‘Well what Seamus means there, I believe, is that a passing knowledge of the language is indeed a delightful thing – and of course you know I have written extensively on Heaney and wish him many more years of creativity. And that indeed is a delightful way of putting it: “ways of being at home”. Hmm. A true Heaneyism.’
‘That tune which Rod is humming? We don’t wish to interrupt him but our listeners will have heard it in the background. Benjamin, you probably know it?’
‘Though he hates to admit to any influences, Rod is a bit of a Joycean, and that sounds to me like “Shool a Roone”, an Irish ditty which old Joyce had a fondness for.’ The radio hisses ‘Siúil a Rún’. ‘I think he may be emerging from the trance …’
‘So, turning again to you, Rod – and our listeners will be relieved to hear that you are again back with us as it were – you too were a little hurt I believe by the reactions of some to your paean to mealtime, “Let Us Eat”. There may be some echoes there of Heaney’s “ways of being at home”, no?’
‘Oh, a tenuous link at most. If I may remind our listeners of the opening lines:
Repas, mahlzeit, comida,
let us gather round,
pronounce these names aloud,
now crossing borders
welcoming ourselves
inside familial surrounds
of supper, pietanza, maltid …
‘Wonderful, Rod, wonderful – and your thoughts on this, Benjamin?’
‘One of Rod’s finest to date. Language after language was invited, shall we say, to a universal meal, “Sit down!” it said. “Sit down and let us linger …” And while I take your point that the Irish for “meal” was not perhaps used …’
‘Béile, no? If my school Irish is not even rustier than my French!’
‘Indeed, but it must be remembered after all that Rod is a recognised international poet geared towards the avant-garde, shall we say, in world literature, the sine qua non of which is the teasing out of what possible echoes might reverberate with, shall we say, the reader in Brazil? And the writer is, after all, Irish, representative of the modern and assured Irishness. The Irish who, since Joyce, have taken the English language and quite made it their own. So let’s be honest, there is no real argument here.’
‘You mention Joyce there, and I am reminded of your substantive work on Joyce, Bin U? We cannot sign off without some comment on that and of course your seminal essay on “The Dead”.’
‘If I may interject there, Philomena. I have on many occasions reread “The Dead” and marvel at the inverse nature of Gabriel’s decision “to set out on his journey westward”!’
‘Indeed, Rod … But Philomena, of course, while Joyce himself headed east – and the wonderful inversion referred to there by Rod – to Trieste and Paris, his hero in “The Dead”, Gabriel, ends up hankering after the noble west, the unattainable, and the romantic Michael Furey who had “a very good voice” – just like Joyce himself really. Again, there is the dichotomy …’
‘Yes, well, there listeners, we have to leave it. We could of course go on all day. And so we wind off another edition of the Dual Personality Show and, as I speak, Rod is assuming once again the Inverse Position in the rafters and Benjamin, of all people, is trying to emulate the feat and I leave you with Rod issuing instructions to Benjamin, or Bin U – perhaps you are a fan of both! – who is trying valiantly to follow these instructions as they have come down through the Gallic corridors of history, as relayed to Rod by one Shagall …’
The radio brings on a happy tune.
One Christmas Eve
The bundle came over the wall, fell, and was not redeemed. Christmas Eve and scuttered. Let us see. The boat wobbled over the Irish Sea (seeing as we own it) and spewed out its passengers onto the North Wall, the sing song had been good. Connemara men had appreciated ‘Peigí Leitir Móir’ sufficiently nasal and off key. Brought into their grasp. It had been a good trip, save for the vomit in the jacks which meant quick delivery and out. Bonhomie on the way back to the Emerald Isle. This was the only way to look at Ireland: from a boat, approaching, in the dark.
The bundle came over the wall. Let us see. Ignominy yes, the bundle arose. It’s me. Welcome home, gather yourself. Shake your fist at Behan, at Kavanagh, all the drinkers of the realm, inside it, outside it, wanting to be outside it, nevertheless back from London. I’m back from London. Make way!
At the door, to knock or not to knock, the blurred question. Knock, the door opens, you stop from falling in. Just. ‘So there you are,’ disappointment etched on every feature. Fuck drink, but it’s too late. ‘Who were you with?’ as if it mattered. ‘I was with, I met up with …’ Absolution if the collaborator could be blamed. Always the same. Dishing out hurt like confetti, no, snuff at a wake. No more snuff, no more wakes. Give them a new one, one they can chew on. I will, like …
The bundle, oh to hell with it. The trifle, that’s a decent change, give them the trifle. The head was ringing, not the bells of Christmas Day, the head was ringing out, over the turkey, the ham, the leamh taste of everything, I’m sorry there’s no English word for it, you’ll have to make do. Regret, too late but regret none the same. That leamh taste of hangover food, each bite a bite of regret, there go the bells again, in the head. The trifle with its sherry hint, to cool, to cure. ‘No, we’re off for a week.’ ‘So you’ll be staying … for the week …?’ Is this the way? Oh yes it is, oh yes it is. This way you’re popular, a gas man, here he is, well I suppose you’ll have one. Hold on, a song. A bit of shush there, a song. The only way, I’m telling you, there is no other way. The drift begins, we wade in, are carried on the stench of seaweed, rotting, or is it Guinness drying on his chin. The night is cold but roll on home. The key not out, unpractised. Try the window of the kitchen. Only opens so far, then heave in we must, just a little more, remember the centre of gravity, remember the centre of gravity has to be, well, has to be centred I suppose but too late, the body acting before the mind takes to tumble – luckily the kitchen table – it’s how you measure luck – has accepted the torso and other parts before depositing onto the kitchen floor, the whole cargo, if a little splayed. Then the door chinks open. ‘So you’re there.’
No wonder they go to Mass. No wonder they pray.
Copyright
First published in 2015 by Liberties Press
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Copyright © Mike Mac Domhnaill, 2014
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ebook ISBN: 978–1–910742–23–5
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This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated, without the publisher’s prior consent, in any form other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher.
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The publishers gratefully acknowledge the financial support of the Arts Council of Northern Ireland.
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