Being a good Northern protestant, I didn’t cross the border until I was about twenty years old, and had my first serious girl friend. We would go to Jury’s Hotel for naughty weekends. There wasn’t much in the way of night life back then, and eating out consisted mostly of going to Captain America’s burger bar in Grafton Street, which we considered to be the height of sophistication. For some reason we were also much taken with the prairie dogs in Dublin Zoo. Dublin also had the only McDonalds in Ireland, because they were too frightened, and with good reason, to open on the other side of the border. It felt like going to another country then, and although we’re all a lot closer now, it still very definitely feels like another country. But that may be because I don’t talk to anyone, you know, in case they’re a nutter.
Madeleine. Like Seine
by Shelley Silas
A CREAM-COLOURED TABLECLOTH is covered with six of everything, crystal wine glasses and matching tumblers for water. Tonight the bottled variety will be available, all the way from Tipperary to the bay, sparkling and still. Usually only tap water is on offer.
There are lines of shiny cutlery. An uncut loaf of white bread rests under a square of silk, Hebrew words carefully painted across it. Everything has been set with care and precision.
It is a bit strange, Bernie thinks, to be here, in Dublin with a table set for Shabbat dinner. Strange, because the people who live in this house are not Jewish. Bernie is. They are doing this for him, to make him feel at home. Except in his home he does nothing, he observes nothing. He occasionally eats pork, reserves bacon for weekends. He enjoys the whole process of peeling prawns, dipping his hands in bowls of lemon water, or, if they are not provided, sucking away the detritus from his fingers. And he probably uses his car more on a Saturday than any other day of the week. And, as for women, he has never tasted of his own, never found a girl he wants to take home, show off to his mother. Such is his commitment to being a Jew.
He counts the place settings again, six people, he knows who three of them are.
Larry Martin, in bare feet, walks softly into the room, chewing gum, more mid-American than middle-class English.
‘Relax,’ he says, ‘help yourself to whatever you want, the others will be here soon.’
Larry Martin, aged sixty-one at his last birthday two months ago, tall and lean, his sandy hair unkempt and bountiful, not a strand of grey showing. He stares out through floor-to-ceiling back doors of glass, stares out at the garden, Bernie’s reflection clear and still, behind his own. Larry stares at the copper-coloured mounds that have gathered during the day, swept into corners by a strong easterly wind. Tomorrow he will clear them away, tomorrow he will rake and sweep and make tidy. For now he simply stares at the task ahead, as if willing and hoping that, by magic, come morning his work will be done.
‘Er, who are the others?’ Bernie asks, wondering if it’s rude to want to know who else will be sitting at the dinner table.
‘Your flatmates, lodgers, city dwellers,’ Larry says, then laughs. ‘My wife, the kids.’ He corrects himself. ‘Hardly kids.’
Bernie counts, five people in total. Five not six.
‘Oh, and a friend,’ Larry says, ‘we thought she’d like you. Now excuse me while I get ready otherwise Madeleine will have a go at me for being late.’ Larry pronounces Madeleine so it rhymes with Seine. Bernie repeats it in his head, under his breath, so it will come naturally when he finally meets her. He knows she is ten years younger than Larry, he knows she is attractive, in a way that only red heads can be. She’s like Maureen O’Hara, his mother said. But Bernie doesn’t know who Maureen O’Hara is.
Upstairs the shower pumps away. A radio is switched on, the sound suddenly muted as a door closes on Larry’s ablutions. Bernie looks at the table and hears Larry’s words again, about the woman, the friend. Larry didn’t say “we thought you’d like her,” he said “we thought she’d like you”.
He hopes Larry has not invested in a round piece of fabric that he will have to place on his head. He hopes they are not expecting him to say the blessing, welcome in the Sabbath. He doesn’t know the words, and there isn’t enough time to download, print and learn by heart. Since his father died three winters ago, his mother has gone to her sister on Friday nights. Takes a bus there and a cab home, or is offered a lift by one of many invited strangers. His aunt has a reputation for gathering the single, the out-of-towners, the nowhere-else-to-go Jews, who sit at her table for festivals and the Sabbath, who allow her to cook for them and supply endless glasses of wine. Bernie thinks this is her way of recreating a family, for she has none of her own, her husband dead for over fifteen years, the absence of children not so much a part of her conversation these days, though the regret is always there. Bernie is always welcome, but he stays away, leaves the women with strangers, leaves the women to wave their arms in the air and light candles and talk of childhood days, young love and their journey to death and the eventual reunion with their husbands, long gone, buried, their memories continued on a daily basis. The sisters have paid for a bench in a local park, with both their husbands’ names inscribed on a narrow brass plaque. To anyone who doesn’t know they were brothers-in-law, the significance of two male names means only one thing. Bernie hasn’t had the heart to mention this oversight to his mother or his aunt. They never visit the park any more, and are unaware of homophobic chalk marks against sunburned wood; anti-gay comments about two men who were totally straight.
Bernie is hungry and there is no sign of any food, proper food, chicken or lamb or vegetables steaming or plump dumplings. That’s what they have here, he thinks, dumplings. Bernie is starving. Help yourself, Larry said, so Bernie takes a green apple from a bowl on the sideboard, washes it and bites. He has already unpacked, left his clothes on hangers inside a shallow wardrobe, his shoes, two pairs, under his bed. He has looked through the book left on his pillow, stick-it notes of places they think he should visit, Malahide and Dublin Castle, the Irish Jewish Museum, which has a red tick beside it. Bernie has already folded back the edges of his own guidebook, has made a list. He’s been here once before, but his interests were different then. He wants to be as much of the city as he can. He will walk and perhaps buy a bicycle, crane and look up at buildings and enjoy his stiff neck, because each second of pain will be a reminder. He will get used to the Euro, find a local pub, make friends, make his house his home. The Liffey will become his river and the Thames a stranger, a tourist he will visit on weekends away. And he will make his students adore him.
Now there is nothing else to do but wait for Larry’s family to arrive. He is, after all, in a stranger’s house. These are, after all, friends of his parents, not his. Bernie pleaded with his mother not to mention his imminent move to Dublin, because he knew this would happen. He knew he would feel obliged to stay with people he didn’t know, in a house that is not walking distance from the places he wants to visit, before the new becomes familiar, before the exciting becomes every day. He told his mother, I’ll stay in a hostel, until I can move into my own flat. He even showed her one he thought she would like, sent her a link to their website. The Abraham House Hostel, ten euro a night, with Wi-Fi and an ensuite, right in the city centre. But Bernie Shaw doesn’t know how to say no. He never has. It’s how he found himself taking a job in Dublin, lecturing to undergraduates on drama and theatre. It’s the reason he is in this house with complete strangers, with a table set for dinner, but no dinner to be smelled or seen, no oven switched on, no sign of anything that he would consider a meal.
With his half-bitten apple, he walks around, spit and juice held back with his tongue. The house is a mess, bags of tools in piles everywhere. His mother forgot to mention the building work, but it’s too late now. It is dark and he is hungry.
He sees photographs of Larry and Madeleine. And now he knows what Maureen O’Hara looks like, or rather what someone who looks like Maureen O’Hara looks like. She with wavy red hair touching the tips of her shoulders, fair face, a mermaid stand
ing close to the bay. Larry in a white straw hat and dark glasses, his arm tight around his wife, her hand resting on his hip. The sky is idyllic blue, the blue of a child’s painting. Bernie smiles at the photos, but he can never understand why people have the need to encase themselves in frames and display them on sideboards and mantelpieces for everyone to see, when the real thing is on offer and so much better. Perhaps, he surmises, the photos are not for their friends but for themselves, to remind them of what was, rather than what is.
Upstairs the pump stops, Larry calls down, ‘Won’t be long.’
Larry met Bernie at Dublin airport, drove and talked Bernie all the way here. Luckily for Larry, Bernie is a good listener, he knows when to ask questions; in truth he would rather talk about others than himself. Larry made proper coffee and offered him cake, made with apples from the garden, cooked and frozen. Madeleine, he says, is a good baker. They ate and chatted about Bernie’s parents then Larry took him to his room. It is debris-free, away from most of the refurbishment, but he must share a bathroom, which he doesn’t mind. Only the kitchen-come-dining room is complete.
While Bernie has been walking around, the ground beneath his feet has become warm. He realises it is under-floor heating, rising through his shoes. He slips them off, wriggles his toes. Today he wears a pair of just bought socks, black and silky, he likes the feel on his skin. In a month, or two if he’s lucky, holes will appear, for now they are complete. It is six o’clock on a Friday afternoon. Bernie has been in the house for two hours. It feels like two days.
He finds a TV and switches it on. The local news is always so much more interesting when local is other to your own. Different accents, different maps, he finds it amusing. He is just in time for the weather, cold, rain, possible blue skies and more wind. Tomorrow the leaves will have changed direction. This is what Bernie expects. He has packed a selection of clothes, gloves and one scarf, a warm overcoat, his father’s overcoat, bought just a week before he died. The rest are layers, which he can add to or take off, depending on the temperature. He is generally a warm man.
Larry emerges dressed and smelling sweet. His cheeks the colour of hot shower blush. He wears black suede shoes and dark grey cords, a white shirt, open at the collar. Bernie notices that Larry’s skin, against the brightness of the fabric, is abnormally tanned.
‘Everything OK?’
‘Yeah,’ Bernie says. ‘Fine.’ And he reaches for his shoes.
‘No, you don’t need to put them on, really. Be at home. Mine will come off soon enough. Oh,’ he says, ‘before I forget, is it OK if we use ordinary red wine for the blessing? I remember your father doing it once, when we were over, would that be OK?’
Bernie shrugs, nods. He doesn’t mean to nod, it is an automatic response, it’s what he always does. ‘Great,’ Larry says, ‘we have some shot glasses, I’ll go fill them. I bet you’re wondering where we got the cloth from?’ Bernie is not wondering about the cloth, he is thinking that if he mumbles quickly no one will understand him anyway, if he talks nonsense, drinks wine and bread, in that order he thinks, wine first and then bread (or is it bread and then wine?) He tries to think back, to when his father was alive; his parents’ kitchen, the yellow Formica table, with a leaf at either end. His father sitting at one end, his mother at the other, and Bernie in the middle. Alone. An only child. He can hear his father saying the words, but actions, what about actions? Wine and the bread, he is convinced of this, but he is often wrong, and the pictures won’t come.
‘We have a Jewish friend, she has a couple of these, her daughter makes them.’
Bernie does not respond.
‘Irish Jews, who’d have thought.’
Bernie does not say a word.
‘Chaim Herzog was born in Dublin, you know. He founded the Irish Jewish Museum.’
‘I know,’ Bernie says. He only knows because of the book with the red tick.
‘And Leopold Bloom.’
‘Yeah, but he wasn’t real,’ Bernie says.
‘You OK?’ Larry asks.
‘Yeah, fine.’
‘Maybe you’re tired? Are you tired?’
‘No,’ Bernie says.
‘You can sleep, if you’re tired?’
‘I’m not tired.’
‘Shower? Would you like a shower? Might wake you up.’
‘I had a shower.’ Bernie reminds him. He has washed and shaved, sprinkled a new perfume he bought at the airport into his pores and rubbed it all over his body.
Larry pulls the cork from a bottle of wine, it eases away smoothly. It is time, he says, to celebrate the weekend. The doorbell rings, Bernie ignores it. It rings again, this time longer. ‘Can you get that please,’ Larry calls.
Bernie is not used to answering the door in a stranger’s house. He is not used to sitting at a table without his shoes, finding interesting subject to discuss with people he doesn’t know. Yes, they are kind, yes, they are generous, but he is used to his own company, his own friends’ company, people he knows. He has a small but select group of friends, some academics, one from his secondary school, a few from university. He knows what questions to ask them, he knows about their lives, the no-go areas of conversations, the topics they excel at.
He stares at the door and then opens it. His eyes rest on Madeleine, as she thrusts herself towards Bernie, apologises for not being able to find her keys and kicks off her shoes, talking non-stop. And Bernie is in lust. Bernie is in lust with this Maureen O’Hara look-a-like, dressed in black from head to toe, red hair still red, skin the colour of ripening apricots, eyes the colour of the water in the bay when the sky is watercolour perfect.
‘You must be Bernie, hello, I’m Madeleine.’ She does not hold out her hand, but moves, instead, to kiss his cheek. He moves his face the wrong way and there, on his lips, her lips, there, on his lips, tender and red, like bleeding cherries. He moves his face away and brushes her skin. It is soft and cold.
‘Hi,’ he says, ‘Yes, I’m Bernie.’ He wonders if she can tell that he is becoming hard under his jeans, hard from one look, one kiss. From the smell of her hair, her neck, her face. From the smell of her.
‘So pleased to meet you,’ she says. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you.’ She stands back, takes a good look. ‘You look like your father,’ she says. ‘I should say you look like a young version of your father.’ And she smiles and walks away. Madeleine. Like Seine.
A younger version of his father. Is this a good thing, Bernie wonders. What do people say about his father? How do people talk about him? What adjectives do they use? Not tall, he thinks, bald, he remembers. He had hair once. Do they call him handsome? Do they call him sexy?
He follows her all the way to the kitchen, her face lights up when she sees that, in her absence, Larry has at least managed to lay the table, as per her instructions. She kisses him on the lips, holds for a few moments. Bernie can’t help but watch. And he is jealous of that moment, that second of husband and wife contact, her lips on his, pressed hard, her lips that were on Bernie’s lips. Bernie counts, seven eight nine seconds.
Madeleine is of average height. She is neither fat nor thin, has what Bernie’s mother would call a proper woman’s body, something men can get their hands on. Now he has the chance to look more closely at her. She wears a black skirt and a fine black cashmere sweater, with three pearl buttons at the top. And she smells divine. Bernie catches himself staring at Madeleine, wondering what is underneath all that fabric, and he starts to walk away, conscious of what is happening underneath his fabric.
‘Don’t go,’ Madeleine says, ‘come and talk to us. The others will be here soon. And then we can order.’
It must be Bernie’s expression, eyes squeezed together, furrow forming, which makes Larry admit they never cook on a Friday night, they always have a take-away. ‘It’s what we’ve always done,’ Madeleine says, ‘I hope you don’t mind.’
Bernie thinks this is funny, amusing to the point of his not believing it. But there is no sign of food anywhe
re, and now, if he looks at the kitchen again, at the immaculate worktops, free of kitchen debris, except for a bowl of fruit, he can see it resembles a show room rather than a home.
‘I thought we’d have a curry tonight, if that’s OK.’
‘Yeah,’ Bernie says, ‘I eat everything.’ He is looking directly at Madeleine when he says this.
Madeleine looks at Larry. ‘Doesn’t he look like Ben,’ she says.
‘Yes,’ Larry says, ‘He does.’
Stop talking about me in third person, Bernie thinks, and tell me what my father looked like. Description, I need description, I need to know if you thought he was good-looking, passionate. I need to know. And finally there is some hope.
‘He was a good-looker,’ says Larry.
‘Oh yeah,’ Madeleine says, ‘he was quite a man. Your mother showed us photos, when they were younger. He was quite extraordinary. They were a handsome couple, your parents.’
Madeleine reaches up to a cupboard, and Bernie looks at the line of her arm, encased in soft wool, the tips of her fingers, nails pale pink and pretty. She lets the menu fall to the table, puts a pen beside it.
‘I know what I want. What I always want,’ she says. ‘Bernie?’
He has already decided on what he will have, what he always has. Prawn korma and pilau rice with bindi baji and some poppadoms. Plain not spicy.
‘I’m just going to change,’ Madeleine says. ‘I’ll be back in a jiffy.’ Jiffy. Rhymes with Liffey. His eyes follow her out of the kitchen, along the corridor towards the stairs. He turns his head just as she turns to walk up, collecting her shoes on the way, heels bashing together in her hands. Larry pours wine. ‘I have beer too, if you prefer?’
‘Wine is fine,’ Bernie says.
They sit and chat about how Larry and Madeleine met Bernie’s mother and father, on a Mediterranean cruise ten years ago. It is odd to be discussing an event which Bernie was not part of, a time when his father was still alive. Bernie thinks as people grow older they talk more about their past than the future.
Sex in the City--Dublin Page 2