Happy People Read and Drink Coffee

by Agnes Martin-Lugand

  This was turning out to be a good start.

  “Abby, I’m very sorry, I . . .”

  She burst out laughing.

  “Relax, for Heaven’s sake! It was a joke. It’s just how I am. There’s no obligation to go with me on Sunday mornings. On the other hand, one piece of advice: never forget that we’re Irish, not English.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  She quickly continued her guided tour. Upstairs, my bathroom and bedroom. I’d be able to lie sideways across my bed; it was an extra-large king size. Normal in the land of giants.

  “Abby,” I cut in, “thank you. It’s perfect. I have everything I’ll need.”

  “Forgive my enthusiasm, but I’m so happy that someone is going to live in the cottage during the winter; I’ve really been looking forward to having you here. I’ll let you get settled in.”

  I walked her out. She climbed onto her bike and turned toward me.

  “Come and have a coffee with us. We’re on the other end of Mulranny; you have my address. You’ll meet Jack.”

  On my first night, as a welcome gesture, a storm broke out. The wind raged, rain lashed against the windows, the roof creaked. Impossible to get to sleep in spite of my weariness and the comfortable bed. I thought back about the day I’d had.

  Emptying my car was even more of a task than loading it up; my suitcases were scattered all over the living room. I’d been this close to giving up when I’d realized I had nothing to eat. I hurried into the little kitchen. The cabinets and fridge were full to bursting. Abby surely must have told me and I hadn’t thanked her. Shameful. How rude of me. I’d certainly run into her some day to apologize. As she’d said, Mulranny was a really small place: one main street, a mini-market, a gas station, and a pub. There was no chance I’d get lost or burn out my credit card in the boutiques.

  The welcome I’d received from my landlady left me puzzled. She seemed to expect some kind of close relationship, which wasn’t at all what I had envisaged. I would put off accepting her invitation as long as I could; I wasn’t here to keep an old couple company and I didn’t want to get to know anyone.

  I held out for a week without leaving the cottage; Abby’s supplies and the cartons of cigarettes I’d brought had kept me going. It had also taken all that time to unpack everything. It was difficult to feel at home, nothing reminded me of my former life. Streetlamps didn’t light up the night and there were none of the noises you hear in the city. When the wind died down, the silence became oppressive. I wished that my neighbors (still away) would hold a big party so the sound would lull me to sleep. The heady aroma of the potpourri was totally different from the smell of the polished parquet floor in our apartment, and the anonymity of the Parisian shopkeepers was definitely very far away.

  I was beginning to regret not having gone out earlier; perhaps I would have avoided everyone staring at me when I went into the mini-market. No need to try to work out what people were saying. Everyone was talking about me—the stranger, the foreigner. The customers turned toward me as I walked past, smiling and nodding at me. A few of them spoke to me. I mumbled some reply. It wasn’t part of my routine to say hello to people I came across in the stores. I slowly walked around the aisles. There was a bit of everything, food, clothes, even souvenirs for tourists. Though I must have been the only madwoman to risk coming here. One thing was a permanent feature: there was stewing mutton on the butcher’s shelves and sheep everywhere, on china cups and in the knitted sweaters and scarves, of course. Here, they raised these little animals for food and clothing. Like they did with mammoths in prehistoric times.

  A hand fell on my arm. “Diane. I’m so happy to run into you,” said Abby. I hadn’t seen her come in.

  I was startled, then said “Hello.”

  “I was thinking of stopping by today. Is everything all right?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Have you found everything you need?”

  “Not really, they don’t have everything I’m looking for.”

  “You mean your baguette and cheese?”

  “Uh . . . I . . .”

  “Hey, I’m just teasing you. Are you done now?”

  “I think so.”

  “Come with me; I’ll introduce you.”

  With a dazzling smile on her face, she grabbed hold of my arm and took me to meet everyone. I hadn’t spoken to so many people in months. Their kindness was almost disturbing. After half an hour of small talk, I finally managed to make my way to the register. I could lock myself away for at least ten days with all of the supplies I’d purchased. Except that I was going to have to go out since I couldn’t find an excuse to refuse Abby’s invitation; I’d simply negotiated a few days to prepare myself.

  My landlords had a nice home. I was comfortably settled on the couch, in front of a large fireplace, with a steaming hot cup of tea in my hand.

  Jack was a giant with a white beard. His calm demeanor tempered his wife’s permanent liveliness. With disconcerting ease, he had poured himself a pint of Guinness at four o’clock in the afternoon. Rugby players who eat mutton and drink stout, I mused, to complete Felix’s description. And the dark ale immediately made me think of Colin.

  In spite of this, I managed to hold up my end of the conversation. I first talked about their dog, Postman Pat, who had jumped all over me when I arrived and who never left my side. Then I talked about the rain and the nice weather—well, mainly about the rain—and how comfortable the cottage was. After that, I started to run out of things to say.

  “Are you from Mulranny?” I finally asked.

  “Yes, but we lived in Dublin until I retired,” Jack replied.

  “What did you do?”

  “He was a doctor,” Abby cut in. “But tell us what you do, that’s far more interesting. And I’m especially curious to know why you would come to bury yourself in this place.”

  Bury myself, exactly; the answer was in the question.

  “I wanted to see some new places.”

  “All alone? How come a pretty girl like you isn’t with someone?”

  “Leave her be,” Jack scolded.

  “It would take too long to explain. Well, I have to get going,” I said, stony-faced.

  I stood up, picked up my jacket and handbag and headed to the door. Abby and Jack followed behind. I’d put a damper on things. I tripped over Postman Pat several times, then he ran outside as soon as the door was opened.

  “Such a big baby must keep you very busy!” I said (and then thought of Clara).

  “Oh, Good Lord, he’s not ours,” Abby told me.

  “Who does he belong to?”

  “Edward. Our nephew. We take care of him when Edward’s away.”

  “He’s your neighbor.”

  I was disappointed. I’d thought that the house next door would remain empty, which suited me down to the ground. I didn’t need any neighbors. I already felt that my landlords were too close by.

  They walked me to my car. The dog started to bark and run around in circles. A black Land Rover spattered with mud had just parked in front of the house, rolling to a halt in front of my car.

  “Well, speak of the devil,” Jack exclaimed.

  “Wait a few minutes,” said Abby, taking my arm to hold me back, “we’ll introduce you.”

  The nephew in question got out of the car. His rugged face and scornful expression made me feel no warmth towards him. Jack and Abby went over to him. He leaned against his car’s door and crossed his arms. The more I looked at him, the more unappealing I found him. He didn’t smile. He reeked of arrogance. The kind of guy who would spend hours in the bathroom to work on looking like a nonchalant adventurer. He made it clear he didn’t want to socialize.

  “Edward, that’s good timing!” Abby said.

  “Oh? Why?”

  “It’s time you met Diane.”

  He finally turned to look at me. He lowered his sunglasses—useless given the mist—and looked me up and down. I had the impression of being a
slab of meat on a counter. And judging from the look he gave me, I didn’t seem to stimulate his appetite.

  “Um, no, not really. Who is she?” he asked, coldly.

  I took it upon myself to remain polite and walked over to him.

  “It seems you’re my neighbor.”

  His face clouded over even more. He stood up straight and turned to my hosts, as if I wasn’t there.

  “I told you I didn’t want anyone next door. How long is she staying?”

  I tapped him on the back as if it were a door. His whole body stiffened. He turned around but I didn’t back off; I stood on tiptoe.

  “You can talk to me directly, you know.”

  He raised one eyebrow, visibly annoyed that I dared speak to him.

  “Don’t come knocking at my door,” he replied, shooting me a look that sent a shiver running through me.

  Without any more ado, he turned around, whistled for his dog and went into the back garden.

  “Don’t you worry about him,” Jack said.

  “He didn’t want us to rent out the cottage but it wasn’t any of his business,” Abby added, “He’s just in a bad mood.”

  “No, he just hasn’t been taught any manners,” I muttered. “See you soon.”

  My car was blocked in by my neighbor’s car. I leaned on the horn without stopping. Abby and Jack burst out laughing before going inside.

  I saw Edward arrive in my rearview mirror. He walked over nonchalantly while smoking a cigarette. He opened the Rover’s back door and let his dog jump in. His deliberate slowness exasperated me; I tapped on steering wheel. Without looking in my direction, he flicked his cigarette butt onto my windshield. His tires screeched as he took off, and a wave of muddy water hit my car. By the time I’d put on the windshield wipers, he was gone. The bastard.

  I had to find a way to avoid getting soaked every time I left the house to get some air. I got caught in the rain again today. First decision, forget using an umbrella, totally pointless since I’d broken four in four days. Second decision, no longer count on the sunshine: it disappeared as quickly as it arrived. Third and final decision, be prepared to go out when it rained, for by the time I’d put on my boots, three sweaters, my coat and a scarf, the rain might have passed, and I would reduce the chance of getting wet. I’d try it out the next time I felt like going out.

  My method worked. That’s what I told myself the first time I sat down on the sand to gaze at the sea. Chance had led me to a good spot, it was if I were alone in the world. I closed my eyes, cradled by the sound of the waves that swept over the beach a few yards away. The wind whipped my skin, bringing tears to my eyes, and my lungs filled with the salty sea air.

  Suddenly, I was knocked backwards. I opened my eyes to find myself staring at Postman Pat; he was licking my face. I had the greatest difficulty in getting up. I was trying to brush off the sand that covered my clothes when the dog took off to the sound of a whistle.

  I looked up. Edward was walking a little farther away. He’d obviously had to pass quite close to me, but he hadn’t stopped to say hello. It wasn’t possible that he hadn’t recognized me. But even if that were the case, anyone whose dog had just jumped on someone would have the manners to come and apologize. I headed for home, having decided to truly tell him off. At the end of the path that led to the cottages, I saw his Land Rover driving towards the village. He wasn’t going to get off so lightly.

  I climbed into my car. I had to find that oaf and make him understand exactly who he was dealing with. I very quickly found his muddy heap parked in front of the pub. I slammed on the brakes, jumped out of the car, and went into the bar like a Fury. I glanced around the room to find my target. Everyone was looking at me. Except for one.

  Yet Edward was there all right, sitting at the counter, alone, leaning over a newspaper, holding a pint of Guinness. I headed straight for him.

  “Just who do you think you are?”

  No response.

  “Look at me when I’m talking to you.”

  He turned the page of his newspaper.

  “Didn’t your parents teach you any manners? No one has ever treated me this way and you’d better apologize right now.”

  I could feel myself turning redder and redder with anger. He still didn’t deign to look up from his stupid paper.

  “That’s enough!” I shouted, grabbing the newspaper from his hands.

  He took a drink of beer, put the pint down and sighed deeply. He clenched his fist so tightly that one of his veins stood out. He stood up and stared straight at me. I wondered if I hadn’t perhaps gone too far. He grabbed a pack of cigarettes from the counter and headed for the smoking area, a terrace out back. He shook a few people’s hands as he walked by without ever saying a word or even smiling.

  The door to the terrace slammed shut. I’d been holding my breath since he’d stood up. The whole pub was silent; the entire male population always met there and had all witnessed the scene. I slumped onto the nearest barstool. Someone had to teach him a lesson sometime or other. The bartender shrugged his shoulders and glanced over at me.

  “Can I have an espresso, please?” I asked.

  “We ain’t got that here.”

  “You don’t have any coffee?”

  “Sure we do.”

  I’d have to work on my accent.

  “Well then, I’d like to have one, please.”

  He smiled and went into a corner of the bar. He put a mug down in front of me: it had filtered, watery coffee in it. So much for my idea of good coffee. I didn’t understand why the bartender was still standing in front of me.

  “Are you going to watch me drink it?”

  “I just want to get paid.”

  “Don’t worry. I intend to pay before I leave.”

  “Here we pay before we start drinking. The English idea of service.”

  “OK, OK.”

  I handed him the money and he gave me my change in a friendly way. Prepared to burn my mouth, I quickly drank my coffee and left. What a strange country: everyone was so nice and welcoming, with the exception of that brute Edward, but you had to pay for your drinks right away. In Paris, that charming bartender would have been put in his place before he knew it. Except that in France, the same bartender wouldn’t have been friendly, he wouldn’t have chatted to you, and as for cracking a smile, dream on.

  I’d gone back to my old ways. I didn’t get dressed anymore, ate whatever was around, whenever I felt like it. I slept for a good part of the day. If I couldn’t fall asleep, I stayed in bed watching the sky and the clouds, nice and warm under my duvet. I sat comatose in front of inane TV shows, which turned into silent movies when they were in Gaelic. I talked to Colin and Clara, staring at their photos. I was living as I had in our apartment, in Paris, but without Felix. And yet, the sense of comfort I desperately longed for remained out of reach. The heaviness in my heart did not diminish; I felt in no way liberated. I didn’t want to do anything, I couldn’t even cry any more. Time passed, and the days seemed to grow longer and longer.

  One morning, instead of staying in bed, I decided to bury myself in the large armchair that looked out onto the beach. After days of staring at the sky, I was going to amuse myself by watching the sea. I gathered together my stock of coffee and cigarettes, wrapped myself in a robe and shoved a cushion behind my head.

  The sound of barking broke through my haze. Edward and his dog were going out. It was the first time I’d seen my neighbor since the incident in the pub. He had a large bag over his shoulder. To see what he was doing better, I moved my armchair closer to the window. He was headed to the beach. His brown hair was even messier than before.

  He disappeared from sight when he went behind a rock. He reappeared half an hour later, put his bag down and started looking for something inside. I would have needed binoculars to know what he was fiddling with. He crouched down; all I could see was his back. He stayed in the same position for a long time.

  My stomach was growling, which remin
ded me that I hadn’t eaten anything since the day before. I went into the kitchen to make myself a sandwich. When I got back into the living room, Edward had gone. My only entertainment for the day was over. I curled up in the armchair and ate my snack, but I had no appetite.

  Hours passed; I didn’t move. I stirred when I saw the lights go out at Edward’s house. He ran outside to go to exactly the same place he’d been that morning. I pulled my robe tighter around my shoulders and went out onto the porch to see him better. I could tell he was holding something in his hands. He held it up to his face and I thought I could make out a camera.

  Edward stayed there for a good hour, and I watched him the whole time. Night had fallen when he came back from the beach. I just had enough time to crouch down so he wouldn’t see me. I waited a few minutes before going back inside.

  My neighbor was a photographer. For the past week I’d synchronized my days with his. He came out at different times, always with his camera. He paced up and down the entire bay of Mulranny. He could remain still for hours at a time and never reacted to the rain or wind that sometimes battered him.

  Thanks to my stakeout, I’d learned a lot. He was even more of an addict than I was: he smoked constantly. His appearance, on the day we first met, was in no way exceptional; he was always unkempt. He never spoke to anyone, never had anyone over to his house. I’d never seen him glance in my direction. Conclusion: this guy was completely self-centered. He gave no thought to anything or anyone, apart from his photos—always the same wave, always the same sand. He was very predictable; I didn’t need to wonder where he was for long. Depending on what time it was, he would be at one rock or the other.

  One morning, I hadn’t looked out the window to check he was there. But the more time that passed, the stranger I found it that I couldn’t even hear his dog barking, because he followed him everywhere. To my great surprise, I saw that his Land Rover was gone. Suddenly, I thought of Felix; I hadn’t called him since I’d left, a month and a half ago; it was time. I grabbed my cell phone and found his number in the contacts.

  “Felix, it’s Diane,” I said, when he picked up.