by John Boyne
“You really shouldn’t do that,” I said. “It’s terribly rude.”
“It’s the only way to get their attention,” she said. “Ever since Mrs. Goggin retired this place has gone to the dogs.”
A few moments later, one of the waitresses walked over with a world-weary expression on her face.
“Is there a problem with your fingers?” she asked. “They seem to be making a terrible racket.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said to the woman, whose name tag said Jacinta.
“Be a dear,” said my companion, touching her on the arm, “and get us two teas, would you? Nice and hot, there’s a good girl.”
“You can get your own tea,” replied Jacinta. “You know where it’s kept. Are you new to the place?”
“I am not,” said the TD, appalled. “I’m on my second term.”
“Then you should know how things work. And what are you doing sitting over here anyway? Who put you here?”
“What do you mean who put me here?” she asked, sounding half-outraged and half-insulted. “Sure don’t I have the right to sit where I want?”
“You sit where you’re told. Get back to the Fianna Fáil seats and don’t be making a show of yourself.”
“I will not, you rude little pup. Mrs. Goggin would never let you speak to me like this if she was here.”
“I am Mrs. Goggin,” said Jacinta. “Or the new Mrs. Goggin anyway. So you can help yourself to tea over there if you like. And if not, don’t expect any to be brought to you. And next time, sit where you’re supposed to sit or don’t come in at all.”
And with that she marched off, leaving my new TD friend looking shocked.
“Well, I never did!” she said. “Such rudeness! And I’ve been on my feet all day trying to provide a better life for the working classes like her. Did you see the speech I gave earlier?”
“You can’t see a speech,” I said. “You can only hear one.”
“Oh, don’t be so pedantic, you know what I mean.”
I sighed. “Was there something I could help you with?” I asked. “Is it a library issue? If so, I’ll be back there at two o’clock. In the meantime.” I picked up the Toibín again, hoping that I could get back to it. I was at a good, dirty bit and didn’t want to abandon the mood.
“You can, Cecil,” she said.
“Cyril.”
“Cyril,” she said, shaking her head quickly. “I’ll have to get that straight in my head. Cyril. Cyril the Squirrel.”
I rolled my eyes. “Please don’t say that,” I said.
“Am I right in thinking that you’re a widower?” she asked, grinning like the Cheshire cat.
“No, you’re wrong,” I said. “Actually, I’m divorced.”
“Oh,” she replied, looking a little disappointed. “I had hoped that your wife might be dead.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” I told her. “But no, Alice is alive and well and living in Dartmouth Square.”
“She’s not dead?”
“Not the last time I checked. I had lunch with her on Sunday and she was in fine fettle. Full of insults.”
“You did what?”
“I had lunch with her on Sunday.”
“Why did you do that?”
I stared at her, wondering where on earth this conversation was going. “We often meet for lunch on a Sunday,” I said. “It’s a pleasant thing to do.”
“Oh right,” she said. “Just the two of you, was it?”
“No, her and her husband, Cyril II. And me.”
“Cyril II?”
“Sorry, I mean Cyril.”
“You met your ex-wife for lunch with her new husband, who has the same name as you, is that what you’re telling me?”
“I think you have it now.”
“Well, if you ask me, that’s just peculiar.”
“Is it? I don’t see why.”
“Do you mind if I ask when you got divorced?”
“I don’t mind at all.”
“So when was it?” she asked.
“Oh, a few years ago now. When the legislation first came in. Alice couldn’t get rid of me quick enough, to be honest. As far as I understand, we were one of the first couples to take advantage of the new law.”
“That’s not a good sign,” she said. “You must have had a very unhappy marriage.”
“Not particularly.”
“So why did you get divorced?”
“Do you know, I don’t think that’s any of your business.”
“Oh don’t be so defensive, we’re all friends here.”
“We’re not though, are we?”
“We will be when I change your life.”
“Maybe this conversation was a bad idea,” I said.
“No, it wasn’t,” she replied. “Don’t be worrying, Cecil. Cyril. Look, you’re divorced. I won’t hold it against you.”
“That’s very kind of you.”
“Do you mind if I ask if you’re seeing anyone at the moment?”
“I don’t mind at all.”
“So are you?” she asked.
“Am I what?”
“Seeing anybody?”
“In a romantic sense?”
“Yes.”
“Why, do you have a crush on me?”
“Would you get away with yourself!” she said, bursting out laughing. “Sure amn’t I a Fianna Fáil TD and you’re just a librarian! Plus, I have a husband at home and three children who are training to be doctors, lawyers and PE teachers. Well, one of each, if you get my meaning.”
“I do,” I said.
“So are you?”
“Am I what?”
“Seeing anybody?”
“No,” I replied.
“I didn’t think so.”
“Any particular reason?”
“Any particular reason what?”
“Any particular reason why you didn’t think I would be seeing anyone?”
“Well, I never see you with anyone, do I?”
“No,” I said. “But there again, this is a workplace. I’m not likely to be bringing someone into the book stacks for a little afternoon delight, am I?”
“Would you get away, you,” she said, laughing as if I’d made the funniest joke ever. “You’re an awful man!”
“We’re all friends here,” I said.
“We are. Now listen to me, Cecil.”
“Cyril.”
“I’ll tell you why I’m asking. I have a sister. A lovely woman.”
“How could she not be?”
“Her husband was knocked down and killed by a bus a few years ago.”
“Right,” I said. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head quickly. “Don’t get me wrong. Not a regular CIÉ bus. A private bus.”
“Of course.”
“He was killed instantly.”
“The poor man.”
“Well, he’d always been complaining about his health and none of us ever took a bit of notice of him. It just goes to show, doesn’t it?”
“It does.”
“Anyway, after the funeral, we went to the Shelbourne.”
“I got married in the Shelbourne.”
“Let’s not talk about that. Your past is your own business.”
“I’m glad you’re not prying,” I said.
“So my sister is a widow and she’s on the lookout for a nice man. She can’t bear life on her own. She was in here to see me a couple of weeks ago and she caught sight of you in the library and she thought you were terribly handsome. She came over to me and Angela, she said, Angela, who’s that terribly handsome man over there?”
I gave her a skeptical look. “Really?” I said. “I don’t hear that very often these days. I’m fifty-six years old, you know. Are you sure she wasn’t talking about someone else?”
“Oh no, it was definitely you, because I looked over and I couldn’t believe she was talking about you either so I made her point you out. But it really was y
ou.”
“I’m flattered,” I said.
“Don’t let it go to your head. My sister would be any man’s fancy. And I told her all about you and I think you’re a perfect match.”
“I’m not so sure,” I said.
“Cyril. Cecil. Cyril. Let me lay my cards on the table.”
“Go for it,” I said.
“When Peter died—that was my brother-in-law—he left my sister very well looked after. She has her own house in Blackrock and there’s no mortgage on it. And she has an apartment in Florence that she visits every few months and rents out the rest of the time.”
“Lucky her,” I said.
“And I know all about you.”
“What do you know?” I asked. “Because something tells me that you really don’t.”
“I know that you’re a multi-millionaire.”
“Ah,” I said.
“You’re Maude Avery’s son, aren’t you?”
“Adoptive son.”
“But you inherited all her estate? And her royalties.”
“I did,” I admitted. “I suppose that’s common knowledge.”
“So you’re rich. You don’t have to work. And yet you come in here every day and work anyway.”
“I do.”
“Do you mind if I ask why?”
“I don’t mind at all.”
“So why do you?” she asked.
“Because I enjoy it,” I said. “It gets me out of the house. I don’t want to sit at home, staring at the four walls every day, watching daytime television.”
“But that’s my point,” she said. “You’re a hard worker. You don’t need money. You certainly don’t need her money. That’s why I think you’d be a perfect match.”
“I’m not sure we would be,” I repeated.
“Now hold on, there’s a good man, don’t say another thing until you’ve seen her picture.” She reached into her handbag and took out a photo of a woman who looked just like her and I took to be her sister. I wondered whether they might even be twins, they looked that alike. “That’s Brenda,” she told me. “Isn’t she beautiful?”
“Stunning,” I agreed.
“So will I give you her number?”
“I don’t think so,” I said.
“Why not?” she asked, sitting back, preparing to be insulted. “Amn’t I after telling you that you’d be perfect for each other?”
“I’m sure your sister is very nice,” I said. “But to be honest with you, I’m not looking for a girlfriend at the moment. Or, in fact, at any moment.”
“Oh,” she said. “Are you still hung up on your ex-wife, is that it?”
“No,” I said. “Definitely not.”
“Your ex-wife has moved on to a different Cecil.”
“Cyril,” I said. “And I’m happy for her. We’re good friends, the three of us.”
“But you’re trying to win her back?”
“I’m really not.”
“So what is it then? You can’t be telling me that you don’t find Brenda attractive?”
“I don’t,” I said. “Sorry. She’s just not my type.”
At that moment, I heard a shout from one of the Fine Gael tables and looked over to see a small group of TDs who had previously been chatting over their cream buns and coffees, turning their heads to look at the television that hung on the wall in the corner of the tearoom. The sound was muted but I turned to look at it too and the more that people looked that way, the more the conversation in the room quieted down.
“Turn that up, would you?” called one of the men, and Jacinta, the waitress who had replaced Mrs. Goggin as manageress, reached for the remote control and turned up the volume as we watched a plane disappear into the heart of the World Trade Center over and over again, on what seemed like an endless repeat.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” said the TD. “What’s going on there, do you suppose?”
“That’s New York,” I said.
“It is not.”
“It is. It’s the World Trade Center. The Twin Towers.”
I stood up and walked slowly over toward the television as the TDs around us did the same thing, and when the coverage moved back to a live feed and another plane flew toward the second tower, burying itself inside it, we let out a groan of horror and stared at each other, not quite understanding what was going on.
“I better get back to my office,” she said, picking up her silent pager. “The Taoiseach might need me.”
“I doubt that he will.”
“I’ll come back to you about Brenda another time. Remember, you’re perfect for each other.”
“Right,” I said, barely listening to her. The people on Sky News were talking about a terrible accident but then one of the guests asked how it could be an accident when it had happened twice. It must be hijackers, someone said. Or terrorists. From outside the tearoom, I could see the TDs running back and forth, going back to their offices or in search of a television set. It wasn’t long before the room was half full.
“I’ve never been on a plane in my life,” said Jacinta, coming over to stand next to me. “And I never will either.”
I turned to her in surprise. “Are you frightened of them?” I asked.
“Wouldn’t you be? After seeing that?”
I looked back at the screen. Reports were starting to come in that a third plane had crashed into the Pentagon in Washington and somehow there were already cameras on the streets of the capital, from the White House to the Senate Office Buildings, from the Mall to the Lincoln Memorial. A few minutes later, there was a live feed from the streets of New York, where I could see people running down the streets of Manhattan like something out of a cheesy Hollywood disaster movie.
Another switch and now a different reporter was standing in Central Park at exactly the same location where Bastiaan and I had been walking fourteen years earlier and suffered our attack. An involuntary cry came from my mouth as I saw it—I hadn’t been there or seen it since that terrible night—and Jacinta touched my shoulder.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“It’s that place,” I said, pointing at the screen. “I know it. My…my best friend was murdered right there.”
“Stop watching it,” she said, pulling me away. “Why don’t you take a cup of tea with you and go back downstairs to the library and drink it in peace. There’ll be no one in there for the rest of the day, I daresay. They’ll all be watching this.”
I nodded and turned back to the counter as she made the tea. I was moved that she was being so kind to me. She had learned well, I thought, from Mrs. Goggin.
“It’s not easy losing someone,” she said. “It never goes away, does it?”
“The Phantom Pain, they call it,” I said. “Like amputees get when they can still feel their missing limbs.”
“I expect so,” she said, and then she gasped and I turned to look back at the television, where a series of black dots seemed to be falling from the windows of the buildings. The pictures quickly cut back to the studio, where both reporters looked shocked.
“Was that what I think it was?” I asked, turning back to her. “Were there people jumping from the windows?”
“I’m going to turn it off,” she called out to the people gathered beneath the set, watching it.
“No!” they cried, gobbling up the drama.
“I’m the manageress,” she insisted. “And what I say in this tearoom goes. I’m turning it off and if you want to keep watching you can find another television set somewhere in the building.” And with that she reached for the remote, pressed the red button in the top right-hand corner and the screen went black. There was a roar of annoyance from the crowd, but they quickly scattered back to their offices or the local pubs, leaving us in silence.
“Ghouls,” she said as she watched their departing backs. “The types that slow down when they see an accident on the motorway. I won’t have people using this room to stare at someone else’s misfortune.”
“Go on then,” she said finally, looking at me with disappointment in her eyes. “I know you’re only itching to get out of here.”
The Unspeakables
Christmas morning. The roads into town were practically empty and the snow that we’d been promised hadn’t materialized. The taxi driver, surprisingly cheerful considering he was sitting behind the wheel of his car rather than at home opening presents and knocking back the Baileys with his family, was flicking between radio stations.
“Nothing serious, I hope?” he asked me, and I caught his eye in the rearview mirror.
“What’s that?”
“Whoever you’re visiting in hospital. Nothing serious, is it?”
I shook my head. “No, it’s good news,” I told him. “My son and his wife are having a baby.”
“Ah that’s great news. Their first, is it?”
“Second. They have a three-year-old boy, George.”
I glanced out the window as we stopped at a red light. A little girl was cycling a brand-new bicycle with a broad smile on her face and wearing a shiny blue helmet as her father trotted along beside her, shouting words of encouragement. She wobbled a little but managed to steer in a relatively straight line and the pride on the man’s face was something to behold. I might have been a good father. I might have been a positive force in Liam’s life. But at least I had the grandchildren, Ignac’s four and Liam’s one. And now there was another on the way.
“They should call the child Jesus,” said the taxi driver.
“What’s that?”
“Your son and his wife,” he said. “They should call the child Jesus. On account of the day that he’s born.”
“Yeah,” I said “Probably not.”
“I’ve got ten grandchildren myself,” he continued. “And three of them are in the ’Joy. Best place for them. Vicious little bastards, each one. I blame the parents.”
I looked down at my shoes, hoping to discourage him from further conversation, and soon enough the hospital loomed into sight. I reached into my pocket for a ten-euro note, handing it over as he pulled up outside, and wished him a happy Christmas. In the lobby I looked around, hoping to see someone I recognized, and when I didn’t I took my phone from my pocket and rang Alice.