Power had been a widely read and thoughtful man, who had been intrigued by the complexity of life even before his first episode with his heart. That watershed, however, was apparent even in the note cards. McGarr flicked one over that had been written on Majorca and was dated some eleven years earlier.
Like some fat, bald Theseus, I have been sitting in the sun of this foreign isle, searching blindly for an Ariadne thread to lead me out of the labyrinth of my discontent. Today miraculously, when trying to assuage Shane’s urgent entreaties to return post-haste because of some Eire Bank crisis, it came to me that both thread and answer lie within.
For too long now, ever since I returned from London to join Sean Dermot and his government, I have been ignoring myself and my own personal needs. You get caught up in things and bit by bit you lose your sense of self, until suddenly it’s gone and you’re lost.
Card two of that entry read:
I think now I have long believed without realizing that the poets are right, and there is a still place deep in all of us, a kind of wellspring of the spirit, from which the energies of life flow to us. These are the indiscernible means of support, without which we can have everything else and yet have nothing. Your collective energies are who you are as a person and what makes you different.
The primary energy, which we all share no matter how blighted our experience, is love, which seeks to be realized in another person. I now realize that you can go through life only half-alive (or half-dead) without finding that other person who will make you complete.
I refer not to a love affair, which is mere captivation and when over ends. I mean a “click,” a bond, a mesh—that slipping together of two persons who know in their hearts they were meant to consummate each other. I once knew that transcendent, glorious feeling, but through my own ignorance of myself, my needs, and the other let it (and her) slip away.
The cards for that entry stopped there. McGarr fanned forward, but he discovered only further maxims and pithy sayings, until he came to a group of cards that seemed to extend Power’s maunderings about—what was his phrase? primary energy—to banking.
McGarr’s cigarette was burning his fingers, and in stubbing it out, he glanced through the window to see Noreen below him, walking through the maze in the Parknasilla gardens that ran down a gentle hill to the sea. She was—he considered her appraisingly—a fine auburn-tawny, good-looking woman with the kind of quick, sure gait that suggested (but did not invite) pursuit. She had something in her hands that she kept holding to an ear.
Now, what was the chance in that, he asked himself—her being down there while he was reading just that card? Labyrinth/maze. Noreen being very definitely the “click,” the bond, the mesh, in his life. The first time McGarr had met her in her parents’ art gallery in Dawson Street, he had maneuvered her on a stratagem into a back room where he had tried to kiss her and had had his face slapped smartly and was shown the door.
From that moment on his life had been changed. Totally, irrevocably. It was as though he had suffered a kind of seizure, and he would never feel so…transcendent again. That much he knew and could credit in Paddy Power’s note cards.
He looked back down:
Borrowing, as presently constituted, is like a bad love relationship. Money, like love, is energy; you give it in the attempt to bind yourself to the destiny of the other person, which will make both of you better. The hope is that your combined energies will add up to more than the sum of the parts, you will make and do good things together, and you will thereby love each other more.
But when, as often happens, some unforeseen event or set of conditions diminishes this transcendent appreciation of the bond, love dies. I have loaned you money; you owe me. You tell me you can’t pay back unless I give you more. Please. I have no choice in the matter, do I? Unless I write off your debt (and you) as bad. Suspicion, ill feeling, and rancor set in. And you have had to beg.
The second card said:
How much better would it be to give freely? To say, Here, I give you this because I love you, you need it, and the gift will make you better. If, later, everything turns out as it should, you might decide to give me something back, but I leave the kind and timing of the gift up to you.
In sovereign borrowing, where there are relatively few borrowers and lenders and reputation is everything, such a system might actually work. And would at least for countries like Ireland, which has a history of credit accountability.
The succeeding cards then sketched out Power’s idea to swap Irish debt for equity in Irish, government-held assets. The last few under the heading “Final Tally” closed with further maxims, most notably Ben Franklin’s, “Plow deep while sluggards sleep.” Which gave McGarr an idea. All this bother about love was provoking.
Wondering how long it would take Noreen to return to the suite, he glanced out the window and was pleased to see that she had made her way out of the maze. He glanced back down at the stacks of cards that had been arrayed on the bed and fought the urge to light up another smoke.
So—after Power had become aware of his heart problem some eleven years earlier, he had recuperated in Majorca where he had decided to reorder his life. It was at that time, McGarr also seemed to remember, that, after living apart for years, Power sued for divorce from his wife, Nell. Also, he began the processes that led to the formation of the Paddy Power Fund and—McGarr inferred from the cards he had just read—the steps that led to Power’s proposal for restructuring the Irish debt. And perhaps the cause for his murder.
What interested McGarr most, however, was just which, if either, of the two women, who had had knowledge of his heart condition, Power had loved.
McGarr reached for the “Nell” cards that he had grouped alongside the “Gretta Osbourne” and “Shane Frost” stacks. Curiously there was no “Mossie Gladden” file, but then, McGarr supposed, in recent years Power had seen Gladden only infrequently.
Holding the stack close to his chest, McGarr let his thumb fan through the file. Few cards seemed to be narrative; most took the form of observations that Power had made about either his wife or his marriage. More slowly he scanned through them again, stopping at those that gave him some insight into the nature of Power’s relationship with his wife.
When I look back on our life together, I realize we were only happy with each other for the time that we were poor or, later, when we launched ourselves on the adventure of seeing if we could make something of ourselves.
Once I did and Nell had the children, something slipped, and the bliss of confronting the intractability of the world together fled. Yet here we are years later with not even sympathy between us, hanging on to the husk of the marriage and our shared history, as sorry as it is.
McGarr paused at a further card.
A woman calls mature a man who will serve her every whim, and once he does, she no longer respects him and then will praise in his presence other, perhaps lesser men, whom she knows only partially.
McGarr then walked two fingers through the stack, choosing cards at random.
Nell is a woman you cannot do too much for. She gets simply beside herself if she cannot make every aspect of my life serve her and her children. “That’s all right,” she tells me, when I have to beg off from some duty she has expected me to perform. “If that’s all you have to give us.”
McGarr looked up; where had he heard that before?
Of my life and my time, she means, when in fact she already has it all. I often think that she would only be satisfied if in some public forum I dedicated my death to her.
My crime is that I married Nell and am the identifiable criminal in the tragedy of her life. No mention is ever made of the veritable fortune that I’ve placed before her for her use. That much was evidently expected.
I keep asking myself why Nell and I have chosen to remain together all these years in spite of the continual running battle that is our marriage. I have known—and know—other women with whom I share so much more, including
goodwill. Now that New York is actually my home, it would be easy to acknowledge the reality of our situation and divorce.
I think now it is because of our history together and how in the past we shared that first bliss of our love which cannot be repeated. There are other women I prefer to be with, other women with whom I have more in common, but I will never love any of them in the same way as I have loved Nell, which makes all the difference. So what if we no longer actually love each other? What is that?
The final card said:
I am reminded of the lyric from Tristan and Isolde: “In this world let me have my world, to be damned with it or saved.”
Or murdered, thought McGarr.
Feeling rather bleak, he squared up the stack and placed it back on the bed. He desperately desired another cigarette, but, well, he was married, and—as he had just read—compromises had to be made. Or else.
He reached for the stack labeled “Gretta,” which was fairly thick. But he heard a key in the door, and as he moved out into the sitting room, he chanced to look at the photocopies for the same heading, “Gretta.” It was minimal and contained only three cards.
The oldest-looking said:
I feel like the donkey in Apuleius’ Golden Ass who was through the love of a woman reborn. A man needs a woman to confide in, a woman who will not break his confidence and put him down. Better, a woman who will build him up and encourage him to excel. All of us being essentially little boys who need our egos stroked by some consubstantial mammy, I fear. But not mammy, which is the point.
The next.
Most women want a relationship of some sort that will last over time. Most men want a quickie, somebody who will be there when you need her in the way you need her. Even after whole intervals of time. When you find somebody like that, treat her right.
And the last:
Gretta has told me she has taken a younger lover. I replied that it would be unfair of me to object. All I want is for her to be with me when I need her, and would she be amenable to that? At first she seemed almost disappointed, but she said she would. Gretta is priceless, a gem. Without her I don’t know how I would get on at all.
Was that all Power had to say about a woman with whom he had had a close relationship, whether acknowledged or not, over what seemed to be at least a decade? Not in the originals.
“I’ve just discovered the strangest thing,” said Noreen when she had entered the bedroom.
Raising a hand, McGarr stayed her. The stack of original “Gretta” cards contained at least two dozen cards. Somebody had sanitized the Osbourne entries that had been sent to Nell Power. Why? To make Power’s opinion of her seem better than his opinion of the wife?
Had other headings been similarly expurgated? Gladden. He now remembered that there was no heading for him in the note cards.
Back in the sitting room he discovered that there was no heading for Gladden in the photocopies either. Which meant? McGarr rearranged the papers and set them down on the table. With the question still in his eyes, he turned to Noreen.
“Listen to this.” She held the receiver of their baby monitor toward him and switched it on.
Instead of hearing his daughter, as he had expected, he heard a jumble of adult voices speaking animatedly in a vowelly language he did not know. “Chinese?”
“Japanese, I think. It’s like interference,” Noreen explained. “I couldn’t get the thing to work very well, and there’s this channel selector here on the side. When I pushed it from C to D, these people came on. Have you seen the cute little Japanese baby with the group at the Nomura Bank table? I bet—”
A phone began ringing. McGarr turned his head toward the one in the sitting room, only to realize the sound was emanating from the monitor. The conversation had stopped, and they now heard, “H’woah? Ah, yes—Mistaw Flost.” Because of the staticky reception and the man’s heavy accent, it was difficult to catch every word precisely, but McGarr thought he heard, “Have you studied our counter-proposal?” And another pause. “Be happy to meet with you. Three o’clock, then. In your room.” The man hung up, and the other Japanese burst into pandemonium, each voice trying to speak over the other.
Noreen lowered the volume and turned to McGarr. “What does it mean?
McGarr had no idea. Perhaps the Japanese had some counteroffer to the Power debt-for-equity swap? But why then all the…emotion? Even now McGarr could hear sighs and cries and several ebullient conversations going on at once. Were the Japanese so…involved in everything they did? Was that the secret to their success?
Or was it…?
“Eire Bank,” said Noreen.
At the table McGarr began spreading out the photocopies of the “Gretta,” note cards that were missing from the stack of originals. “Could you keep your ear on that thing? Maybe Frost will call back.” Pity it had not been the other way around and the monitor in Frost’s room. McGarr’s head came up.
Was it worth the risk? Without a court order electronic eavesdropping was illegal in Ireland. Frost was a bachelor. Why would he have a baby monitor in his room?
A mistake. Ward was new to his job; he got the wrong room.
Noreen looked over McGarr’s shoulder. “What have you there?”
“Paddy Power’s censored opinion of Gretta Osbourne.” McGarr showed her the photocopies that had been sent to Nell Power, then pointed to the additional cards that were contained under the “Gretta” heading in the note cards.
No matter how much a woman professes to be interested only in a strictly physical exchange, once carried beyond an occasional congruence, the die is cast and she feels proprietorial.
Women always end up owning you in some important way or other.
Ultimately, what does a person need from others—to be loved. If she claims she does not, perhaps she cannot be loved. Or doesn’t love herself. I suppose I had some part to play in that—the fire, the scars, my insensitivity to her. But that part of my life is over, and surely I’ll make it up to her.
In spite of her smile and willingness to tackle any difficult problem, there is a negative side to Gretta’s personality, best seen in what she chooses to read, hear, and sing when not working, which admittedly is seldom. It is that whole negative side to Irish culture, filled with death, love-loss, and keening. It is as though, in the last analysis, she does not want to win.
The great advantage of middle age is the capacity to look upon a beautiful thing—a piece of property or a woman—and not necessarily desire to possess it.
No act in life is pure. And no relationship. All yield both good and evil results, or at least pairs of opposites. In that way life is a muddle.
The McGarrs raised their heads.
“What horrible things to think,” said Noreen. “He was a right sexist bastard, wasn’t he?”
That was a change. Only a day or two ago Power had been the sort of person you could point to with pride and say, Now, he’s Irish.
“Look at this…shite. ‘Beautiful thing and “…not necessarily desire to possess it.’ How did he know she hadn’t been using him in the very same way he was using her? The balls of any man thinking that every woman wants or needs to be possessed! Do you think you possess me?”
McGarr looked away; he wouldn’t touch that question with asbestos gloves.
“And all the rest of this drivel—‘women always end up owning some important part of you.’ And they weren’t even married, for Jesus’ sake. What if I were to turn this around? Do you think I own you?”
Body and soul, McGarr thought horribly. The former proprietorship being in sad neglect.
“Have you ever thought of a…you know, mistress?”
Perhaps two minutes ago, McGarr thought. But certainly not after having read Power’s note cards in company, like this. And then there was Power’s fate to consider, which was an exemplum. “I think what’s most interesting is this bit—” He pointed to the reference to (evidently) Osbourne’s scarred face, a fire, and Power’s acceptance of blame.
“As well as the exclusion of these cards from the photocopies that were sent to Nell Power. It’s as though whoever sent the cards to Nell Power wished to represent Gretta Osbourne as being adored by Paddy Power, when in fact he had a”—McGarr’s mind searched frantically for a Noreen-acceptable term—“balanced approach to the woman.”
“I asked you a question.”
Turning to look at Noreen for the first time since her outburst, McGarr struggled to keep himself from laughing. Two patches of bright pink had appeared in her cheeks. The nostrils of her long, thin nose were flared, and her green eyes sparkled with outrage. “May I make an observation?”
Her chin quivered.
“I am not Paddy Power—”
“That’s not what I’m asking. I’m asking how you—”
“Nor am I all men.”
She blinked.
And before she could feel affronted, having been shown the error of her way of thinking, McGarr added, “And there’s no Mossie Gladden file. There’s a ‘Nell,’ a ‘Gretta’ file in two parts, and a file for Shane Frost. But nothing for Gladden, who has claimed to have been Power’s best friend. And there’s this—” He showed her Power’s reference in the “Dirty Tricks” stack to the existence of a “Mossie” heading.
“That doesn’t make sense.”
McGarr waited; often another opinion on (ahem) another wavelength was helpful.
Said Noreen, “To have the file doubly expurgated. Say, Osbourne, justifiably enraged at having read this sordid afflatus, decided to murder the effing louse and place the blame on the ‘other woman.’ In that case she might well have edited the cards to make it seem that their mutual, conveniently erstwhile, fat, bald old man had a better opinion of her than of his wife—do you have those cards?”
Certainly bald, no longer young, and as surely paunchy, McGarr indicated the photocopies in front of him.
“And the originals?”
McGarr pointed to the bedroom.
The Death of Love Page 17
