by John Boyne
“Hey,” I said as he looked up. “How is he?”
He nodded toward the seats in the waiting room and we sat down. “He’s dying,” he said, reaching out and placing a hand on top of my own. “His CD4 count is as low as I’ve ever seen. He’s got pneumonia and his internal organs are failing. We’ve made him as comfortable as we can but there’s really nothing more that we can do for him now. It’s only a matter of time. I wasn’t sure he’d even make it till you got here.”
I felt a great burst of grief building inside myself and struggled to contain my emotions. I had known this was coming over the last few days, of course, but had had little time to prepare myself.
“Can I call Alice?” I asked. “Bring the phone to him?”
“No,” he said. “I’ve asked him and he doesn’t want it.”
“But maybe if he hears her voice—”
“Cyril, no. It’s his life. It’s his death. It’s his choice.”
“All right,” I said. “Is there anyone in there with him now?”
“Shaniqua,” he said. “She said she’d stay with him till you got here.”
I made my way toward Room 703 and tapped quickly on the door before pushing it open. Julian was lying on his back in the bed, his breathing heavy, and when Shaniqua saw me she stood up.
“He drifts in and out,” she said quietly. “You want me to stay here with you until it’s over?”
“No,” I said. “I’d prefer if you left us alone. But thanks.”
She nodded and left, closing the door quietly behind her, and I sat down on the chair next to the bed, watching him as his breath came in short bursts. He was so skinny that he was almost frightening to look at but somewhere beneath that scarred face lay the boy that I had once known, the boy that I had loved, the boy in the ornamental chair in Dartmouth Square, the boy whose friendship I had betrayed. I reached out to him, taking his hand in mine, and the sensation of his paper-thin skin, clammy and tender against my palm, unsettled me. He mumbled something and, after a moment, he opened his eyes and smiled.
“Cyril,” he said. “Did you forget something?”
“What do you mean?”
“You were just here. You just left.”
I shook my head. “That was a few days ago, Julian. I’ve come back to see you.”
“Oh. I thought it was earlier. Did you see Behan?”
“Who?”
“Brendan Behan. He’s over there by the bar. We should get him a pint in.”
I looked away for a moment and waited until I had full control of my emotions.
“We’re not in the Palace Bar anymore,” I said quietly. “We’re not in Dublin. We’re in New York. You’re in hospital.”
“That’s right” he said, as if he was simply humoring me.
“Is there anything I can do for you, Julian? Anything I can do to help you?”
He blinked a few times and looked back at me with a little more awareness in his eyes. “What was I just saying?” he asked me. “Was I talking nonsense?”
“You’re confused, that’s all.”
“I seem to have moments of clarity and moments when I don’t know what’s happening. It’s a strange thing to know that you’re living your last hour on earth.”
“Don’t say that—”
“It’s true, though. I can feel it. And Dr. Van den Bergh said as much to me earlier. He’s the one, isn’t he? Your boyfriend?”
I nodded, glad that he didn’t sound as if he was putting quotation marks around the word this time. “That’s him,” I said. “Bastiaan. He’s outside if you need him.”
“I don’t need him,” he said. “He’s done all he can. He seems like a good man.”
“He is.”
“Too good for you.”
“Probably.”
He tried to laugh but the effort caused him a lot of pain and I saw a terrible expression of suffering cross his face.
“Take it easy,” I said. “Just relax.”
“I’ve been lying in this bed for weeks,” he said. “How much more relaxed can I get?”
“Maybe you shouldn’t talk.”
“All I have left is talk. If I don’t speak, then I might as well give up. I’m glad you came, really I am. Did I insult you last time you were here?”
“I deserved it,” I told him.
“Probably. But I’m glad you came back. There is something you can do for me. After I’m gone, I mean.”
“Of course,” I said. “Anything you want.”
“I need you to tell Alice.”
I closed my eyes, my heart sinking in my chest. This was one thing I really didn’t want to do.
“There’s still time,” I said. “Time for you to talk to her.”
“I don’t want that. I want you to tell her. After I’m gone.”
“Are you sure I’m the right person for that?” I asked him. “It’s been fourteen years, after all. I don’t think the first time I speak to her since our wedding day should be to call to tell her that…to tell her…”
“Someone has to do it,” he insisted. “That’s your penance. Tell her that I didn’t want her to see me like this, but that you were by my side at the end and I was thinking of her. There’s a diary in the locker drawer next to you. You’ll find her number in there.”
“I don’t know if I can,” I said, feeling the tears starting to roll down my cheeks.
“If it’s not you, then it will be some anonymous Garda knocking on her door,” he said. “And that’s not what I want. And that’s not what you want. He won’t be able to tell her how it ended, how I felt about her, but you will. I need you to tell her that she was the best person I ever knew. And to tell Liam that my life would have been a lot emptier without his presence in it. That I loved them both and that I’m sorry for all of this. Will you do that for me, Cyril? Please, I’ve never asked you for anything but I’m asking you for this. And you can’t deny a dying man his last wish.”
“All right,” I said. “If it’s what you want.”
“It is.”
“Then I promise I’ll do it.”
We sat in silence for a long time, punctuated only by the occasional expression of pain from Julian as he twisted uncomfortably in the bed.
“Will you tell me about him?” I asked finally.
“About who?”
“About Liam. About my son.”
“He’s not your son,” he said, shaking his head. “Biologically, yes. But that’s the only way.”
“What’s he like?”
“He’s like his mother. Although everyone says he looks like me. But his personality is very different. He’s shy. He’s quiet. He’s more like you in that way.”
“Were you close to him?”
“He’s the closest thing I ever had to a son,” he said, starting to cry. “Which is ironic, really.”
“Is he happy?” I asked. “Does he have adventures like we had?”
“We had some, didn’t we?” he said, smiling.
“We did,” I replied.
“Remember when you got kidnapped by the IRA?” he said. “That was some afternoon.”
I shook my head. “No, Julian,” I said. “That wasn’t me, that was you.”
“Me?”
“Yes.”
“I got kidnapped?”
“Yes.”
“Why? What had I done to them?”
“Nothing,” I told him. “They hated your father. They wanted him to pay a ransom.”
“And did he pay it?”
“No.”
“Typical Max. They cut off my ear,” he said, reaching a hand up to his face, but the effort was too much and he put it back above the sheets.
“They did,” I told him. “Fucking animals.”
“I remember now,” he said. “They were very nice to me most of the time. Except when they were cutting bits of me off. I told them I liked Mars Bars and one of them went out and got me a whole box of them. He put them in the fridge to keep them cold. I gre
w friendly with him, I think. I can’t remember his name.”
“You visited him in prison,” I said. “I thought you were crazy.”
“Did I ever tell you that they nearly cut my dick off?”
“No,” I said, uncertain whether this was something that had really happened or something he was misremembering in his delirium.
“It’s true,” he said. “The night before the Gardaí found me. They said that I had a choice. That they’d either pop one of my eyes out or cut my dick off. They told me I could choose which.”
“Jesus,” I said.
“I mean I would have said my eye, of course. Probably the one on the other side to the missing ear, just to balance things out. But can you imagine if they had cut my dick off? I wouldn’t be lying here right now, would I? None of this would have happened.”
“That’s one way of looking at it,” I said.
“They would have saved my life.”
“Maybe.”
“No, you’re right. I’d be dead already because I’d probably have killed myself if they’d cut my dick off. There’s no way I would have gone through my life dickless. It’s amazing, isn’t it, how one small part of our anatomy completely controls our lives?”
“Small?” I said, raising an eyebrow. “Speak for yourself.”
He laughed and nodded. “That first day we met,” he said. “You took me up to your bedroom and asked to look at mine. Remember that? I should have known then. I should have guessed your dirty little secret.”
“I didn’t,” I insisted. “All these years you’ve been saying that but it never happened. It was you who wanted to look at mine.”
“No,” he said. “I can’t imagine that. I wouldn’t have been interested.”
“You were obsessed with sex right from the start.”
“Well, that’s true. I used to fancy your mother, you know.”
“You never knew my mother. Neither did I.”
“Of course I did. Maude.”
“She was my adoptive mother.”
“Oh that’s right,” he said, waving the distinction away. “You always insisted on that.”
“It was them who insisted on it. From the day they brought me home. And you didn’t really fancy her, did you? She was old enough to be your adoptive mother too.”
“I did. Older women were never really my thing, but Maude was something else. And she fancied me too. She once told me that I was the most beautiful boy she’d ever seen in her life.”
“She did not. That doesn’t even sound like her.”
“Believe what you like.”
“You were seven.”
“That’s what she told me.”
“Jesus,” I said, shaking my head. “Sometimes I think my life would have been a lot better if I had never felt any sexual desire at all.”
“You can’t live like a eunuch. No one can. If the IRA had cut my dick off, I’d have put a bullet in my head. Do you think this is a punishment for all the things I’ve done?”
“Not for a moment,” I said.
“I was watching the news,” he said. “There were people on, congressmen, saying that people who developed AIDS were—”
“Don’t even pay attention to those fuckers,” I said. “They know nothing. They’re despicable human beings. You were unlucky, that’s all. Everyone who passes through this floor has been unlucky. There’s nothing more to it than that.”
“I suppose,” he said with a sigh, before letting out a cry of pain.
“Julian!” I said, leaping to my feet.
“I’m OK,” he said.
But then, before he could relax again, he let out another cry and I jumped up, making for the door to get Bastiaan.
“Don’t,” he said. “Don’t leave me, Cyril, please.”
“But if I call a doctor—”
“Don’t leave me. There’s nothing they can do.”
I nodded and came back around to the chair, sitting down and taking his hand in mine again.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “For everything I ever did to you and Alice that you thought was deceitful. I’m truly sorry. If I could go back, if I could be the man I am now but be young again—”
“It’s in the past,” he said, his eyes starting to close. “And what would it have helped Alice to have spent her life married to you? At least she’s got laid occasionally over the years.”
I smiled.
“I’m going,” he whispered after a moment. “Cyril, I’m going. I can feel myself going.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to say Don’t, to say Fight it, to say Stay, but I said nothing. The disease was finally winning.
“I loved you,” I said, leaning in to him. “You were my best friend.”
“I loved you too,” he whispered and then, a startled expression on his face, he said, “I can’t see you.”
“I’m here.”
“I can’t see you. It’s just darkness.”
“I’m here, Julian. I’m here. Can you hear me?”
“I hear you. But I can’t see you. Will you hold me?”
I was already holding his hand and squeezed it a little to make sure he knew that I was there.
“No,” he said. “Hold me. I want to be held again. Just one more time.”
I hesitated, uncertain what he meant, and then released his hand and walked around to the other side of the bed, lying down next to him, my arms wrapping themselves around his thin, trembling frame. How many times throughout my youth had I dreamed of such a moment and now all I could do was bury my face in his back and weep.
“Cyril…” whispered Julian.
“Just let go,” I whispered back.
“Alice…” he said as his body relaxed into my embrace, and I held him for what felt like a very long time, even though it was probably no more than a couple of minutes, as his breathing began to slow down and eventually fade away. I held him until Bastiaan came in and checked the monitor and told me that it was over, that Julian was gone, and I continued to hold him for a few more minutes until it was time to stand up and let the nurses do their job. And then we took the elevator down to the ground floor, left the hospital and Bastiaan raised a hand to hail a cab, and in that moment I made the biggest mistake of my life.
“No,” I said. “The rain has stopped. Let’s walk. I need some fresh air.”
And so we started to walk home.
Central Park
We walked in silence across the avenues and into Central Park.
“I forgot his address book,” I said, stopping in the middle of one of the tree-lined pathways. “I left it in his bedside locker.”
“Do you need it?” asked Bastiaan.
“I promised I’d phone Alice. His sister. I have to tell her.”
“You can get it tomorrow. His personal items will be collected.”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “No, I have to tell her tonight. We have to go back.”
“It’s late,” said Bastiaan. “And you’re upset. Wait until tomorrow.”
I started to shake with the cold and before I knew it I was weeping uncontrollable tears.
“Hey,” said Bastiaan, pulling me to him and wrapping his arms around me. “Don’t cry. I’m here for you. I’ll always be here for you. I love you.”
And then a voice called out: “Hey, faggots!”
And I turned around to see three men running toward us.
But I don’t remember anything else after that.
PART III
PEACE
1994 Fathers and Sons
One of Them
During the early 1950s, when my adoptive father Charles had first spent time as a guest of the Irish government in Mountjoy Prison, I had never been allowed to visit. Of course, I was just a child at the time and Maude had no interest in the three of us undertaking any embarrassing or cathartic reunion behind bars, but the idea of entering a prison had intrigued me ever since a seven-year-old Julian had revealed to me how Max had permitted him to sit in with
him while he conferred with a client who’d murdered his wife. To the best of my knowledge, Maude never visited either, despite weekly visiting orders coming her way. Rather than discarding them, she made a point of keeping each one, creating a neat pile on the telephone stand by the front door of our small apartment, and when I once asked her whether she was ever going to use one of those precious tickets for their intended purpose, she responded by slowly removing the cigarette from her mouth and extinguishing it in the center of the pile.
“Does that answer your question?” she asked, turning to me with a half-smile.
“Well, perhaps I could visit,” I suggested, and she frowned as she opened her cigarette case to remove her sixty-fourth smoke of the day.
“What a strange thing to say,” she replied. “Why on earth would you want to do something so perverse?”
“Because Charles is my father. And he might welcome the company.”
“Charles is not your father,” she insisted. “He’s your adoptive father. We’ve told you that time and again. You mustn’t get ideas, Cyril.”
“Still, a friendly face—”
“I don’t think you do have a friendly face, though. To be honest, I’ve always thought you have a rather sour countenance. It’s something you might want to work on.”
“Someone he knows then.”
“I’m sure he’s getting to know plenty of people,” she said, lighting up. “From what I understand, there’s a great sense of community in prisons. A man like Charles will probably do very well for himself in there. He’s never had any difficulty ingratiating himself with strangers in the past. No, it’s out of the question, I’m afraid. I simply couldn’t allow it.”
And so I had never gone. But this time, during Charles’s second experience behind bars, I was a grown man, almost fifty years of age, and needed no one’s permission. So when the visiting order arrived, I felt quite excited by the prospect of seeing how the criminal classes were treated.
It was a fine Dublin morning and, although I was no longer able to undertake very long walks because of my leg, I decided that a few kilometers would be all right and took my crutch from where it hung next to the front door before making my way down Pearse Street to cross the Liffey over O’Connell Street Bridge, remaining on the left-hand side of the street as I always did in order to avoid the area near Clerys department store where I had once inadvertently caused the deaths of both Mary-Margaret Muffet and a hard-working, if homophobic, member of An Garda Síochána. Nelson’s Pillar was long gone, of course. After the IRA had toppled the admiral from his pedestal, the remaining structure had been taken down in a controlled explosion that had been so ineptly planned that it had blown out half the windows of the shops on O’Connell Street, causing thousands of pounds’ worth of damage. But the memories remained and I didn’t care to relive them.