by Roddy Doyle
I looked at the pen. DUST! It took up half the page.
Ford stood up. His teeth were fighting. He held his side of the desk. He was going to upend it. He already had it an inch off his side of the floor.
Meta Sterne was there now, going past me. She handed Ford a note.
—What’s this?
—Read it, she said.
He read. He looked at her.
—Okay, he said.—Okay.
He sat down. He nodded. She turned and left. Ford still glared at the other guy.
—Henry, he said.
—What?
—Cheer me up, said Ford.—One rebel to another.
—What? I said.
—You’re on the bike.
—Okay.
—With the Miss O’Shea.
—Yeah.
—She’ll need a name, he told the other guy.
—Alright.
—Mary, said Ford.—Or Kate. I like that one. Something Irish. He looked at me again.
—Don’t worry, he said.—It’s your story. We just need to call her something, for the script.
He pushed his hat up off his forehead.
—Now, he said.—Make the old man happy.What’s she wearing? I was wearing my riding britches; she’d made me wear them. She wore her Cumann na mBan uniform.
—I can’t remember, I said.
I looked back at him.
He knew what I was doing: I was reclaiming my life. And I knew what he was doing. He was making me up. There were two stories being dragged out of me.
—Does she sing? he said.
I gave him that one.
—Yeah, I said.—She sings.
I lay back on the bed. I enjoyed the certainty and softness of the mattress. I unstrapped the leg. It came off without a whinge. I took it away, and there was nothing there in its place. I’d never felt the ghost of the real leg. And that was grand. There were enough ghosts in my life. I needed a rest.
I leaned over the bed and lowered the leg to the floor. I saw the Saturday Evening Post, where I’d thrown it. I saw the coastguard. I poked the cover with a big wooden toe. I lifted it slightly, then more. The paper came with the foot. I swung the foot out and the paper dropped open.
Two flat pages, four tight columns. And the name of the story. The Quiet Man.
I didn’t read it.
I asked Meta Sterne what she’d written on the piece of paper she’d handed to Ford as he got ready to throw his desk. This was four days later, the 1st of December. I was standing in the little office in front of Ford’s.
This was new - or it felt new. Starting a conversation. Being interested. Remembering. One day followed the last one.
—I didn’t write anything, she said.
—Was it blank?
—No, she said.—It wasn’t. He wrote it.
—You gave him his own note.
—Yes, I did.
—For fuck sake.
—Don’t lose your temper, she said.
—I’m not, I said.—I’m grand.
—That was the note, she said.—Don’t lose your temper. And look.
She slid open a desk drawer. There was a large stapler, some envelopes and a stack of small sheets of paper just like the one she’d handed to him.
—How many?
—Ninety-eight, she said.
—You’ve given him two.
—That’s right.
She didn’t smile; there was nothing conspiratorial about this. It was amusing but it wasn’t ridiculous or mad.
I was learning other things about Ford. He’d been in the war; he’d earned himself medals. Bill, the driver, told me. But I knew nothing about the Second World War; I’d missed it.
—Battle of Midway, said Bill.
I nodded, like I knew the one he meant.
—Filmed the whole thing, said Bill.—Took a bullet and got an Oscar.
—That sounds fair, I said.
—I guess you’re right, Mister Smart, he said.
—What’s an Oscar? I asked.
—You don’t know what an Oscar is?
—No.
I didn’t care what an Oscar was. But I didn’t want to ask him about the war, to let him know I knew nothing.
(—Watch and listen, Victor. And the answers will come strolling up to you. What do you do?
—Watch and listen.
—Good man.)
Now, I was waiting for Ford. I didn’t like his other names. Pappy, Jack, the Old Man. They masked a lot; the old prick hid behind them. He wanted me to call him Seán. But I wouldn’t.
—What is this place? I asked.
—Well, said Meta Sterne.—This is Pappy’s studio office.
—And the other ones?
Outside the door, left and right, was a line of bungalows exactly like it.
—Other directors, she said.
—What about over there?
I pointed at the doors, across good grass and a buckled-looking tree.
—The writers, she said.
—Is that fella in one of them? I asked.—The guy who was here the last time.
—I don’t think so, she said.
—Will he be here today?
—I don’t think so.
She was spot on there. I never saw him again.
I heard the accordion. Then I saw it. It filled the open door. I saw four fingers pressing buttons, and the other hand flat against the front of the squeezebox. It was like the song was gasping for air, then the accordion popped into the office. Elbows shot out at each side, like ears, and it had legs and a head as well.
Ford was right behind it. Singing.
—OH, THE DAYS OF THE KERRY DANCING—
OH, THE RING OF THE PIPER’S TUNE—
The guy squeezing the box kept going, into Ford’s office.
—OH, FOR ONE OF THOSE HOURS OF GLADNESS—GONE, ALAS, LIKE OUR YOUTH—
TOO SOON—
I’d told him, when he’d asked me what Miss O’Shea sang.
—That one, I’d said.—The Kerry Dances.
I didn’t know why. If he’d asked me to hum it, I wouldn’t have been able to. But she must have sung it, some time. It came out of my mouth; I didn’t even make it up.
—OH—
TO THINK OF IT—
OH—
TO DREAM OF IT—
FILLS MY HEART WITH TEARS—
OH, THE DAYS OF THE KERRY DANCING—
He stopped in front of me. He wiped his mouth.
—That the one? he said.
—Yeah, I said.—That’s it.
He shouted.
—Okay, Danny.
The playing stopped, and the small man came out of Ford’s office.
—We got it, Danny, said Ford.—We got our song.
—I like it, said the small man.
This was Danny Borzage. He was part of the Company, on the set of every film Ford made. There was a song for each of the actors, when they came to work. It was good for morale, Meta Sterne told me. Everyone loved it; the songs made them special. I believed her.
Danny Borzage went sideways out the door.
—We got our song, Meta, said Ford.
—It’s a hit.
—It’s a big day, Henry, said Ford.—Agus conas atá tú inniú?*
—What?
—It’s fucking Gaelic, he said.
—I know that, I told him.—But I don’t know what it means.
—Hear that, Meta? he said.—It’s fucking tragic.
He walked into his office, the old man’s shuffle. The lenses weren’t enough for him. He hid behind his ancientness as well. But he wasn’t much older than me.
I sat down in the usual chair. I sat right back.
—What’s so important about the song? I asked.
I was taking things in. I was listening to the language.
—A girl walks in here and straight back out, said Ford.—Got that? I nodded.
—But I miss her, he said.—Because I’m pulling up my s
ock, down here.
He disappeared under his desk, and came back up.
—I straighten up and I see her ass going out the door. And I ask you, who was that? But you don’t know, so I ask you what she looked like. She’s, say, thirty-three and it took her thirty-three years to get to the point where she walks in here. I’ll have known her some of those years, and you’ll say, She had a dimple here on her cheek. And I’ll say, Yeah, I know her. I’ll know the dimple and I’ll have seen the rest of her face getting older while the dimple stayed put and started to look a mite out of place on that face.
* And how are you today?
He stopped. I could see him thinking. He took his white handkerchief from a pocket.
—Now, he said.—In our picture, the woman walks in but we don’t know her. She’s thirty-three but the picture’s only four minutes old and two hours is how long it’s going to last. This new girl is fictional. Even if she’s based on a woman we know. Miss O’Shea. That’s a ready-made woman pretending it’s her. Say, Maureen O’Hara. You know Maureen?
I shook my head.
—No.
—You’ll like Maureen, he said.—She’s Irish. Born there, bred there. Big ass. The real spud. Anyways, we need shortcuts to get all those years up there on the silver screen. We need the audience to think it’s taken thirty-three years for her to get there, when they see her the first time. Understand?
I nodded.
—Great, said Ford.—That’s where the music comes in. You read that story yet?
—The Quiet Man, I said.
—Great, he said.—You read it.
—No.
—Why not?
—Fuck this, I said.—It’s my story, right?
His answer came out from behind the hankie.
—It’s your fucking story.
—So why should I read someone else’s fuckin’ story? I said.—Who’s Maurice Walsh?
That was the name right under the title in the Saturday Evening Post.
—He’s a good guy, said Ford.
—I never met him, I told him.—And there’s nothing in his story that’s about me. So why do you want me to read it?
—Who’s making this picture? he said.
—It’s my fuckin’ story.
—Fuck you, he yelled.
Meta Sterne stood up.
—Don’t bother your arse, I told her.—She’s going to get you a piece of paper with Don’t Lose Your Temper on it, I told Ford.
—Bring two of ’em, Meta, he said.—And give one to this thick son of a bitch.
—Well, she said.—Can we take them as read?
—Did you hear that? said Ford.
—What?
—I called you a thick son of a bitch.
—So?
—I got it right, he said.—Didn’t I? The Irish way for saying dumb.
He smiled.
—I know, he said.—You don’t have to worry. I’ll tell it right. You’ll see.
I looked back at him. Under the peak of his cap, right in behind the lenses.
—What’s so important about the other story?
—Hank Fonda, he said.
—What?
—You’re Henry Fonda, he said.
—Oh, yes, said Meta Sterne.
—I’m right, Meta? said Ford.
—You’re right, said Meta Sterne.
He stood up. He was gone. I felt his hand on my shoulder minutes after he’d left.
MELODY NASH.
GRANNY NASH.
THE OTHER HENRY - A STAR.
I found a notebook with a pebbled cover in the room, in a drawer that had no handle. There was a pencil in there with it. It was a hotel but the sign on the wall outside had been turned off years before. You got the room and you got the fighting all around you, the radio music and comedy shows, the riding and crying, and the stink of bad soup and ageing.
DOLLY OBLONG.
ALFIE GANDON.
I knew that none of the names I wrote into the notebook would be in the story inside the Saturday Evening Post. I took it off the bed and threw it on the floor every night, and it was back on the bed every time I came back into the room. But the room was never cleaned.
I changed dives. All I packed went into my pockets. I went out the back way, through unused kitchens and hollow corridors, and I walked down the street to the next dead hotel. I made them come after me; I kept doing it. I left The Quiet Man behind me on the floor. But the fuckin’ thing found me every time. And once, it got there before me. It was waiting on the bed when I unlocked the new door and walked in.
I burnt it. Bits of paper broke away from the cover and rose in the heat. I grabbed a piece and opened my hand - a fragment of the coastguard’s red scarf. I remembered being on College Green, years before, watching as flames ate the Union Jack. (The wind picked up tiny flakes of charred cloth and scattered them over us.
—You’re in right trouble now, yeh Fenian bastards.
I grabbed a piece and expected to be burnt. But I felt no pain. I wondered had I missed it and opened my fist. It was there, a tiny island of red left in the middle of a burnt-black triangle.)
I let go of the burnt paper. I held the magazine over the trash bin until the flames were bigger than what was left and I felt the magazine lose weight. I dropped it into the bin.
That was that; I even washed my hands. I looked at my face in the mirror and saw Henry Smart, not Fonda. I threw water on my face. I lifted the window blind. It was a different room; the sun was well behind the block. I hoisted the window - I felt the weight in my arms - to get rid of the smell of burnt paper. I looked down at an alley, a broken corner of it. I picked up the bin. It was warm, although the fire was out. I brought it to the window. I held it out, upended it and watched the magazine’s ashes drop and sail away. I let go of the bin and waited till I heard it hit the alley. I went across to the bed. I picked up the pencil. I wrote, DAVID CLIMANIS, MARIA CLIMANIS. I decided to sleep, lie back and listen to the voices in the other rooms around me. This was the day I set fire to The Quiet Man and threw it out the window.
But it was back on the bed the next day. I didn’t notice until I remembered what I’d done the day before - it was the day before. The coastguard was on the bed, still with his back to the iceberg.
I looked for the bin. There wasn’t one. I’d thrown it out the window.
The yellowing paper. The broken, frayed edges - it looked like the same copy.
I didn’t touch it.
I opened the window. I looked out at the alley. I couldn’t see much; I couldn’t see the bin. I looked back at the bed. The coastguard lifted slightly, held up by the breeze the open window had let in.
Could I trust my own head? I’d been falling in and out of the years, for years; I’d even forgotten who I was. I was only getting the hang of living day to day. I’d already lost track; I didn’t know the date.
I’d burnt it.
But it was on the bed. Waiting to be burnt again.
I’d burnt it.
I grabbed it and threw it away. I heard it smack against the wall.
I opened the notebook. DAVID CLIMANIS. MARIA CLIMANIS. They were the names I’d written after I’d dropped the ashes into the alley. There was solid memory, the evidence of my eyes.
But what was the thing lying on the floor against the wall?
I could burn it again. But it would never end. I’d have to do it every day.
I hadn’t burnt it, or it was a different copy of the same Saturday Evening Post.
I picked it up. It was the same magazine, the exact same weight. I’d held it before; I’d held it the day before. I put it back down on the floor.
It hadn’t happened.
I’d wanted it to happen. I’d wanted to burn it. But I hadn’t. I breathed deep. I took it in. I accepted it.
I sat on the bed. It was quiet around me. The hoor above wasn’t snoring or working. The oul’ lad in the next room wasn’t dying.
I took off the leg. I lay b
ack.
I saw it.
Right beside me, on the pillow.
Red.
I didn’t move, I didn’t breathe. I didn’t want to blow it away. The coastguard’s red scarf, the little bit of paper that I’d caught as it rose in the heat - the day before. It was on the pillow, three inches from my nose.
—The cunt.
He wasn’t in any of the beds. There was a woman fast asleep in one of them, in the room I’d guessed would be his. Mary, the wife. She was alone, and lying straight down the middle. She hadn’t had company in years.
I was in Ford’s house, 6860 Odin Street. It was three in the morning.
He had two kids, he’d told me, but they were grown up and gone. I didn’t think there were servants. But it was a strange house. It wasn’t huge, but it had been added to; it went off in three different directions.
It was years since I’d been in a house at night. But it was coming back. I’d remembered the address. I’d found a handy window. I’d climbed up to the ledge and got in without grunting. The wife would wake up in the morning and walk across the space where I was standing, and she’d never know that I’d been watching her. I was older and slower, with a leg that announced itself when the wood hit wood. But I still knew what I was doing.
I went back downstairs. I found the room I’d been in before, where Meta Sterne had surprised me. It was hidden away, a den, behind a bigger room. I stayed away from the windows and got to the door of the hidden room. I held the handle tight, like I was going to kill it. The door made no sound as I slowly turned the handle and pushed.
Thousands of books, the desk, old smoke. No bed, and no Ford.
I closed the door.
I went into the other downstairs room. A long table at the centre; I didn’t count the chairs. The curtains were open. There was a steep hill rising, right behind the house. I got under the table and sat there.
I looked along the walls.
I hadn’t seen him in weeks but I knew he wasn’t off making one of the films. I didn’t know why I knew but I trusted the knowledge. The smoke in the air was old but it wasn’t ancient. He was near me.
There was one hidden room in the house. So there’d be more - there might be. But I could hear nothing new; nothing slid in beside the usual hum. I looked along the wall, where it met the floor. And I saw it. A thin line that might have been nothing. My arse - I’d found the fucker.