by Dermot Healy
Ollie.
Mr Kilgallon.
He looked at me a long time, shook his head and went on in. The school bus appeared and I waved it down.
Tell them all in the city that I was asking for them, says John Pete.
I will.
Tell them we’re still here.
I will. I will.
no mountain
The bus fills with lads in blue and distracted girls in brown gymslips on their way to the Mercy. The ladies are still in the dream world, or somewhere in between that world and this.
So there we are on a Monday morning.
The General has reached wherever he’s going the mother is up John Pete is nearly home Joe Green is walking his beasts and soon I’m like the girls, staring off into the future. What are you saying? To sin is to exist. Tell them we’re still here. It’s like I’ve been making this journey for years and the mountain is away again. For much of the year Ben Bulben is hardly ever there. It ascends into the clouds and goes off the earth. It’s taken down for the winter. It’s up there in the dark rain and the driving hail. Clouds are moving so dense at its foot that you would think that there was no mountain.
None in the wide.
No mountain, no Yeats.
Go for it, says the driver to the radio, my old son.
We stop at every other corner taking on more ladies. The door slaps shut and we’re away. Go for it, he says. His hair is a rich deep white like an elderly woman’s. A split runs straight across the centre of his skull. Looking at his head I think of my own and try to get rid of the thought.
That was close.
the pothole
We booted by the church at Drumcliff and raced over a pothole. A girl held her breast. With Willie Nelson singing of heartbreak, I get off at the Line. The girls watch me absent-mindedly. Rain falling in sheets on the Garavogue river. Ten to nine by the post office clock.
That’d be her.
What a to-do, as the elderly gentleman said.
II
The Rap
7
the Rap
When I finished in Doyle’s that evening I cut across to the Wild Raparee. Of course the Raparee is not the Raparee at all these days. It’s the Inishfree, but we still call it the Rap. Everyone knows that.
It’s where the art students, young doctors and some of the solicitors hang out. I used come here when it was a kind of soccer bar. Then the pub changed hands, the fans moved out and the artists moved in. Down came the stapled photos of Giles and Best and up went gilt-framed prints of works by Picasso, Henry and Jack Yeats from the £1 shop.
Mrs Marise Gilmartin, the proprietor, saw to that.
It’s in the Rap I met the bloomin’ artists I share the house with. The house on High Street.
It’s all right there except for the stairs.
my love life
The pub is all right too except the Boss and his wife are going through bad times. I think that’s why they gave me the job, because of what had happened in my love life. People take great leeway. They tried groping into my past when I first started. I was vulnerable and said things in confidence that I should not have.
I’ll start again
I’ll start again. I had been living in the hostel since myself and this lady Sara broke up, sharing rooms with travellers from all over the world, and that was fine.
One night we were in Australia, another night in the forests of Maine. I found it hard to sleep what with trying to put the pieces back together again.
The intimacy you once had with someone is hard to forget at the beginning. It returns stronger than ever before.
I would say I was not right in the head.
That’s right.
High all the time on sorrow, and low because of what you think is being said about you. I heard babies crying everywhere. Then the father started ranting. Fathers are difficult. He went on. And on. I said OK. Somebody came and put another in my place. The lady was gone. I was away with the fairies. I was stopping in the hostel with a chap from Atlanta. He popped some speed in my tea. That’s the second time that happened me. And it came right at the wrong time. Like it did before. There was nothing for it but to give off a smile, and nod, nod again, then give one of those laughs that bounce along the top of the throat, and then the shame at being a hypocrite, being stoned and rabbiting on.
Hold it there now, hold it there.
But I couldn’t.
It all came back. The worst thing is I turned sort of religious. That can happen. It can happen the best of us. I walked to the window in the hostel and looked out at the monastery that had not been inhabited in over two centuries. In my head I heard beautiful psalms. This need of mine for God is a travesty. The traveller wanted to speak of Aristotle and I wanted to speak of St Paul. You’ll get that. You push too much onto someone.
I started to tell your man from Atlanta about the lady. I saw his aura shift towards dark, and his strangeness came back like a flood across the room. The spiral started. Next thing I was weeping. The bloke split.
I lay there wondering who was at the window.
Atlanta
I have never been to Atlanta. He was born there. So when I heard him come in later that night, I said, Tell me about Atlanta, though I really wanted to ask him about the speed he put in my tea.
What? he said.
Atlanta, I said, where you come from.
I don’t come from Atlanta, he said.
But you told me you did.
I guess not. It must have been someone else.
What are you saying?
I’m saying I’m not from Atlanta. You have the wrong guy.
Then who is from Atlanta?
I don’t know.
But it’s you.
No, he said. Never.
I turned to look at him, but I couldn’t see him. He had not put the light on. He got into bed in the dark and we each lay there in silence.
I couldn’t trust myself to say anything even though I wanted to explain. I was afraid I might find myself back babbling. I framed the question a few times – Why did you put speed in my tea? Why did you put speed in my tea? Why did you put speed in my tea, hah? – but I said nothing. Because this must be another man entirely and yet his voice sounded exactly like the first fellow.
But who had they put in his place – I couldn’t tell.
Then my body separated at the groin into two halves.
the top of me
The top part of me was death. The bottom of me was life. My head was deathly cold. The upper part of my trunk had come free. And my groin was warm. If I could fit the two together I’d save myself. And if I didn’t do it sudden I was dead.
I fought and woke to find myself in the dormitory of the empty hostel. Whoever the new fellow was he was gone. I’d never know if it had been the man from Atlanta denying me. The woman came to change the beds and I said I was ill. Four days I lay there without a bite, drinking water from the tap, while in the other beds travellers came and went in various languages, made love, boiled soup and did their nails. I got up at last to get my tools off the site.
Where were you? asked the head buck.
I wasn’t well.
You don’t look it either.
Does he know too? I wondered. Does everyone know?
I’m quitting.
Fair enough, he said. Are you going to take on the big world by yourself?
I might.
Good luck so. I think you’ll do well.
You think so?
I do.
Why?
A Sligo man never loses any sweat.
I watched closely the way he looked at me but I couldn’t tell.
the fashion show
I went into the Rap for to plan ahead. I mind it was a lonely day, the place empty and smelling of disinfectant and that awful polish they spray onto tables and counters that catches in the throat. My mouth was dry and I was feeling weak. Mrs Gilmartin was watching the fashion show on Sky News.
It was hell. I bought a vodka and orange. Then I was afraid to drink it – just in case. She propped her chin on her upturned palms and watched me. Every time I looked up, her eyes were on me. Jesus. It got hard to think what with the scrutiny. I watched the fashion show with great care. I counted the girls on the boardwalk. Then she came over and sat down.
We both stared at the TV.
I believe, she says, that you’ve broken up with Sara.
How did you hear? I demanded.
Oh I can’t remember.
You mean the whole town knows?
No, it was told to me in confidence.
Blah!
Honestly.
They have little to talk about.
Well now, she said, it’s not the end of the world.
Do you say so?
Someone else will happen along.
I doubt it
That’s what I said.
Oh come on, she said. You’re only young. If I had the chance I would long ago have left your man.
Do you mean that?
No.
Well, you should not say it. It’s not something that should be joked about.
My God, but you’re serious.
I took a drink quickly.
Who told you about me and Sara? I said.
Does it matter?
Yes.
What difference does it make who told me?
Because I want to know what they’re saying. Some one is bad-mouthing me.
Jesus, she said.
That’s right, I nodded.
You’d want to take it easy, Ollie.
Who was it for Christ sake? I yelled.
Sara, she said.
What?
She told me herself. Are you satisfied now?
I am, I said sheepishly.
She stood.
Do you mind looking after the shop for a minute, she said, I want to hop down to the bakers.
I sat there on my own. I remembered another conversation that ended like that – and now I was sorry I had ever asked. It was as if I had just stepped into a draught. An eternity passed. I thought it was some joke to leave me there alone in the pub. I thought they were watching to see if I’d steal something. I felt like I should be doing something but there was nothing to do. On the TV the last of the models curtsied, then all arrived back on for the finale, accompanied by a young male designer in leather. And that was the end of the fashion show.
Then I thought – this is all a front.
Life is pretending to be normal.
But I’ll adapt.
trials?
Don’t start that.
Leave it out.
Trials?
No, thank you.
the clientele
This is what happened.
Joe Martin came in and stood at the bar just as the music ended. Thinking he was alone he studied himself cheerfully in the bar mirror, straightened his tie and made a face. He ran his tongue round his upper teeth and pursed his lips.
Japers, he said, seeing me behind him.
Joe.
What’s the story? asked Joe.
She’s gone to the bakery.
A’ course.
All of a sudden like?
Aye.
He rattled the coins in his pocket, selected one and dropped it into the Sea Rescue Lifeboat collection box.
Well, I’m not going to wait here much longer, he said.
Hold on, I said. I went behind the bar and pulled him a pint.
I prodded the till suspiciously, but she shot open. Now. I got two hot whiskeys for the Waterses. The crowd for the Strandhill bus came in and I served them. An hour later Mrs Gilmartin returned to find the pub half full.
Well, well, she said. I knew the shop was in safe hands.
Aha-ha, I said.
Could you do the bar this evening – you’d be doing me a great favour?
I will, I said, if Sara is never mentioned.
Hand on my heart, she said.
And that’s how the Gilmartins offered me a part-time job. Gilmartin is something above in the Court House and she runs the pub full-time. Their one son Gabriel went to Art College. Hence the artists among the clientele. That’s the story.
So I’m here four nights a week. Yes sir. If I had not stepped through the door of the pub that day I would not be where I am now. If your man had not put the speed in my tea I’d still be labouring on the site. And if I can hold on a bit longer I might find purchase.
Sara
What was the first thing Gilmartin said when he greeted me that evening? He said I hear you’re on the loose again. I looked around for an escape, but there was none. The world is your oyster, son. From here on out, he added. And he winked. And what did I do?
8
mirror images
The boss is in position on the other side of the bar at seven. He eats his dinner at the counter opposite me.
I do this four evenings a week, £15 a shift, a few drinks, no questions asked, and I get the tea. So this evening again I sit facing him. We commence eating. I try to head my gestures off into a different direction, but it’s no good, I’m trapped in this ritual ever since I returned that wink a couple of years ago. He shakes the salt cellar, taps it off the bar, shakes it again and hands it to me.
I shake the salt, tap the bar and set the cellar down. The pepper goes through the same procedure, then the Chef sauce.
His mouth opens. I can see into his lungs.
Quiet, this evening, he says.
I nod.
We forage on.
I hear they have a cure for impotence, he says.
Have they? I ask guardedly.
They have indeed. I saw it in the Sun. Your lad will stand round the clock.
Now.
With an extra inch added on for good intentions.
Very good.
Do ya think so? He laughs knowingly. Lifts a forkful of food. I do the same. Have you seen any ladies lately?
No.
No?
No.
He pauses.
Are you gone celibate or what?
Never mind.
I try to turn the conversation off in another direction when it strikes me, not for the first time, that we’re eating in unison. If I lift a spud to my mouth he does the same. I cut my chop, he does his. So I slow down and try to vary my moves but darn it if he doesn’t do the same.
Are you copying me? I ask and leave my utensils down.
What are you talking about, professor? he says and leaves down his.
You’re eating the same as me.
What do you expect? he asks astounded. Weren’t we given the same shagging dinner?
that’s not what I mean
– I said.
I lift my knife and fork. And of course so does he.
Did you ever, I say, start humming a tune and the man beside you takes up the exact same tune?
I’ve seen it happen.
Well, that’s what I mean.
You have me.
Find your own tune, I say.
He studies me with merry contempt.
Would you like, he says, to order something different from me? Tell herself, tell sweet Marise. Let her cook two different dinners.
You have it all wrong, I said.
Suddenly I pinned a sprout and shot it into my mouth. He studied this move.
Got you, I said, chewing.
He shook his head.
Can I go on? he asks.
Whatever you like.
He slowly resumes his meal. We work at two different rhythms, but slowly we fall into line again, mimicking each other except this time I don’t know whether it’s me imitating him, or he me. Whenever Gilmartin is around I feel I’m the victim of mirror images. Why I should have chosen him, or he me, is one of those facts of life. Oh, it was a very difficult meal, one of the worst, me aware of his every move, every morsel he sends into his mouth. Throughout dessert he watches Ollie warily. We finish together, e
xactly. And on cue she reaches in for the plates.
Lovely stuff, he says.
the man in the quiz show
That’s who I am, as far as they are concerned.
She does not speak to him. He does not speak to her. It’s not healthy working for two people that don’t speak to each other.
Of course they both speak to me, sometimes at the same time. I get up and walk along the bar looking back at him till I’m out of his orbit. He lifts the newspaper. He calls out questions from the crossword. She asks, What did he say? I tell her though I know she’s heard him.
She answers him through me. She says the name of a horse. He says the name of someone who’s been hospitalized.
I hand the news of the day to and fro between the two.
It’s something else, it’s not easy. You lose your way among lost souls.
where were we?
I shoot blue down the toilets, scour the sinks and mop the floor then read the new graffiti on the back of the doors.
Often enough the nudes in the gents are quite delicate and erotic. The artists of course. Funny enough, there’s few drawings in the ladies.
More words than pictures there.
Run a mop down the corridor. Done.
Where were we?
parachuting
Ah. By the time I’ve finished the jacks the students arrive and the parachuting starts.
Marise Gilmartin likes the students. She gives out free grub when they celebrate parties and exams in the pub. There’s draws for big hampers at Xmas, ads for student magazines. She sponsors walks. There is a certain cheerfulness abroad tonight not only because it’s grant day but because Marise over the weekend sponsored a parachute drop.
