The Dead Republic

by Roddy Doyle

  I crawled - I didn’t grunt - along the length of the table, to the wall. I was sweating. I stood up. I needed the table now, to help me.

  I was right in front of where I’d seen the line, in front of a wood-panelled wall. The only wall in the house not covered in pictures from the films. I pushed; it was solid. I shifted quietly, one step nearer the window. I pushed the wood. It gave, very slightly. There was something behind it. I pushed again and sent my hands towards the window, an inch - another. The panel went with them; I was opening a sliding door. I stepped away from the doorway and the block of light that fell into the room.

  I could hear him. Asleep and fighting.

  The booze came with the light, and the smell of piss and vomit, and his cigar.

  I went in.

  He was sunk back in an armchair. His eyes were shut. His neck looked broken and useless. His cap had come off; it was stuck between his head and the back of the chair. His bottom half, to his gut, was inside some kind of sleeping bag. One hand held a bottle of bourbon - the label was turned in towards him. There were empties on the floor, on the table beside him.

  I took the Saturday Evening Post from my pocket. I unfolded it and put it down his sleeping bag.

  4

  They found me. I recognised Bill, Ford’s driver - he was the shadow across my legs - and then I knew.

  —How long this time?

  —Don’t know, Mister Smart.

  —How come? I asked.

  —Don’t know how long you was gone before Mister Ford told me to come get you.

  I was sitting on a bench.

  It wasn’t a bench. It was a low cement wall, at the edge of a dry dirt park.

  It was hot.

  —How long have you been looking?

  —Six days, he said.—Maybe seven.

  —That must be a record.

  —I don’t think this one counts, Mister Smart, he said.

  —Why not?

  —Well, he said.—Here’s what I think. This time you weren’t hiding. This time you were lost.

  —You might be right, I said.

  But he wasn’t. Granted, I didn’t know where I was or the last time I’d known the day and the date. I felt my chin. There was a beard there; I couldn’t get through to the skin. I’d been gone but I hadn’t been lost. I’d been on the step, beside my mother. I’d been looking up at the stars, at my dead brother and the other ones. I’d been running barefoot through the streets of Dublin. I’d been running away from Granny Nash.

  I opened my shirt. It was filthy, and I stank. I looked down at my chest. I looked through the grey hair for the bruise Granny Nash’s finger must have left when she’d poked at me. I couldn’t see it. But I could still feel her stab.

  I felt Bill’s hand under my arm, and I stood up for him.

  —Come on, Mister Smart.—Time to go.

  —Where?

  —Back to your roots.

  —Ah, fuckin’ hell, I said.—Dublin?

  —No, sir. Monument Valley.

  I knew where that was. It was where I’d been found the first time, in the dirt, by Henry Fonda.

  —I want a wash, I said.—I want a shave.

  —Sure.

  I’d been running through Dublin. I’d been under the ground, in the rivers and sewers, with my father, and alone. I looked down at the leg and the shoe. They were both dirty but undamaged. There were no water-stains in the leather or on the wood. But my ears were still full of the words trapped under the city.

  I pulled my hand over my scalp and across the back of my neck. The skin was rough and baked; I felt it come away on my fingers.

  I looked around but there was no sign of my fedora.

  —Do I still have the room? I asked.

  —I guess so, said Bill.

  —The rent?

  —Taken care of.

  I’d been home. While my beard grew and my head crusted, I’d gone back to Dublin. I’d sat with my mother on the step, and all the steps. I’d crawled all over her; I’d tried to find my place on her lap, in among my brothers and sisters.

  I stopped.

  Bill waited for me; he didn’t pull at my sleeve.

  I tried to remember the names of the brothers and sisters. And the dead ones too, the ones who’d gone up to join the first real Henry in the sky. There were girls and boys, one a year, for years - but I couldn’t see any. I could only remember one name.

  —Victor, I said.

  —Mister Smart?

  —Victor, I said.—Remember that for me.

  —Sure, said Bill.—Just Victor?

  —That’s it, I said.—If I ask you again, will you tell me?

  —Sure.

  —Grand.

  He drove me back to the dive. He parked right outside.

  —I’ll wait here, he said.

  I wasn’t his prisoner.

  —What room am I in?

  —Thirty-seven.

  —Give me half an hour.

  —Sure, he said.—Take your time.

  The pebbled notebook was still on the table, with the pencil. My hat was on the bed, but there was no Saturday Evening Post. I picked up the notebook. I read the names. VICTOR. It was there already.

  Gracie.

  —I had a sister called Grace, I told Bill.

  I was sitting beside him as he took us through the desert, into more serious desert.

  —That right? he said.

  —Yeah.

  —Back home in Ireland.

  —Yeah.

  —What was she like?

  —I don’t know, I said.

  I’d a feeling Gracie had died before I was born. I seemed to know that - I wasn’t sure. But I knew the name, and I’d always known it.

  We’d been driving a long time, in and out of darkness and into settled daytime. We’d gone past towns and the signs for towns before I remembered that I’d wanted to know their names. Barstow, Ludlow, and Bagdad. We crossed the Colorado River at Bullhead City. I’d been in that water before. I’d washed myself at the bend I looked down at as Bill drove us past. But I didn’t recognise the name, Bullhead.

  —New city, said Bill.—Built to support the Davis Dam construction. Got a new name too.

  —What was the old one? I asked.

  —When I came out this way with Mister Ford before the war, I seem to recall it being called Hardyville.

  That name meant nothing either. But I’d been there.

  I took the notebook from my jacket pocket. I opened the page I wanted.

  —And Victor? said Bill.

  —My brother.

  —Remember him?

  —Yeah, I said.—I do.

  I looked at the burnt rubber lines, left where the cars had gone off the road. We kept rolling over them. There were hundreds of the lines, but none of the cars.

  —And yourself? I said.

  —Brothers and sisters?

  —Yeah.

  —I don’t know, he said.

  His eyes were on the road. He was bringing us north now and the colour of the land ahead was changing, becoming red.

  —I grew up in an orphanage, he said.

  —How was that?

  —I knew nothing else.

  I printed the name. GRACIE. I closed the notebook.

  —What date is it, Bill? I asked.

  —December 16th.

  —Still 1948?

  —Yes.

  We kept going; he didn’t stop. I could see the red towers from twenty miles away, the buttes and mesas of the valley. The buttes got higher. They must have been a thousand feet, but they got no nearer. It was like I was watching a raw, new place pushing up through old ground. There was still no valley, just the towers. Then the engine’s hum changed and we were going down, into Monument Valley, back to where I’d died.

  —What’s this one called? I asked.

  —She Wore a Yellow Ribbon, said Ford.

  —Any good?

  —It’s a Western, he said.—They’re what I do. It’ll be a m
aster-piece.

  He was looking a lot better than the last time I’d seen him, soaked inside his sleeping bag. He sat with his back to the set, staring out at the strange red land and the red sky that joined it, far away.

  There was a canvas chair beside him. I sat down.

  He pointed.

  —Over there, remember?

  —Is that where you found me?

  —Yep.

  I looked at the huge land in front of us; I moved my eyes slowly, from left to right.

  —How can you tell it’s the place? I asked.—It’s all the fuckin’ same.

  —I guess you didn’t read that story before you left it back at my house.

  —No, I didn’t.

  —Okay.

  —Where’s the town? I said.

  —What town?

  —There was a town here when you found me, I said.—Where’s it gone?

  —That was Tombstone, he said.—It got taken down after we were finished with it. My friends, the Navajo here, they used it during the winter months. Kept them warm, I hope. The real Tombstone is south of here, at the other end of the state of Arizona. Matter of fact—

  He looked at me.

  —The real Tombstone doesn’t exist, he said.

  —What has The Kerry Dances got to do with Miss O’Shea? I said.

  —What?

  —That stuff you said - I don’t remember - about the song letting people think they know her.

  —That’s right, he said.

  —What?

  —They see her the first time and they hear it, like it’s going around her head, like a breeze. It seems to be her tune. And it is her tune, her theme. She goes off the screen. Walks out of the frame. Five minutes, and they see her again. And this time they expect it. Her tune. And they get it. So they know her. It’s all in the notes, her whole life. It’s one of the tricks. There’s something you’ve got to understand.

  He waited, made sure I was with him.

  —I’ve got this whole valley here—

  It was vast, all in front of us. The whole world was this red valley.

  —But I end up using the same spot, he said.—I guess four or five times now.

  I heard him chew his cigar, shift it from one side of his mouth to the other.

  —I come out here to get far away from the goddamn producers, he said.—I love it.

  He put his hand on my arm.

  —But my point is—

  There was no show or big drama; we were alone.

  —I want to tell your story, he said.—But I’ll have two hours, if I’m lucky. So, I have to condense your story. You’re what? Forty-seven?

  —I think so.

  —Well, there ain’t that much film stock. We have to pick and choose. Understand?

  I nodded.

  —Just like the stories your mother told you when you were a kid, back in Dublin.

  I looked at him.

  —No? he said.

  —No.

  —Well, Jesus, you got kids of your own, right? You told them stories.

  I nodded.

  —All done in a couple of minutes, he said.—Between Once upon a time and Happily ever after. We’ll have two hours, max. But it’s plenty. If we do it right. We already have the story. But I need the tools. Pictures. Music. The shortcuts. The Kerry Dances.

  —It wasn’t her song.

  —We make it her fucking song.

  He wasn’t angry.

  —I’m having to fight, he said.—I’m making this one here—He nodded back at the fort.

  —so Herb Yates - he’s the fucking producer - so he’ll give me the finance to make ours. I’m the most bankable director in Hollywood, every one a sure-fire hit. I’ve won fucking Oscars. But our picture’s set in Ireland. It’s too far way. They don’t think it’ll make them money.

  He sighed.

  —We’re nearly there, he said.—We’ll make it. How’d you meet her?

  —School, I said.

  —Sat beside each other, he said.—On the first day. It’s a bit corny, but it could work.

  —No.

  —Why not? he said.—What?

  —She was my teacher, I said.

  —That’s right, he said.—You told me she was the schoolmarm.

  —Yeah.

  —But you didn’t tell me she was your fucking schoolmarm. Jesus. You were, what? Ten, eleven?

  —Eight.

  —She was what, twenty-five?

  I shrugged.

  —Well, listen, he said.—Here goes.

  He sounded like he was getting ready to sit up. But he didn’t.

  —We won’t get that past the censor, he said.—They just won’t allow that.

  —I met her again in the GPO, I told him.—Years later.

  —There now, he said.—You’re thinking like a writer. The place is burning down, right?

  —Yeah.

  —Bullets in the air.

  —Yeah. And—

  —Go on, he said.

  —The glass dome above us, I said.—It started to melt.

  —Great, he said.—Drops of molten glass.

  —Yeah.

  —See? he said.—This is one of the shortcuts. Love and liberty in ten, fifteen seconds. Miss O’Shea—

  —I rode her in the basement on a bed made of stamps.

  —I’m right there with you, Henry, he said.—But we won’t shoot the fucking.

  —Fair enough.

  —You understand.

  —Yeah, no; you’re grand. I understand.

  —But what we’ll do is, he said,—we shoot two good faces. Whoever’s you, probably Hank, and whoever’s playing your schoolmarm, probably Maureen or maybe Joanne Dru.You’ll like Joanne. She’s here, somewhere.

  He nodded back, at the fort.

  —Two faces, he said.—Two pairs of those Irish eyes. And the eyes are saying it all. And the glass drips and the bullets fly. And cut. You can see that?

  —Yeah, I said.

  —This is great, he said.

  I agreed with him; I believed him.

  —Great, he said.—Bed of stamps, right?

  —Right.

  He started singing, quietly.

  —OH, THE DAYS OF THE KERRY—

  DANCES - What was her name?

  —I don’t know, I said.

  —Meta told me you’d keep saying that.

  —I never knew her name.

  —We’ll have to give her a name.

  —No.

  —We’ll see.

  —No.

  —We’ll fucking see. How do we get that across? The woman has no name.

  —She had a name, I said.

  —But you don’t know it.

  I nodded.

  —You didn’t want to know it.

  —That’s right.

  —Was it a secret agent thing or a better-fuck thing?

  —Better-fuck.

  —How do we tell that in a picture? Without the guy explaining, putting us to fucking sleep?

  —He could put his finger in his ears just when she’s going to tell him.

  —Your pal, Douglas Fairbanks.

  —What about him?

  —You ever see him put his fingers in his ears? Or Valentino? Or Hank Fonda?

  —Okay.

  —I don’t think I could even make Duke Wayne stick his fingers in his fucking ears.

  He turned his chair to face the set again and he was suddenly surrounded by busy men, and he was up and gone, into the phoney fort. I turned my own chair. I heard the accordion - Bringing in the Sheaves. There were horses - I was suddenly hearing them - kicking up the red dust, and men in blue uniforms trying to stay in their saddles. I could see dirt settle and sink into the sweat on the horses and men. There were other men rushing around, off to the sides. And voices, above and through the chaos of the horses. And the louder voice of a man I couldn’t see.

  —Hold those fucking horses!

  There was a dog asleep, in front of the horses’ angry feet
. I waited for the big voice - Move that fucking dog! But it didn’t come. And I realised something: the dog was supposed to be there. The dog was part of the story. The dog was a cavalry dog and someone owned the dog and probably loved the dog. Ford had put the dog there, and I thought that was fuckin’ brilliant. I laughed. The little touch, the bit extra; the horses and men weren’t enough. They were the story but I’d always remember the dog. Because the dog made them human. I knew now why Ford kept digging at me, and I knew I’d come up with my own dogs.

  Ford walked up to the lines of horses. He was looking at their feet. He stepped over the dog and kept going. He stopped and patted one of the horses.

  —This one, he said.

  A lad with a brush and a tin of paint got down on one knee and painted the horse’s feet. They suddenly looked blacker, too black, even from where I sat, through a screen of rolling dust. Ford examined the feet.

  —Great, he said.

  I couldn’t see him now. I could see no one who wasn’t in uniform. But I heard him.

  —This will be picture.

  Even the horses were waiting.

  —Everybody ready? We are rolling.

  It was simple and fast. I heard the accordion under the hooves and voices. The dust was now deliberate.

  —AROUND HER NECK—

  SHE WORE A YELLOW RIBBON—

  The men on the horses were singing, going past me, with the dog trotting along beside them.

  —SHE WORE IT IN THE SPRINGTIME—

  AND IN THE MONTH OF MAY—

  There were other voices. Everyone, in front of the camera and hidden, was singing.

  —AND IF YOU ASKED HER—

  WHY THE HECK SHE WORE IT—

  SHE’D SAY IT’S FOR MY LOVER—

  WHO’S IN THE CAVALRY—

  The dust blew over me. I could still hear the horses. They hadn’t gone far. The filming was over. The hidden men were back. shifting the lights, painting, sweeping, making it all new again. And the dog was still lying there.

  Ford walked towards me. I picked up my chair, so we both had our backs to the fort.

  —The dog on the ground, I said.

  —What about him?

  —I saw him going off with the horses.

  —Different dog. You killed men, right?

  I nodded.

  —Yeah.

  —Tell me about one of them. Ready, Meta?

  She was behind us, sitting on an Indian blanket, under her huge hat. I couldn’t see her eyes.