Ithaca

by Alan McMonagle

  So, tell me, Ma, how is Paris? And exactly how long has it been? Two weeks? Three? I’ve lost count. And to think I thought it was all talk. The bull-nut seller must be made of moolah. Only it’s not the bull-nut seller you’re with over there, is it, Ma? That’s right. I’ve worked out who it is and here I am to let you know I have a surprise for you. And I think you will like it. Are you ready? I’m on my way to join you and Da in Paris. And yes, before you say to yourself, what are you talking about, you crazy boy? I will say it again. I’m on my way. I’m coming to join you and Da in Paris. I was thinking we could rendezvous at the café on the left bank. That’s the place to hang out, isn’t it? I was looking up a few things about Paris and that’s one of the tips I was given. Here’s another one: Don’t answer any questions. Instead, shrug shoulders and raise eyebrows. That’s a pretty good tip too, I think.

  The girl has been staying here. Just for a few days until things calm down with her da. I asked her did she want to come to Paris with me, but she has her own travel plans. I’ll probably catch a train up to the big city. Then hop on the ferry and catch another train to Paris. If you like, you can meet me at the ferry port. Cherbourg, it’s called. But I understand if you can’t. Now let me see if I have any more news from this end.

  No I haven’t.

  If the café on the left bank doesn’t suit, get word to me about where we should rendezvous. That’s the word over there, isn’t it? I’ve been learning a few. As soon as you can let me know where, send a postcard. It would be nice to see something coming through the letterbox that isn’t a pay-up-now-or-else-it’s-a-dirty-dungeon-for-the-rest-of-your-life. I wonder do these people realize how ridiculous they sound. I should get you to send over a guillotine. Then off with their heads.

  Oh, and I should warn you: at a first glance, you may not recognize me. I’ve had to change a couple of things about my appearance. Can’t have anybody recognizing me now, can I? Wait till you see me. I’m sure you’ll be impressed. OK. Here comes Barrabas. I can hear his happy whistling. I might open the door to him holding your hurley. But at this stage I don’t think it will make any difference. He just does not know how to give up. Here’s another tip for you: Paris is a blonde and dogs are citizens. Bet you didn’t know that. So don’t let them rag you about your bleached hair, ok?

  A Bientôt.

  J

  LIFESAVER

  Packed what I would need. Sunglasses. French phrases ripped out of the cooking book. Map of Paris ripped out of the atlas. Some trifle and sponge cake left over from all that baking. The last of the pills. Even threw in that note I scrawled out for Ma – in case those tips came in handy. Pulled the sitting-room curtains closed. Took a peek out the kitchen window. The coast was clear.

  My plan was right up there with the best of them: simple. Head for the station. Catch the train to the big city. Hop a ferry and make my way to Paris. Nothing could be easier. The only thing bugging me was that I hadn’t thought of it a week ago. Not to worry. Better late than never.

  Well men, I said to Harry and Fergal. The time has finally come. I’m on my way. Out of here. Once and for all.

  Good man, Jason, they said. Don’t look back.

  No fear of that, I said, and kept going.

  Good luck, I said to Patrick Cox and his mongrel dogs. I’ll send word when I meet someone better than myself.

  I’ll be seeing you, I said to Lily the Nose, and a warm feeling travelled through me when it occurred to me that nothing could be further from the truth.

  I waved at Old Tom Redihan and the Bangladesh man, and the council men making their way into the Swamp. I waved at one or two early drunks. So long, suckers. Have a nice life.

  Now all I had to do was say goodbye to the girl.

  I skipped over the ditch, brushed through the trees and made my way to the Swamp. She wasn’t on the rock near the hidden pools. I stood at the cracked edges, going up and down on my toes, staring at the surface water, at the busy midges. The council men were wading through the scum. I tracked their movement for a minute or two, but they weren’t really going anywhere, and when I looked out into the Swamp again, I saw her in the water.

  This time she wasn’t kicking or spluttering. She was floating towards the centre, letting herself disappear below the surface without so much as a whimper. No, NO, NO! I yelled. Then I was rushing into the scummy water and beating my way towards her. And I could hear the council men screaming at me to get back, and then some others were shouting out, what’s he at, and who is it, and it’s OK, I wanted to tell them, I know who it is, I can get to her, even though she was already sinking, all I had to do was reach her. Reach her and pull her out of there, just like I’d done that time before. And instead of goodbye, we could leg it together. But that dizziness had come over me again, my arms were so heavy it felt as though I was moving through treacle instead of water. And all I was thinking about was the two of us catching the train up to the big city and then the night-crossing on the ferry and then another train to Paris and I didn’t want us to miss any of that. And suddenly I could no longer see her. Where are you? I yelled, trying to keep my mouth clear of the scumwater. Hey, come on! Don’t leave me now. We’ve got places to see. Paris. Egypt in the time of the pharaohs. Ancient Greece, for crying out loud. And I was thrashing about in the water for a glimpse of her. Come on! You’re going to be someone. You’re going to be a celebrity. And I’m going to play my cards right and be your minder. Remember? This is no time to be disappearing inside a dirty old swamp. Hey, I know! We can leave some graffiti on the Russian Steppes. I’ve thought of some great lines, you’ll be really impressed. But it was no good. It was murky and bottomless and I couldn’t make out a thing. I gurgled some swamp water, more waves of dizziness arrived, and the last thing I remember was moving clouds blinking the sun on and off, and that image of her disappearing below the surface water. Then a man’s voice saying, Relax, lad, we’ve got you.

  THINGS COULD BE EVEN WORSE

  I could be a Nobody, like Harry Brewster or Fergal Flood, every day walking up and down the back lane. I could be Patrick Cox or one of his mongrel dogs, waiting for the next kebab. I could be a forgotten drunk, forever lying at the bottom of the Swamp. I could be Annie the scryer, all the time staring at the ditchwater.

  I could be stuck in an office like Barry the bank clerk, pushing paper from one tray to another. I could be a council man digging up a stubborn road, clearing out a bottomless swamp, trying to knock down a wall and build it back up again better than before. I could be a prisoner on death row, waiting for some smiling wise-guy to come and tell me my time is up. I could be a space-waster, a dead-leg, a worse than useless thing. I could be nothing.

  I could be Old Tom Redihan, every day forgetting the way home. I could be Mellows the signal man, every day walking up and down the same set of tracks. I could be a sailor, singing a song about a chug-chug boat. I could be Ma – Jesus, do not go there.

  I could be the Slug Doyle, forever looking for the witch that stole his heart. I could be on board the plane that fell out of the sky, the ship that got lost in the fog. I could be a rat living among ditchwater trees. I could be a mug, a sucker, a louse, or a sap. I could be a broken cup, a flat tyre, a noisy wiper clinging to a no-go car. I could be the clinking in the darkness that scares the wind out of me.

  I could be the rubbish man, forever trying to tidy up the dirty lane. I could be a mild-mannered jeweller, about to be held up by no-mercy gangsters. I could be a cobbler with no shoes to mend, a bicycle repair man without a ticking spoke to straighten. I could be a hungry man with no home to go to. An old lady being told she has two minutes to get out of hers.

  I could be the owl that goes who-who-whooo. I could be the tommy gun, rat-tat-tat tat-tat. I could be a ladybird that has to crawl all over the place, a buzzing bee soaking up the sunlight. I could be a crow gnashing down a juicy worm. I could be a worm.

  BURY ME ON TOP OF MARILYN MONROE

  A little bit of time has now passed. A da
y. A week. A month. I don’t know. Doc Mullaney is keeping an eye on me. In and out of my line of vision he appears. With his bag of tricks and healthy head. His medicine voice going on and on about the lucky escape I’ve had, and the fast way they were able to empty my stomach, whatever it was they were so keen to get out of me. And lots of talk about resting up and proper food and keeping me out of school for a while. Suits me.

  And Ma was back.

  There she is, hovering over me. The pale face on her, the worried mouth. From time to time, her hand brushing through her hair and then covering her mouth. Turning away from me as though she was in the presence of an alien or one of those dreaded Gorgons. As though one look from me would turn her to stone, head to toe. And what’s that she has in her other hand? A page from a copybook. With writing. Writing that looks a lot like mine.

  And what’s that I can hear? Another voice. A voice I recognize. An uppity-sounding voice. Where is it coming from? Has someone robbed my mind? Am I now in the land of crazy dreams? And who owns these arms I can see attached to me, whose is the voice I can hear? What’s going on? And it’s her, I was saying, it’s her it’s her it’s her it’s her. And look! The salty sea and the blue sky and the long oars pulling us through the immense waters. And look! Land ahoy! Yes, indeed. An island. An island of leafy trees and sunlit paths. And row, row, row the boat. We’re almost there. After all this time we’ve almost reached our destination. And the waves gently lapping and the water so clear and fish darting here and there among the oars. And the saltwater spraying high and stinging my face and arms. And I was kicking and shaking, and where is the girl? Where is she where is she where is she? We have a voyage to make together, an adventure to complete.

  And all the time Ma’s voice was coming at me, desperate and anxious.

  What are you talking about?

  What girl?

  There is no girl.

  Do you hear me, you crazy boy?

  There is no girl.

  How was Paris? I mumbled when I briefly opened my eyes and saw that she was looking at me, the horrified expression on her face going from me to whoever else was in the room.

  And there was more talking. More whispering.

  His arms, his arms.

  And his face. His beautiful face.

  Why would he do such a thing?

  Who is the girl he keeps asking for?

  The whispering faded out and I was sleeping blissful again, sleeping the sleep of the dead, and it was peaceful and the feeling not so unpleasant and I could have stayed that way, but knew I wouldn’t.

  Da.

  Is that you? Is that your voice I hear? It’s me. Jason. Your son. Tell me something, Da. Anything. First thing that comes into your head. What’s the weather like where you are? I hope it’s not too hot for you. Is the sea blue? And your boat making waves? Come on, Da. Talk to me. Talk to me, for fuck’s sake.

  Ma.

  I could hear her again. Spinning one of her stories. She hadn’t been to Paris at all. She’d taken the sports car from Gavin McGoldrick’s garage and driven it like a bat out of hell until the thing had run out of petrol. But the petrol had lasted for ages and Ma was a long way out of town. Wherever she had ended up, there was no garage in the middle of nowhere giving out free petrol, nobody to listen to her poor-me story, and she had eventually made her way to the big city and rested up there for a few days.

  Come on, Ma.

  There was more to it than that.

  There had to be.

  Tell me, Ma. I’m all ears.

  And, yes, there was more to it. Tell me about the big city and deciding to hole up there for a few days. Why not? It’s not every day you get to travel so far. Tell me about the prince charming only too happy to come to your assistance when you told him how you’d travelled all this way to find a doctor for your one son, your only child, and instead had been stopped at gunpoint by a couple of thugs wearing ski masks. How they had taken your purse, your bag, your change of clothes, the keys to the apartment you were booked into for the weekend.

  Your phone was gone, all your contact numbers, you were in shock to tell the truth, and you had been given the loan of a car and they had taken that too.

  And tell me about how surprise, surprise, things had worked out pretty well for you, so well that you had decided to spend a few extra nights in the big city.

  And you had tried to call me and leave a message, but of course they’d already pulled the plug on our phone. I understand, Ma. I really do.

  I was waiting for this story out of her, and thinking about the laugh I’d get out of the girl when I told her about Ma’s big city adventure. Except Ma wasn’t telling it like that. She was talking instead about Mario and his call to let her know that the Paris trip, along with everything else they had going together, was off, off, off.

  My head.

  It felt heavy. As if a train was thundering through it. Or one of those articulated lorries Ma liked to wave out at. And my eyes. I tried to open them. But the lids were so heavy. I tried again. Could see bare walls. A door. Someone standing there. Then I felt I was underwater, in thick, sluggish, dirty water. I was sinking. Had to get out of there. Swim for the grassy banks. But my arms. I could hardly move my arms. They were heavy too. So heavy. And what was that? A chair. Right beside me. Wait. I was lying down. Lying down in a bed. And now my stomach. Oh boy. It was lurching like a high sea and now I was throwing up. A liquid-gold sap came out of me. It didn’t want to stop. Wait a minute. It wasn’t gold. It was yellow. Blue and yellow.

  Fock me!

  Then I remembered all the pills I’d taken, and the lurching didn’t want to go away. And I opened my eyes a little more, and saw Ma on the chair, and cop Lawless standing, and beside him Doc Mullaney, the lot of them hovering over me, and one more time I was asking them where is the girl where is the girl where is the girl where is the girl. And then everything was a purple haze.

  *

  A little more time has passed. Ma is just about getting used to my new image. When she thinks I’m sleeping, she comes in my room and sits on the bed. She doesn’t say anything but I know she’s there, can sense her presence. Sometimes, I can feel her touch the side of my face.

  And I can still see her wince when she catches sight of me. When I appear in the kitchen at breakfast time. Or when I step into the Hungry Worm.

  She’s showing up for work these days. Putting in long hours. Getting big tips. She keeps telling me we’re going somewhere together, as soon as she’s enough saved. For my birthday, she says. My twelfth birthday. And she seems to have patched up her differences with Mattie again – we’ll see how long that lasts. Changing his car seems to have helped. Tell me something, Ma, I asked her the other day, when we were all one big happy café family, what was it with Mattie’s car? What did Mattie’s car have that all the others didn’t? She finished the Mars bar she had been chewing, looked me, and said, It was yellow.

  *

  Early in the morning and I’m buried among the long reedy grasses. I stayed there all day, until the sun started to go down. Then it cooled and the fading sun turned everything into gold. The cathedral spire, the freight boxes at the railway station, the tracks, the back lane, the trees and reedy grasses. Even the Swamp, rising higher all the time, looked like a bath of liquid gold. The council men had stopped by for their daily look. They stood near the KEEP OUT sign, straightened up the thing, shook their lazy heads.

  At some point could feel something in my pocket pressing against my thigh. Put my hand in to check what it was. It was the finger ring. The skull and crossbones finger ring I’d bought for her. Damn! I’d forgotten all about it. I fetched it out of my pocket, along with the piece of string. Looped the string through the ring. Tied it around my neck. Sat there for a little bit, letting the ring bump gently against my chest in the light-blowing breeze.

  Anyone using this seat? a familiar voice sounded. Without waiting for a reply, the Slug sat down into the reedy grass beside me.

 
Guess what Stan Laurel said to his friends before he died? If any of you cry at my funeral I’ll never speak to you again. Tell your first girlfriend that. She’ll get a kick out of it.

  Yeah, it’s funny.

  You bet your life it’s funny. Nearly as funny as Groucho.

  Who’s Groucho?

  Groucho Marx was the funniest man in the world, the Slug said, looking off into the distance. You know, when Groucho died, a letter was found in his coat pocket requesting that he be buried on top of Marilyn Monroe. Don’t tell your first girlfriend that. If you do, don’t mention my name.

  Marilyn Monroe. I’ve heard of her, Slug.

  You’ll hear more some day. Put her on your list of things to look forward to. Put her at the top of the list.

  He started to say something else to me then, but his voice faltered. Instead, he pressed my shoulder and went on his way. I stayed sitting where I was.

  The drunks had gathered at the low end of the lane. They’d set down their supply and were standing around it. Pulling open their cans, sharing their bottle of hard stuff around, warming their dirty fingers on their little fire. From time to time, they cackled at each other. Soon the stories began. And the singing.

  Songs about women waking up in the morning and realizing they’ve had enough. Songs about men who were trying their best but could give no more. Hearts were broken, there were rivers called Misery and hotels called Heartbreak, and songs wishing the singers to lonely places like New Orleans and the black and blue hills of Dakota. God is away on business, everything is going to hell, there is nothing back in Jersey except a broken down jalopy and they all need to borrow a couple of dollars from a lad called Frank to go waltzing with a dame called Matilda.

  The same worn-out voices, the broken tunes. They slurred their words and belched through the notes. Verses were left out and lines got mixed up. More than one of them didn’t keep up. The daily punch-up started before they reached the end.