She wants me to stop seeing you. Please do not think I am doing this lightly. This is an awful mess. My heart is doubly breaking. But I have to think about Ellen. She’s old and she has only me. I’m sorry. I cannot abandon her. I hope you understand.
Luke x
What doubt must Luke now admit to himself?
A doubt that has assailed him almost every day in recent weeks: that, despite her best intentions and earnest efforts, Ruth has had great difficulty understanding and accepting his sexuality, and this problem would, he fears, eventually come between them.
What else?
That, even if he wanted to continue with Ruth, and even if Ellen gave the relationship her blessing, this revelation of her father’s mistreatment of Ellen would always cast a shadow on the union; it would always be the elephant in the room.
Does Ellen’s threat to disinherit him have a bearing on his decision?
It does not. If, in his core, he believed that remaining with Ruth was the right thing to do, nothing would dissuade him otherwise – certainly not the promise of money or property. He is doing what his conscience can tolerate. The prospect of inflicting further pain on his aunt is unconscionable.
Does he send the email?
He checks it for mistakes, attaches the four photographs, hits ‘Send’, logs out of his Gmail account, closes his laptop and returns to the kitchen and his coffee.
What image of Ruth Mulvey crosses his mind?
The night she knelt on his bed and held his head in her hands like a globe, like Eliot’s doctor, and announced she would unkink the brain waves and cure his sadness. Listen, listen, she pleaded, you see yourself as a victim, a tragic victim, glittering even … He clung to her, crying, and then made love to her and went far inside her and she begged him to go deeper and, no longer afraid of injuring her, he went deep in mind and body, among crowded organ cavities, past the contours of her lungs and liver, and, shimmying past her heart, he felt her perfection. The next morning at dawn they walked on the riverbank in silence. Moving under low branches in the peace of the river, they were joined in perfect captivity. No needs or wants or musts, the feeling that within those moments, in the drift of that silence, was held all of eternity. Afterwards when the other world returned and birds came out and he was stirred out of the trance, vapour rose from the surface of the water and small waves lolled at his feet and without ever saying a word they knew they had been party to something that neither could name.
Other images of her?
Awake at night tormented by the suffering of laboratory animals. Walking into the inner yard of a flats complex in the north inner city, past boarded-up windows with graffiti, climbing a stairwell strewn with litter and used syringes and stinking of urine. Standing, at dawn, at a window high up in the penthouse suite of the Coombe Hospital looking out over the city’s rooftops to the Dublin mountains with the sun rising into a clear blue sky, thinking of her husband driving home through the quiet streets, stopping at the lights, entering their empty house, as the little corpse she gave birth to the night before lay in a fridge somewhere in the hospital. At her desk now, this minute, a slight worry starting to form, a vague intuition that something is wrong.
Telepathically aware of her then?
Any telepathic connection, if one ever existed, is now severed.
Has he ever experienced telepathic connection with another human being?
All his life until her death he and Josie picked up the tiny vibrations of each other’s mind. A streaming across, mutual phase locking, beautiful economic laziness, entrainment. The synchronisation of an organism (Josie to Luke) to an external rhythm (Luke to Josie). Biomusicology. Chronobiology. He knows that if you mount two clock pendulums side by side on a wall, they’ll pick up the tiny vibrations of each other transmitted through the wall and their swings will gradually synchronize because matter is lazy and it takes less energy to pulse in synch than in opposition. He and Josie pulsed in synch, oscillated inside each other’s psychic sphere, vibrated rhythmically until their neural pathways and circadian systems aligned and their cellular, sub-cellular, molecular, atomic and sub-atomic frequencies were synchronised. If he had been a woman he’s certain their menstrual cycles would have aligned.
What is his theory about Josie’s disability?
That on 1 January 1941, at the age of two years and three months, having in all likelihood witnessed the fall of her older sister down the well, she suffered a catastrophic rupture to her tender psyche which rendered her mute for the following two years until one day, when her mother ordered her to take off her wet clothes and dry them by the fire, an emphatic No sprang from her tongue. The rupture, exacerbated by the sudden departure of her father six months later on 16 June 1941, is proof positive to Luke how malleable human nature is during those sensitive moments that ethnologists call ‘points of imprint vulnerability’ and may have occasioned the acquisition of, or reversion to, primitive senses or pre-natal faculties (akin to those of animals) that compensated for the damage to the normal faculties and enabled her, Josie, to commune with birds.
Has the psychic connection to Josie extended beyond the grave?
Alive, she had been his mainstay. Now he imagines her delicate spirit adrift around him, beyond his view, in an alternative parallel universe suffused with subtle bodies. At unguarded moments he longs for her proximity, tries to tune into her frequency or into whatever of her has endured beyond physical death.
He believes in an afterlife then?
Though he has a liking for Catholic doxology and is fond of Stephen Dedalus’s assertion that God is a shout in the street and the cheer of a goal scored, he is averse to the teachings and doctrines of all organised religions. However, there was never a time when he was not conscious of eternity, of something on-going – not so much a corporeal as a psychic continuation in some afterlife or aftermath of this existence. He thinks some archetypal image of eternity is present in him – in all souls – and has been from the beginning of time and that at death he will shrug off this physical form but leave something behind: his entelechia.
What, at the moment of death, does he think happens?
He was only ever present at one passing: Josie’s. She expired quietly, each breath growing slower and shallower than the previous until they petered out and she was gone, this memory of her gentle death a comfort always, especially in light of the teachings of Islam – the credo which declaims the boldest dogma and offers the most graphic description of dying (and which, having been described in great awe and detail by Rachid, is the easiest to recall). In Islam the angel of death arrives and draws the soul out of the mouth, dragging it up through the body from the soles of the feet. Depending on the life lived and the deeds done by that individual, the evacuation of the soul will either be smooth and painless or a terrible sight to behold (gagging, retching, heaving, choking). Luke suspects the hour of our death is foreknown, inscribed on our timeline and waiting for us in everything connected to us – like a death notice or a pre-prepared obit embedded in every moment and object of our lives: in our tears, in the clothes we wear, in the rooms we sleep in, on the food set before us, in the ovaries, even, of our foremothers. And everything, with the exception of our own rational minds, implicitly ‘knows’ this. But by some merciful mechanism, the hour of our extinction – or extension – is unknown to us.
Does Luke believe in the Islamic theory of passing?
It is not a theory but a belief, one he finds imaginatively and figuratively compelling but regrets that (a) it is attached to a plethora of primitive religious beliefs and practices which – like all religions – have more social, cultural and historical bases than spiritual ones and (b) it is interpreted by earnest devout Muslims in a literal rather than in a symbolic sense, thus causing great anticipatory fear and unnecessary distress around death beds.
What suddenly falls across his mind?
Darkness suddenly falls across his mind.
Caused by?
An im
age of his aunt as he left her this morning. The image of her sitting in the room all day, slowly passing each hour. The thought of all the hours and all the days and all the years that he was unaware of her suffering.
What other images followed by what word cross his mind?
A New York street on a May morning, a woman clutching a piece of paper on which is scribbled an address, a Park Avenue doorman directing her to the elevator and the fifth-floor suite of rooms. A tall, grey-haired patrician in a white coat. Her hush-dark fallopian tubes, her tender-pink womb in eternal waiting. The word intact.
What are his thoughts or feelings on Maurice Mulvey?
He tries, but is unable to form a picture of the physical man. A dark shadowy figure, like a character in a noir film, flits in and out of his consciousness, sometimes with Ellen close by. Then, remembering her suffering, he is usurped by a flood of rage. It is, he thinks, the epitome of evil to do what Mulvey did. He is baffled at how any man could do such a thing – what could drive a man to behave like that? Pure innate evil? Or the imp of the perverse? No, pure evil.
Why, suddenly, is Luke reminded of Raskolnikov?
Because he is a sinner, and it was the sinner, the psychology of sinners and the spread of darkness in the human soul that interested Dostoevsky. That interests Luke too, nothing human being alien.
Does this mean Luke is attempting to understand or even forgive Maurice Mulvey – wasn’t Raskolnikov driven by the imp?
There is no comparison. Raskolnikov committed murder. But Raskolnikov was driven by hunger and poverty and his guilt sent him into a tormented state, and eventually he confessed his crime. Mulvey was never in such dire circumstances, nor did he ever confess his crime. If he had doubts or misgivings about the impending marriage he could simply have called it off and walked away. And, judging by the short time it took him to find a replacement bride, he wasn’t too troubled or guilt-ridden. No agenbite of inwit. As for the imp … This is the only mitigating circumstance Luke might allow: that Mulvey’s behaviour might have been the result of a deterioration of the cognitive control network in the lateral prefrontal cortex – the imp resides in the orbitofrontal cortex. But Luke doubts this was the case – there appears to be no evidence, either before or after his crime, of the usual display of disinhibited behaviours typically associated with the imp. As for forgiveness, it is not for Luke to forgive.
What disturbing thought regarding Ruth Mulvey now surfaces?
The sins of the father. The stain in the biology, in the blood. She herself may be entirely good and pure of heart – he thinks she is. But what of her inheritance? What if a genetic predisposition for cruelty exists in mankind – some as yet unidentified genetic variant in a particular enzyme, that, combined with certain environmental factors, could trigger the cruelty? She might be a carrier. It might skip a generation, like red hair and twins, or it might remain latent for ever. But he would always be afraid. In the furthest, darkest corner of his mind he would be waiting for the streak of cruelty to rear its head – if not in her, then in their offspring. He might be a carrier himself, the flawed pedigree inherited from the grandfather of unknown provenance who came over the mountains from Tipperary, a man who might have been as great – or greater – a liar and deceiver as Mossie Mulvey. What then? Her cruel gene in connunctio with his cruel gene. He might engender liars and thieves and frauds. He might bear a daughter who, one day, would turn on him and accuse him of the most heinous crimes against her.
What pleasures does he anticipate for the evening ahead?
The preparation of the evening meal, the drawing out of a cork from the neck of a bottle, the light fading, the cat at his feet, the evening his own as he cooks, eats, drinks and reads in the all-consuming, immersive manner of his youth.
Prompted by these thoughts, what does he do?
He extinguishes his cigarette in the ashtray, crosses the kitchen to the fridge, audits its contents: the remains of a 254g block of Kerrygold butter in its ragged wrapper; a block of Dubliner white cheddar, unopened; three lamb chops in a white plastic bag; three Portobello mushrooms; two cooked potatoes; a large tub of out-of-date Greek yogurt; five slices of granary bread; half a loaf of McCambridge’s wholemeal bread; in the salad box: a half bag of withered rocket leaves, three carrots, seven Piccolo tomatoes, half a cucumber, three wilted scallions, one red pepper, scraps of blackened leaves and sprigs, several spots of mould; on the door shelves: one unopened litre of milk, three eggs, a half-empty jar of Bonne Maman strawberry jam, an assortment of plastic bottles and glass jars containing salad dressings, ketchup, mayonnaise, mustard; a bottle of Coca-Cola, three-quarters full. He closes the fridge, opens the lower-right press of the waxed pine dresser, audits the alcohol: a bottle of Tempranillo, a bottle of Merlot, a half bottle of Jameson whiskey, a small bottle of Southern Comfort, two-thirds full.
What, in his opinion, are the merits of red wine over spirits?
A gentler sensory experience on the palate, a more fitting and sublime accompaniment to food, a wider and more varied availability of product, a more affordable cost, the aesthetic superiority of the receptacle – stemmed glass versus tumbler; a preference, on his part, for the refracted glow of purple over the refracted glow of amber through glass, the olfactory delights of aromatic oak, berry, cinnamon; the interesting and imminently more readable bottle labels; the voluminous quantity that can be consumed relative to its intoxicating effects thereby increasing the pleasure ratio; the gentler and more gradual slide towards intoxication, the lower alcoholic strength accounting for a lower gradation of hangover and thenceforth a lower level and intensity of hallucinatory and paranoiac thoughts in the days following a binge.
The assessment of spirits can be summed up as a via negativa of the above.
What occupies Luke during the late afternoon and early evening hours?
At 3.05 p.m., carrying a mug of sweet milky tea and two slices of toasted McCambridge’s wholemeal bread topped with Dubliner cheddar, a sliced tomato and a pinch of salt, he re-enters the study, and, with no particular task or strategy in mind and with minimum awareness of the passage of time, a total of two hours and forty-four minutes pass before he exits the room again.
Describe the study.
Thirteen by twenty-one feet long, height unknown, but adhering to the Golden Ratio; walls painted in Farrow & Ball’s Dix Blue, an area of damp visible on the top left corner under the cornice; directly opposite the door one twelve-paned Georgian window faces east; under the window a white double radiator; a Persian rug, predominantly red in colour but now faded and threadbare in patches, covers two-thirds of the floor, the remaining sixteen-inch-wide exposed border at the edge is painted in black; from the ceiling rose hangs a twelve-candle Waterford Crystal chandelier with eight candle bulbs inserted, purchased along with four other chandeliers as ‘seconds’ from the liquidation sale at the Waterford Crystal factory following the closure of the plant in May 2005 (the imperfections caused by the entrapment of air bubbles during the blowing process are barely visible); on the right wall, centred: a black cast-iron fireplace surrounded by hand-painted tiles depicting the god Apollo driving a herd of cows backwards; covering almost the entire left wall: four tightly stocked floor-to-ceiling oak bookshelves bought from a salvage yard in Cork city; positioned directly in front of the window: a large oak office desk with a small brass plate stamped with the manufacturer’s name, location and date attached to the desk’s underside, purchased at the liquidation sale of the Waterford Crystal factory; to the left of the desk a grey, metal, four-drawer filing cabinet with a small key inserted in the lock of the topmost drawer; to the right of the desk two further wooden bookshelves, set into the alcove to the left of the fireplace. On the desk a black Toshiba laptop, a brown glass ashtray full to the brim with cigarette butts and ash, a black mug emblazoned with two Joshua trees and the words ‘Mazatlan, Mexico’ – a gift from a Belvedere pupil and now a receptacle for pens, pencils, coloured markers, a scissor, ruler and elastic bands; a
spiral-bound notebook on whose first page is handwritten a To Do list (bank, accounts balancing, vet, ideas of making money); at the centre of the desk, propped open on a wooden bookstand: a Penguin edition (1992) of Ulysses with an introduction by Declan Kiberd and the cover showing a photograph of the Martello Tower at Sandycove overlaid with two excerpts – the novel’s opening lines presenting stately, plump Buck Mulligan and the closing from Molly Bloom’s soliloquy and in the air surrounding it the ineluctable modality of the invisible.
What memories, feelings and sensations are elicited as he crosses the room?
From the rug underfoot: a memory from childhood of entering this room after his Saturday evening bath wearing only his underpants, then lying belly-down on the rug and reading The Red Balloon. From the sight of the filing cabinet: the occasion of the reading of his father’s will (a copy of which now lies, along with a copy of Ellen’s will, in the second drawer of the filing cabinet) the day after his burial, in the presence of his mother, Lucy, Josie, Ellen and the family solicitor Anthony J. Flynn. From the wall of books: a mild, gentle breeze of recognition, an easeful presence, the comfort of knowing that the characters who once provided rare fellowship and evoked in him deep sorrow, soaring raptures and some of the sublimest moments of his life to date, are still there where he left them and, for an instant, he still finds it hard to conceive that these characters are without individual agency.
List the contents of the metal filing cabinet.
In the two uppermost drawers: suspension files holding bank statements, utility bills, receipts, miscellaneous legal documents, tax returns, land leasing contracts with Jim Lynch stretching back over fourteen years, copies of forestry contracts, correspondence and grant applications relating to Coillte and Coillte information booklets on forestry. In the third drawer: further miscellaneous legal documents and solicitors’ letters pertaining to his father’s will, the sale of the milk quota in 2001, two bank loans; the deeds of the house, various family members’ birth and death certs, two pages, stapled, downloaded from Griffith’s Valuation 1868, Boundary and Land Valuation of Ireland; a black velvet case containing his father’s gold pocket-watch; four stapled pages of an article entitled ‘The Biological Evidence of River Capture’ downloaded from JSTOR and originally published in the Bulletin of the American Geographical Society Vol. 37, No. 3 (1905). In the fourth and bottom drawer: a large lever-arch file subdivided with orange, green and blue card dividers titled Fiction, Poetry, Drama, each section containing handwritten lecture notes from his English degree courses at University College Dublin; three orange card folders containing lesson plans devised during his first year of teaching at Belvedere College: miscellaneous notes on miscellaneous writers and poets including Shakespeare, Austen, Joyce, Kavanagh, Plath, Bishop.
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