When I reached the bottom of the creaking crooked stair, it was to find my lover had baked bread in the Aga. There was the loaf he proudly exhibited, shaped like an old thatched cottage, with its cute arched top, steaming still, pure, honest, elemental, wholesome, like our lives together We kissed passionately, and then went to the table, covered in a blue gingham cloth, where a feast of good things awaited us—muesli, cream, black Colombian coffee, croissants, fruit in piles, little shrimps basking in butter, a pat of goat’s cheese with a sprig of parsley on top, and toast such as you never tasted before.
The words of the ambient penetrated Rose’s consciousness.
‘...Following their conference this afternoon. The EU President, Mr de Bourcey, said that they would await the response to their ultimatum to the government of Tebarou before taking further action. Meanwhile, the President of the United States—’
‘Oh, do turn that thing off, Jack! How do you expect me to work with all that going on?’
‘It looks like war, poppet.’
‘Well, it won’t involve us . . .’
So enraptured were they with one another; that they forgot the meal. Up to her little unmade bed they went. There in the energies and transports of love they carried themselves up into the starlit sky, where there were only themselves and angels up above, singing of the divinity which is the pure essence of love.
She read the last few sentences over. Too many ‘ups’ for comfort, she told herself sternly.
* * * *
Within the human anatomy are a number of semi-autonomous functions which may almost be said to ‘have minds of their own’. For instance, various nervous systems control such basic bodily functions as the beating of the heart, breathing, and the emptying of bladder and bowels. A tangle of nerve fibres and ganglia infiltrate every centimetre of our bodies. This tangle is a product of past evolution; because of our complex phylogeny, one system operates without cognisance of another system. Hence our conflicting desires and purposes.
We tend to believe mind pre-eminent in our metabolisms. But we move towards a perception that our conscious mind is itself a product of the complex deeper levels and nervous systems, much as a waterspout, though distinctive, is still a part of the sea below. Mind is not separate. It was developed by matter without mind, before there was consciousness to coordinate its function.
The resultant complex mechanism is largely ruled by instinct—instinct often opposed by the niceties of society. Tension is a consequence expressing itself as fear (in one of its many guises). The monsters we fear are usually inhabitants of the deep interior.>
* * * *
Regan Bonzelli, the President of the United States, was striding the golf course with two of his generals. The pleasant green all about had its due effect on their tempers. Moreover, they had only one more hole before they could retire to the club house, to relax among friends with a glass of something.
The subject of the Insanatics had come up between them.
‘I regard their messages as subversive,’ said General Leslie Howards. ‘The sooner we suppress any more such messages the better.’
‘I don’t know about that, Les,’ said the President, mildly. ‘You don’t need me to remind you how readily folks start yelling about censorship. The fact is that what this Insanatics group says is plain untrue. So it will have no effect. No sane man is going to be persuaded that he’s crackers in the face of evidence to the contrary.’
‘If this European war with Tebarou is declared, then the messages will be seen as unpatriotic and therefore subversive,’ said General Heinz Wasserman. He was teeing up and spoke rather vaguely. ‘Even, mm, truth can be subversive in wartime.’
‘All that’s up to the EU,’ said the President. He paused courteously as Wasserman made his stroke. ‘We don’t have to declare anything. We just supply the warring sides with munitions. We can only gain from this war if it comes. You may privately think the Europeans are mad, but they are our friends and allies. This loony sect, the Insanatics, is neither here nor there . . . Oh, great shot, Heinz!’
They watched as Wasserman’s little white ball rolled over the green to trickle to within two metres of the eighteenth hole.
‘If only we had smart bombs that accurate,’ said Howards.
They strolled on, caddies following in the buggy.
* * * *
The honeymooners, Victor de Bourcey and his bride Esme Brackentoth, were together at last. Weather on Everest had improved. Esme had opened her restaurant and had flown out to join Victor.
The takings at the new restaurant were phenomenal.
Now they strolled along the cliff walk on a peninsula in the south-west of Ireland, before flying on again for Hawaii. This they planned to do in two days’ time. The air here in Ireland was fine and soft, and they needed its freshness after a liquid lunch in a local pub. The waves breaking nearby had grown adult from their passage across the wide Atlantic and gave a masculine boom as they hit the shoreline, as if to say — Victor turned the words into a song — ‘Oooh, who knew the spume bloomed from our doom!’
‘You idiot!’
They laughed and ran and shouted to the wind.
Esme flung herself down on the soft turf, gasping that she could go no farther.
‘Have a rest, darling. I’ll just wander on and take a look at that little church.’ Victor pointed to a small whitewashed building some way ahead. It perched on the edge of the cliff, a stone gull waiting to take off over the Atlantic.
‘I can’t go a step farther,’ Esme said, gazing up at him. ‘jet lag has set in, strongly reinforced by that poteen they forced on us.’
Victor stooped and kissed her on her lips. He walked along the path, enjoying the rush of mild air blowing up from the sea. Boom went the waves below. Singing, he reached the little church, with its crumbling white walls, its cross, and the tile missing from its roof. He was thinking of how it resembled small churches he had visited on Greek islands, when a large man in a worn corduroy suit appeared from round the landward corner of the building. He gave Victor a greeting.
‘It’s locked, if you were aiming to get in,’ the man said, nodding his head towards the church. ‘In truth, it’s locked if you weren’t,’ he added, with a smile. ’Jesus Christ threw the key in the Atlantic when he left.’ Then the smile was gone, and he was just a hulking great man, standing, hands in pockets, waiting for Victor’s next move.
Victor said that he was using the church as a landmark and was about to turn back.
‘That about sums up the state of religion,’ the stranger remarked. ‘You see a church, maybe you think you need a church. Then you turn back. Who can tell whether you need a church or not? You certainly can’t. Name’s Paddy Cole, by the way.’ He held out a beefy hand. Victor took it and introduced himself. Cole seemed not to recognise his name. He was a man perhaps in his mid-fifties, grey hair bursting out vigorously from beneath his tweed cap.
Below them, perched on the undercliff, were two cottages, white-painted like the church. Smoke came from the chimney of one of them.
‘You live there?’Victor asked, for something to say.
Cole pointed down at the twin buildings. ‘Mine’s the middle one.’
‘Well, I must be getting back.’
Paddy Cole gave a brief laugh. ‘You’re French, aren’t you? I can tell by the accent. You don’t understand Irish jokes, that’s for sure. I’m a painter, I’ll have you know, although for sure that’s another Irish joke. Come on down and take at look at my canvases.’
‘I ought to be getting back.’
‘Leave your lass alone for a bit, will you? Give the poor woman a rest. I’ve been to France. Lived in Montmartre for a while. I know what you French are like.’ He took Victor’s arm and propelled him to a steep path leading downwards. They took it at a run. There was no way Victor could stop or escape.
‘You’v
e not seen Ireland till you’ve smelled the inside of my cottage.’
The cottage was certainly interesting. Victor gazed curiously round. On the walls were framed photographs, many of them faded, of people staring into the camera; among them were more recent shots of naked women or, rather, of one naked woman in various poses on a beach.
A young woman introduced as Fay was there, a thin lass with straggling dull hair, all smiles as she came forward. She was recognisably the woman in the photographs. ‘Will you be taking a drink, sir?’ she asked by way of introduction.
The poverty of the place was apparent. No curtains at windows, no carpets on floors. An old tabby cat sitting tight on a crumbling windowsill. A spoutless teapot on a shelf, propping up a couple of paperback books. The cottage had only two rooms, with a kitchen tacked on at the back, where something that smelled like stew simmered on a low flame. The couple slept and lived in the front room facing the sea. In the back room, Cole had his studio. Here, the smell of linseed oil eclipsed the smell of the stew. The small space was cluttered with stacks of unframed canvases. Cole steered Victor into this den.
‘Here’s what we call the Royal Academy,’ he told his visitor.
He put his boot up on a kitchen chair and hefted a canvas on to his knee, turning it towards Victor.
It was an abstract painting, executed in black and red, created by great slashing brush strokes.
Victor was at a loss as to what to say.
‘I write poems too, y’know,’ said Cole, defensively. He quoted, ‘“On Kilberkilty, lost to the world, That’s where the strongest waves are daily hurled. But when the sun sets at death of day, Its weakest final beams are hurled our way” You don’t like it, do you?’ By this remark Cole evidently referred to the canvas. ‘I can see that clear enough. You’ll be thinking my paintings are no fucking good. Well, there are many more paintings here, much the same.’
He pulled another canvas from the stack. It was much the same.
‘Same subject, you see! The End of the World.’
He set the canvases down and, confronting Victor, said, ‘Hurry up with the bottle, Fay. You don’t like my paintings? But what does that matter to me?’
‘I’d have to study them awhile. I’m not an expert at abstracts. They are certainly striking.’
‘And what does it matter if they are no fucking good? They’re what I do! This he said with great emphasis. ‘In any case, they are not abstracts. This is Expressionism you’re looking at. Supposing they happen to be good -but if no one sees them, then they can’t be called good. You comprendre?’
Fay came up with two glasses, thrusting one into Victor’s hand. She poured him a generous tot of amber liquid from a brown bottle, despite Victor’s protests that he must be getting back to his fiancée.
‘Sit down and drink, man! Drink tastes all the better when you’ve sat your arse on a chair. I wish to raise a philosophical point with you about these paintings.’
They sat down on the sofa which also served as a bed. Victor was feeling uneasy, and sipped gently at his whiskey Cole swigged his down with one gulp. He held out his glass for more.
‘You’re what they call an intellectual, aren’t you? You can always tell ‘em by the way they drink.’
He began his argument. He opened by asking what value meant. His canvases, as far as he knew, were without value. But supposing he murdered Fay — or Victor, he said, with a grimace—then he would be had up for trial and the pictures would become known. The court case would make him famous. His photograph would be everywhere. Then the paintings would have value. Especially if he was executed for the murder. They could be auctioned in New York or London or Frankfurt or Montmartre or somewhere, and fetch a deal of money.
So the question was, what value did the canvases have? None or much? How would murder serve to increase their value? It did not matter that they were bad. Many a bad painter had made a fortune. Cole started reeling off their names.
Besides, who was to say they were bad?
Was Victor to be his judge?
To all this, Victor made some responses. They were swept aside. He saw the anxiety in the big man but could find no reassuring formula to put to him.
Another question was, how was the value of the paintings to be balanced against the value of his life?
What did it mean by saying that a painting was good or bad? Or a bit of music? Or a book? You could say whether you liked it or you didn’t like it. That made sense. But value? What the fuck, he asked, did value mean?
To these questions, Victor sought vainly for an answer. ‘History will decide whether your paintings are good or bad. I am no judge, as I’ve said . . .’
‘Well now, as to all that, are the paintings good or bad now? That’s what I want to know — forget bloody history! I can see it’s no use asking you. Without meaning to be insulting, I would say you are a man without a firm opinion of attitudes to life. Fay thinks these daubs of mine are masterpieces, every single one of them. Who is to say she is wrong? Would you say she is wrong? Come here, Fay, sit on my knee.’
Fay, who was still clutching the bottle, came obediently and sat on Cole’s knee. He clutched her thigh to keep her securely there. She smiled at Victor, shaking her head slightly as if to confirm a secret.
‘Look, I must be off,’ said Victor. ‘I don’t know about Fay’s tastes. Is she an art critic? I can’t answer your questions, sorry. It’s beyond me. Who’s to say if these paintings are valuable?’
‘Sure, that’s what I’m askingyou?’ He laughed fiercely.
‘Okay, look, if they are valuable to you and Fay, then that’s all that matters, isn’t it?’
‘It’s not all that matters. That’s the essence of the problem, I’m trying to get through to you.’
Fay said, ’Give up, Paddy. This gentlemen doesn’t understand art.’
‘I wish I understood it. Give him some more whiskey, Fay. You don’t care about these questions, do you? I can see that! You think they’re unimportant. I think they are important. They wouldn’t happen to be too profound for you, would they? What is good and true? What is worth? You realise I might be the world’s best living painter — or the worst, of course. What I lack is recognition.’
‘I can see that. This place is rather out of the way.’
‘Out of the way? I fail to understand what you’re saying to me. I’m a man who likes his solitude. I’ve been solitary ever since Bridget ran out on me. Solitude’s a heavy burden to bear, but I bear it, with Fay here to help me. I have broad shoulders. Some folks despise solitude, but not me. No, not me.’ He shook his head, looking solemn.
‘I admire your way of life.’ Victor hated himself for saying it.
‘Do you now? I have been carried away and I apologise if I’ve been discourteous to you. Truth is, I like the odd visitor. Don’t I, Fay?’
The sound of the sea came clearly to them. Enough to drive a man mad, thought Victor.
He replied that he had said nothing against the solitary life. He had merely remarked that Kilberkilty was somewhat out of the way.
‘Look, old pal, I am talking about my fucking life — my fucking life and dedication,’ Cole said, fiercely. ‘What exactly are you doing with your life?’
‘I’m a director of a Slo-Mo and robotics plant.’
‘It sounds like a miserable life to me.’
‘It suits me very well, thanks. I’m newly married. I live in Paris, which on the whole I prefer to this remote place.’
Fay burst in indignantly ‘It’s not remote. Don’t you keep on saying that! We’re only twenty kilometres from Cork. Or thirty if you go the other way.’
‘Of course you prefer Paris! You’re just a playboy. I can read it in your face.’
‘You’re being insulting! I might ask you a value question. Who gets more out of life, a director of a big technology plant or a totally unknown unproven artist?’
Cole had an answer ready. ‘The artist is by far the more valuable of the two. He does
not force other folks to work. He does not bugger up the environment, like all your lousy factories do.’
‘Mon cul!’ exclaimed Victor, jumping up. ‘I’m sick of your nonsense. I’m off! Goodbye!’
‘You can stay or go, as you like!’ said Cole. He rose and opened the cottage door for Victor. ‘It was a pleasure to talk with you, it was.’
A light misty rain had set in. Cole stood at his door, watching Victor climb, slithering, up the steep slope to the cliff path.
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