by Sally Rooney
Connell touches his teeth with his fingers as if to ascertain that they’re still in his mouth. Then he wipes his hands on a dishtowel.
Oh well, he says. It’s not an easy life out there for a drug addict.
No, indeed, says Joanna.
They could always try, I don’t know, giving up drugs? says Jamie.
Connell laughs and says: Yeah, I’m sure they’ve just never thought of that.
Everyone’s quiet and Connell gives a bashful smile. His teeth are less insane-looking now that he’s rinsed them with water. Sorry, everyone, he says. I’ll get out of your way. They all insist he’s not in their way, except Jamie, who says nothing. Marianne experiences a flash of maternalistic desire to run Connell a bath. Joanna asks him if he’s in pain, and he responds by rubbing his front teeth with a fingertip again and then saying: It’s not that bad. He’s wearing a black jacket over a stained white T-shirt, under which Marianne recognises the glimmer of an unadorned silver neckchain he’s had since school. Peggy once described the neckchain as ‘Argos chic’, which made Marianne cringe, though she couldn’t tell which friend she was cringing for.
How much cash do you think you’ll need? she says to Connell. The question is sensitive enough that her friends start to talk amongst themselves, so she feels she has him almost alone. He shrugs. You might not be able to make withdrawals without your bank card, she says. He squeezes his eyes shut and touches his forehead.
Fuck me, I’m so drunk, he says. I’m sorry, I feel like I’m hallucinating. What are you asking me?
Money. How much can I give you?
Oh, I don’t know, ten quid?
Let me give you a hundred, she says.
What? No.
They argue like this for a while, until Jamie comes up and touches Marianne’s arm. She is suddenly conscious of his ugliness, and wants to pull away from him. His hairline is receding and he has a weak, jawless face. Beside him, and even covered in blood, Connell radiates good health and charisma.
I’ll probably have to head off shortly, says Jamie.
Well, I’ll see you tomorrow, says Marianne.
Jamie looks at her in shock and she swallows the impulse to say: What? Instead she smiles. It’s not like she’s the world’s best-looking person, far from it. In certain photographs she appears not only plain but garishly ugly, baring her crooked teeth for the camera like a piece of vermin. Guiltily she squeezes Jamie’s wrist, as if she can perform the following impossible act of communication: to Jamie, that Connell is injured and regrettably requires her attention, while to Connell, that she would rather not be touching Jamie at all.
Alright, says Jamie. Well, goodnight, then.
He kisses the side of her face and goes to get his jacket. Everyone thanks Marianne for having them. Glasses are left on the draining board or in the sink. Then the front door closes and she and Connell are alone. She feels her shoulder muscles relaxing, like their solitude is a narcotic. She fills the kettle and takes cups down from the press, then places some more of the dirty glasses in the sink and empties the ashtray.
Is he still your boyfriend, then? says Connell.
She smiles, and so does he. She takes two teabags from the box and tamps them down into the cups while the kettle is boiling. She loves to be alone with him like this. It makes her life seem very manageable suddenly.
He is, yes, she says.
And why would that be the case?
Why is he my boyfriend?
Yeah, says Connell. What’s going on there? In terms of like, why you’re still going out with him.
Marianne snorts. I presume you’ll have tea, she says. He nods. He puts his right hand in his pocket. She takes a carton of milk from the fridge, it’s damp in her fingers. Connell is standing against the kitchen counter now, his mouth swollen but most of the blood rinsed off, and his face looks brutally handsome.
You could have a different boyfriend, you know, he says. I mean, guys are constantly falling in love with you, from what I hear.
Stop that.
You’re the kind of person, people either love you or hate you.
The kettle clicks its switch and she lifts it out of the cradle. She fills one of the cups and then the other.
Well, you don’t hate me, she says.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Then he says: No, I’m immune to you, in a way. Because I knew you in school.
When I was an ugly loser, says Marianne.
No, you were never ugly.
She puts the kettle back down. She feels a certain power over him, a dangerous power.
Do you still think I’m pretty? she says.
He looks at her, probably knowing what she’s doing, and then looks at his own hands, as if reminding himself of his physical stature in the room.
You’re in a good mood, he says. Must have been a good party.
She ignores this. Fuck you, she thinks, but she doesn’t mean it. She dumps the teabags in the sink with a spoon, then uses the milk and replaces it in the fridge, all with the rapid movements of someone dealing impatiently with a drunk friend.
I’d rather literally anyone else, says Connell. I’d rather the guy who mugged me was your boyfriend.
What do you care?
He says nothing. She thinks of the way she treated Jamie before he left, and rubs her face with her hands. Some milk-drinking culchie, Jamie called Connell once. It’s true, she has seen Connell drink milk directly from the carton. He plays video games with aliens in them, he has opinions about football managers. He’s wholesome like a big baby tooth. Probably never in his life has he thought about inflicting pain on someone for sexual purposes. He’s a good person, he’s a nice friend. So why does she go after him like this all the time, pressing him for something? Does she have to be her old desperate self around him always?
Do you love him? says Connell.
Her hand pauses on the door of the fridge.
Unlike you to take an interest in my feelings, Connell, she says. I kind of thought that stuff was off-limits for us, I have to say.
Alright. Okay.
He rubs at his mouth again, looking distracted now. Then he drops his hand and looks out the kitchen window.
Look, he says, I probably should have told you before, but I’ve been seeing someone. I’ve been with her for a while, I should have mentioned it to you.
Marianne is so shocked by this news that it feels physical. She looks at him, plainly, unable to disguise her astonishment. In the time they’ve been friends he has never had a girlfriend. She’s never even given much thought to the idea that he might want one.
What? she says. How long have you been together?
About six weeks. Helen Brophy, I don’t know would you know her. She studies Medicine.
Marianne turns her back on him and takes her cup from the counter. She tries to hold her shoulders very still, frightened that she’ll cry and he’ll see her.
Why are you trying to get me to break up with Jamie, then? she says.
I’m not, I’m not. I just want you to be happy, that’s all.
Because you’re such a good friend, is it?
Well, yeah, he says. I mean, I don’t know.
The cup in Marianne’s hands is too hot to hold, but instead of placing it down again she just lets the pain seep into her fingers, down into her flesh.
Are you in love with her? she says.
Yeah. I do love her, yeah.
Now Marianne starts crying, the most embarrassing thing that has happened to her in her entire adult life. Her back is turned but she feels her shoulders jerk upwards in a horrible involuntary spasm.
Jesus, says Connell. Marianne.
Fuck off.
Connell touches her back and she jolts away from him, like he’s trying to hurt her. She puts the cup down on the counter to wipe her face roughly with her sleeve.
Just go away, she says. Leave me alone.
Marianne, don’t. I feel awful, okay? I should have told you before, I’m sorry.
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I don’t want to talk to you. Just leave.
For a while nothing happens. She chews on the inside of her cheek until the pain begins to settle her nerves and she’s not crying anymore. She dries her face again, with her hands this time, and turns around.
Please, she says. Please just go.
He sighs, he’s looking at the floor. He rubs his eyes.
Yeah, he says. Look, I’m really sorry to ask, but I do kind of need that money to get home. Sorry.
She remembers then and feels bad. In fact she smiles at him, that’s how bad she feels. Oh god, she says. In the excitement there I forgot you actually got assaulted. Can I give you two fifties, is that okay? He nods, but he’s not looking at her. She knows that he feels bad; she wants to be a grown-up about things. She finds her purse and hands him the money, which he puts in his pocket. He looks down, blinking and clearing his throat, like he’s going to cry too. I’m sorry, he says.
It’s nothing, she says. Don’t worry about it.
He rubs at his nose and looks around the room like he’s never going to see it again.
You know, I didn’t really know what was going on with us last summer, he says. Like, when I had to move home and that. I kind of thought maybe you would let me stay here or something. I don’t really know what happened with us in the end.
She feels a sharp pain in her chest and her hand flies to her throat, clutching at nothing.
You told me you wanted us to see other people, she says. I had no idea you wanted to stay here. I thought you were breaking up with me.
He rubs his palm flat against his mouth for a second, and then breathes out.
You didn’t say anything about wanting to stay here, she adds. You would have been welcome, obviously. You always were.
Right, okay, he says. Look, I’ll head off, then. Have a good night, yeah?
He leaves. The door clicks shut behind him, not very loudly.
In the Arts Block the next morning Jamie kisses her in front of everyone and says she looks beautiful. How was Connell last night? he says. She grips Jamie’s hand, she gives a conspiratorial roll of her eyes. Oh, he was so out of it, she says. I got rid of him eventually.
Six Months Later
(JULY 2013)
He wakes up just after eight. It’s bright outside the window and the carriage is warming up, a heavy warmth of breath and sweat. Minor train stations with unreadable names flash past and vanish. Elaine is already awake but Niall is still sleeping. Connell rubs his left eye with his knuckles and sits up. Elaine is reading the one novel she has brought with her on the journey, a novel with a glossy cover and the words Now a Major Motion Picture along the top. The actress on the front has been their constant companion for weeks. Connell feels an almost friendly affinity with her pale period-drama face.
Whereabouts are we, do you know? says Connell.
Elaine looks up from the book. We passed Ljubljana about two hours ago, she says.
Oh, right, he says. We’re not far, then.
Connell looks over at Niall, whose sleeping head is bobbing slightly on his neck. Elaine follows his gaze. Out for the count as usual, she says.
There were others at the beginning. Some friends of Elaine’s went with them from Berlin to Prague, and they met a few of Niall’s Engineering classmates in Bratislava before they crossed over to Vienna on the train. Hostels were cheap, and the cities they visited had a pleasantly temporary feeling about them. Nothing Connell did there seemed to stay with him. The whole trip felt like a series of short films, screened only once, and afterwards he had a sense of what they were about but no exact memories of the plot. He remembers seeing things out the windows of taxis.
In each city he finds an internet cafe and completes the same three rituals of communication: he calls Helen on Skype, he sends his mother a free text message from his phone network’s website, and he writes Marianne an email.
Helen is on a J1 in Chicago for the summer. In the background of their calls he can hear her girlfriends chatting, doing things with each other’s hair, and sometimes Helen will turn and say something to them like: Guys, please! I’m on the phone! He loves seeing her face on-screen, especially when the connection is good and her movements are smooth and lifelike. She has a great smile, great teeth. After the end of their call yesterday he paid at the counter, walked back out into the sunshine and bought himself an overpriced glass of Coke with ice. Sometimes when Helen has a lot of friends around or if the internet cafe is especially crowded, their conversations can get a little awkward, but even still he feels better after talking to her. He finds himself rushing to the end of the conversation so they can hang up, and then he can retrospectively savour how much he likes seeing her, without the moment-to-moment pressure of having to produce the right expressions and say the right things. Just to see Helen, her beautiful face, her smile, and to know that she continues loving him, this puts the gift of joy into his day, and for hours he feels nothing but a light-headed happiness.
Helen has given Connell a new way to live. It’s as if an impossibly heavy lid has been lifted off his emotional life and suddenly he can breathe fresh air. It is physically possible to type and send a message reading: I love you! It had never seemed possible before, not remotely, but in fact it’s easy. Of course if someone saw the messages he would be embarrassed, but he knows now that this is a normal kind of embarrassment, an almost protective impulse towards a particularly good part of life. He can sit down to dinner with Helen’s parents, he can accompany her to her friends’ parties, he can tolerate the smiling and the exchange of repetitive conversation. He can squeeze her hand while people ask him questions about his future. When she touches him spontaneously, applying a little pressure to his arm, or even reaching to brush a piece of lint off his collar, he feels a rush of pride, and hopes that people are watching them. To be known as her boyfriend plants him firmly in the social world, establishes him as an acceptable person, someone with a particular status, someone whose conversational silences are thoughtful rather than socially awkward.
The texts he sends Lorraine are fairly businesslike. He updates her when they see historic landmarks or cultural treasures. Yesterday:
hey from vienna. stephen’s cathedral fairly overrated to be honest but the art history museum was good. hope things are ok at home.
She likes to ask how Helen’s doing. The first time they met, Helen and his mother hit it off right away. Whenever Helen visits, Lorraine is always shaking her head at Connell’s little behaviours and saying: How do you put up with him, sweetheart? But whatever, it’s nice they get along. Helen is the first girlfriend he has introduced to his mother and he finds he’s curiously eager to impress on Lorraine how normal their relationship is and how nice a person Helen considers him to be. He’s not sure where this stems from exactly.
In the weeks they’ve been apart, his emails to Marianne have become lengthy. He’s started drafting them on his phone in idle moments, while waiting for his clothes in a launderette, or lying in the hostel at night when he can’t sleep for the heat. He reads over these drafts repeatedly, reviewing all the elements of prose, moving clauses around to make the sentences fit together correctly. Time softens out while he types, feeling slow and dilated while actually passing very rapidly, and more than once he’s looked up to find that hours have gone by. He couldn’t explain aloud what he finds so absorbing about his emails to Marianne, but he doesn’t feel that it’s trivial. The experience of writing them feels like an expression of a broader and more fundamental principle, something in his identity, or something even more abstract, to do with life itself. In his little grey journal he wrote recently: idea for a story told through emails? Then he crossed it out, deciding it was gimmicky. He finds himself crossing things out in his journal as if he imagines some future person poring over it in detail, as if he wants the future person to know which ideas he has thought better of.
His correspondence with Marianne includes a lot of links to news reports. At the moment t
hey’re both engrossed in the Edward Snowden story, Marianne because of her interest in the architecture of global surveillance, and Connell because of the fascinating personal drama. He reads all the speculation online, he watches the blurry footage from Sheremetyevo Airport. He and Marianne can only talk about it over email, using the same communication technologies they now know are under surveillance, and it feels at times like their relationship has been captured in a complex network of state power, that the network is a form of intelligence in itself, containing them both, and containing their feelings for one another. I feel like the NSA agent reading these emails has the wrong impression of us, Marianne wrote once. They probably don’t know about the time you didn’t invite me to the Debs.
She writes to him a lot about the house where she’s staying with Jamie and Peggy, outside Trieste. She recounts the goings-on, how she feels, how she surmises the others are feeling, and what she’s reading and thinking about. He writes to her about the cities they visit, sometimes including a paragraph describing a particular sight or scene. He wrote about coming up from the U-Bahn station in Schönleinstraße to find it was suddenly dark out, and the fronds of trees waving over them like spooky fingers, and the noise from bars, and the smell of pizza and exhaust fumes. It feels powerful to him to put an experience down in words, like he’s trapping it in a jar and it can never fully leave him. He told Marianne once that he’d been writing stories, and now she keeps asking to read them. If they’re as good as your emails they must be superb, she wrote. That was a nice thing to read, though he responded honestly: They’re not as good as my emails.
He and Niall and Elaine have arranged to get the train from Vienna to Trieste to spend their last few nights in Marianne’s holiday home, before they all fly back to Dublin together. A day trip to Venice has been mentioned. Last night they got on the train with their backpacks and Connell texted Marianne: should be there by tomorrow afternoon, won’t have time to reply to your email properly before then. He has almost no clean clothes left by now. He’s wearing a grey T-shirt, black jeans and dirty white trainers. In his backpack: various lightly soiled clothes, one clean white T-shirt, an empty plastic bottle for water, clean underwear, a rolled-up phone charger, his passport, two packets of generic paracetamol, a very beaten-up copy of a James Salter novel, and for Marianne, an edition of Frank O’Hara’s selected poems he found in an English-language bookshop in Berlin. One soft-covered grey notebook.