Dan, unstrapping a – brand new – tool belt from around his waist and throwing it on the couch before throwing himself there too.
‘The first time’s the worst,’ said Martha, glancing at him.
‘Do you mean that, in time, I could do it myself?’ A slender ray of hope lit Dan’s face.
‘I wouldn’t go that far.’
He threw himself back against the couch again, although he could not maintain his black mood for long. After two minutes, he lifted his head up. ‘I suppose I could make you some tea.’
‘That would be lovely.’
‘Although I only have an echinacea, thyme and liquorice blend.’
‘Fuck sake.’
By the time Dan had gone to the corner shop, bought Barry’s tea and chocolate Hobnobs, Martha had dismantled the cabinet and arranged the various screws into neat piles along the floor.
‘I’m missing screw 2B,’ she said. ‘Do you know where that is?’
‘Are you actually being serious?’
‘It looks like this.’ Martha showed him the picture in the instruction manual.
‘I think something rolled under the chaise longue when I dropped the hammer on my foot.’
Later, when she was finished, they sat together on the couch, Martha working on her laptop while Dan read their star signs from the Daily Mail. Every so often, Dan gazed at the cabinet with equal parts admiration and regret.
‘You know that print you gave me?’ Martha said. ‘I See You’.
‘It was the least I could do, my sweet, after you agreed to squeeze the boil on my—’
‘Stop it.’
‘Yes, I am familiar with the print. What about it?’
‘Cillian is working on this case and—’
‘CSI Donegal?’
‘Yes. I met him today. By chance. We went for
coffee.’
‘Curiouser and curiouser.’
Martha ignored him. She got her phone out of her laptop bag and showed Dan the photo of the drawing that Cillian had sent her.
‘Do you think this one could have been drawn by the same artist?’ she said.
‘Oh my gosh,’ said Dan, taking the phone and peering at the screen. ‘Where did you find this?’
‘I’m not at liberty to say.’
‘This is so James Bond – Daniel Craig era, obvs.’
Martha ignored him. ‘Well? Do you think it’s by the same artist?’
‘At first glance, I would say most definitely. It’s the same woman. The nurse. Of course it could be a copy. I’d have to see the original to comment comprehensively.’
‘Cillian asked if he could pick your brain, such as it is.’
‘Might I have to testify?’ Dan looked both thrilled and terrified.
‘I wouldn’t say so. He’s just after a preliminary opinion.’
Dan studied Martha’s face. ‘What’s going on? Does Cillian know something about the identity of the painter?’ he demanded.
‘No, and you’re not to mention this to anyone, OK?’
‘You know I would sooner die than betray your confidence.’
‘Do you have to be so dramatic?’
Dan didn’t respond, perhaps presuming that the question was rhetorical.
‘He wants you to go down to the station.’
‘Oh my days!’ Dan’s hands flew to either side of his face. ‘I shall go at first light. That’s when I’m at my freshest.’
In the olden days, Dan would have said, ‘This calls for a stiff glass of port,’ or some other alcoholic beverage. Now, he handed her a chocolate Hobnob and said, ‘So. Any word from Mathilde?’
Martha shook her head. ‘Her phone keeps going to voicemail when I ring.’
‘Maybe,’ said Dan, ‘you should stop phoning her and just write to her. You’re a good writer. When I read you, it’s like talking to you, except better.’
‘Why better?’
‘Editing,’ Dan said.
Martha sighed. ‘I suppose I could try.’
‘And if that doesn’t work, I could go to London. Manhandle her over here,’ said Dan, flexing his arm to reveal no muscle tone whatsoever. ‘Tell her it’s make or break. Time to get her cards on the table. Leave no holds barred. Pull all punches.’
‘Have you run out of idioms?’
‘No, I just thought that was enough to be getting along with.’
‘Tara doesn’t even seem to care that she could be transferred to St Pat’s.’
Dan gasped. ‘The asylum?’
‘We don’t say asylum anymore.’ Martha sighed. ‘I wish she’d just ... snap out of it. Everything feels so ... strange recently. Nobody is where they’re supposed to be, you know?’
Dan gave her a sharp look. ‘You haven’t been anywhere you’re not supposed to be, have you? Like the pub?’
‘What would you do if I said I’d thought about it?’ She kept her tone light.
‘I’d sit on you until the thought went away. Now, pop on your shoes and coat. I’m taking you out.’
‘I don’t feel like going out.’
‘There’s a Sean Scully exhibition in the Hugh Lane Gallery,’ said Dan, ignoring her.
‘You know he annoys me.’
‘Exactly. Annoyance is one of the best forms of distraction and you, dear heart, are a woman in need of distraction, yes?’
Dan strapped sandals onto his besocked feet and stood up. He looked unconcerned, as if Martha had never mentioned the possibility of a drink after all this time.
Disappointment and relief flooded her body. Equal in quantity. It was confusing.
Twenty Five
It seemed impossible that so much time had passed.
The grave was overgrown, as if no one had touched it since he last came.
He came once a year, on the ninth of May, which was her birthday.
He thought about her every day.
She had nearly made it. Mary Murphy.
Tobias summoned her into his mind, like he was calling her.
Mary.
There she was, her hair as long and dark as it had been in 1945. It framed her small, pale face in a way that was so delicate.
So alive.
And her eyes. Dark blue. Almost navy. Full of impossible hope.
He fished the photograph of her out of his pocket, the paper worn and thin from the march of time on it.
In the photograph, she was turning, her lips parting, about to speak. Many times, he imagined what she might say.
He remembered the way she said his name. She spoke like she was reciting a poem. Or a song. He imagined her saying his name again, like it was a sweet song that she might sing.
Tobias sat on the lip of the grave, stretched his arm towards the headstone and scraped at the soft moss that grew there. He pulled at weeds that grew along its base.
The rose bush he had planted years before was still thriving and the swollen buds were opening again, releasing a trace of the scent they would produce come the summer.
Tobias glanced around the graveyard, made sure no one was in earshot before he said it. He always said it. Her name. Just her name.
Mary Murphy.
He felt foolish saying it out loud. It was like a pact between them now. If he failed to say it, he would let her down. He would disremember her, and everything she had done in the war would have been for nothing.
It had taken him many Sundays to find her grave. The first time he found it, he had shouted her name. Perhaps even cried it. People stared. He hadn’t shouted after that.
Now, he put his hand on the warm stone beside the date – 27 December 1945 – and spoke her name.
He finished weeding the grave, although it was, by his standards, a rudimentary effort. He worried that some of her family might find him at the grave some year, on the ninth of May. He had never prepared an explanation for his attendance there.
Or at least none that made any sense.
Tobias took off his jacket and mopped his brow. It was unseasonably warm. The usual crowds gathered around the headstone of Michael Collins, leaving balloons and flowers on the grave to wither. Tobias opened the satchel he always carried, took out the sketch pad, his tin of charcoal. He preferred drawing with charcoal, liking the starkness of it, the way it got on his fingers, reminding him of the work he had done. He didn’t need to consult the photograph anymore. Hadn’t needed to for years. He drew her from memory, although, he acknowledged, she had no real place in his memories. She was not his. But she was there all the same.
He drew her as she was in the photograph. Half-turned towards him, lips parted, about to speak.
‘You’ve some talent there, sir.’ The voice was clipped. Perhaps British. Or Anglo-Irish. Tobias turned and nodded at the man. A handsome man of rigid bearing and a wool suit.
‘You’re an artist.’ It was a statement rather than a question. Tobias shook his head.
‘May I?’ The man extended his arm and Tobias handed him the drawing of Mary Murphy. The man studied it with great concentration. Tobias stood up, took the watch from the breast pocket of his waistcoat beneath his jacket and glanced at it, so the man might think he was in a hurry. He wasn’t to know that Tobias had closed the shop. That he closed it on this day every year. He wondered what Mr Goldstein, who had sold Tobias the shop before he died, would have made of that. The shop closed on a perfectly good working day.
‘It’s exquisite. Quite extraordinary. The attention to detail. And the emotion. So contained. So potent.’ The man looked up, smiled at Tobias and removed a business card from his wallet. ‘Malachy Hemingway. No relation to Ernest, I’m afraid.’ He allowed himself a small chuckle and Tobias imagined he introduced himself thus on a regular basis. The comment, followed by the small chuckle. He accepted the man’s card, followed by his hand, which he shook briefly. He wasn’t fond of speaking to people on the ni
nth of May. It was his day. His and Mary’s. He visited her, drew her face, walked from the cemetery in Glasnevin to his flat in Little Britain Street, drank two glasses of whiskey and went to bed.
It was a day of routine that had not altered over the last almost twenty years and he didn’t want to waste time speaking with anyone, regardless of their familial links to literary icons or otherwise.
Tobias looked at the card. It was good quality, embossed with a painting by Daniel Hennessy, if he was not mistaken. In fussy font, it proclaimed that Malachy Hemingway was an art dealer with offices in London, Dublin and New York. Tobias nodded, returned the card to the man.
‘Have you sold much of your work?’
Tobias allowed himself a small smile, shook his head. ‘It’s a hobby.’
Malachy continued studying the drawing, then jerked his head up, bored his eyes into Tobias’s face. Tobias took a small step back.
‘Would you be interested in showing me your work?’
‘Why?’
‘I might be able to sell some pieces for you.’
Perhaps it was because he had nothing to lose. He had countless versions of the very same drawing of her face. Sometimes he drew her on a battlefield, a figure approaching the wounded and the dead, carrying a medicine bag, coming through trees that were always bare. It was always winter in Tobias’s drawings. He thought perhaps it was because of the cold during the winter of 1945. He had thought he would never be warm again, after that winter. Sometimes she was in a field hospital, tending to a soldier. On rare days, he drew her sitting on a bench by a body of water. The Grand Canal. Her face untroubled by war. It was fanciful, he knew, but he imagined that she might have sat there had she lived.
Perhaps he agreed because of Malachy himself. His cheery optimism seemed in direct contrast to Tobias’s disposition and, while it was forceful, it did not appear to be forced. He must have been one of those people for whom optimism was not a chore, Tobias thought.
Or perhaps it was because of the uniformity of Tobias’s daily routine, the small space he occupied in the world. This was something different. New. It appealed to him in a way he could not understand. He did not consider himself to be a man of ego, although, yes, he took pride in his work as a watch repairman, of course he did. He handed Malachy the drawing.
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