He has no idea.
II
You gotta wonder why he showed me this, right? I mean, Taxi Driver. I was six or so, I can still remember it. Just because he and Mom had seen it in England, who gives a shit—not a six-year-old seeing a bloodbath and a guy with a scary Mohawk, all in slo-mo. What the fuck. So it meant something to him. Maybe it reminded him of the disaster their marriage was? Of which I was the—whaddycallit?—issue. Fucking ironic. Here I am in a cheap motel, watching a cheap TV, watching Travis Bickle; watching Travis Bickle watch TV on TV, leaning back, tapping at the TV with his boot, like I could with mine, tap, tap, tap. Fucking boom it goes down. I could do the same but I can’t afford it. I’ll turn the sucker off.
Johnny turns it off, from where he lies, on a bed, spread-legged, boots up, jeans, T-shirt, navy blue wool cap on with a big red C on the front (“Bears!”), in room 19 of the Motel Six outside Elyria. A Thursday.
He also told me fucked-up stories, like the one about Peanut. Stupid name for a dog, but it was a real dog in a real story and I came to love this story. But why? Peanut was a dog some farm family had back in the old hometown when he was kid. A big family—as opposed to Dad’s, of course, poor little adopted boy and never had a dog, et fuckin’ cetera—and a little boy in the big family sees Peanut, the family dog, a collie in my mind anyway, fuckin’ around with a fox in a field as the kid is walking home from school or the milkin’ or whatever, and tells his father, who thinks, “Rabies,” and quarantines old Peanut by himself, because he’s a cheap old farm fuck and rather than call a vet he figures to just keep an eye on the dog in the barn for two weeks and if no symptoms develop, then no rabies. The kids visit the poor thing, who was a proud farm dog, a hunter, every day and night, bringing him food and shit. And though he howls like a motherfucker at night, the kids hear him from their beds, staring at the ceiling, but Peanut looks healthy as hell, no problems, no problems develop, no hydrophobia, no foaming, and the old man decides it’s high fuckin’ time to let Peanut out, clean bill a health and everything, and they all go down to the barn to release Peanut before breakfast one Saturday and Peanut busts the fuck out of there past everyone and never looks back and they never see him again, off into the woods.
Dad—I’ll call you Dad, okay Dad? [He says this, then turns to the little mirror over next to nothing]. Dad said the story was about dignity; how Sir Peanut here felt wronged or could not understand what was happening to him, concluded, therefore, in the manner of canine deductive logic that these humans were crazy or just couldn’t be trusted by the dog world, and he just plunged out into the unknown, rather than run the risk of something truly nuts going on. Survival instinct. So Dad, just what is you telling me he-ah, to do the same fuckin’ thing? To you? But I can’t. I’m not a fuckin’ dog, Dad. I am not, sir. Not a. Fucking. Dog.
Johnny goes out into the parking lot and looks around. He looks around and thinks, Parking lot. I’m in an American parking lot, a way station, a place for my car. A place that waits for my car and a place my car leaves. It waits for every car, was built for it—any car can come. And leave. Every parking lot looks the same, standing on its flat pan—the faded black asphalt, the slowly erasing lines marking where to park, and not; the inevitable gravel, those small gray stones scattered like baby teeth. This lot is empty. He walked here, so it is partially his fault. But tonight—what night is it, what month?—Feb—the businessmen and, he thinks, out-of-town ball team are out to dinner or their game. They’ll be back, in buses, in rented Hyundais. But right now, it is just him, Johnny Yeats Brogan, under an Ohio sky, and he’s crying.
III
IT’S STARTING TO RAIN HARD IN BROOKLYN, hissing in sheets outside against the terra-cotta of the old Academy. The rain, and the trains rumbling underneath BAM, lend the third act a haunting musical score, as if things are about to collapse above and below. In the Ibsen play, set “in the neighborhood of Christiania,” more weather—the wind howls outside the (one supposes) drawing room where the characters stand around and make speeches at one another. Borkman is in a strange spot for much of the act, literally—staked out near the wing. Marginalized. Liam has slowly become entranced by Rickman/Borkman. Rather, Rickman/Borkman/Brogan. That is, he identifies.
Borkman’s got an embittered wife and a scheming ex-lover and these two women happen to be twins. The two women weirdly struggle over the fey son/nephew, young Erhart Borkman, a student, who is bland and unremarkable. No one gives a shit but the two women. Even Borkman’s regard for his only son seems feigned. The lad’s a fop—unlike Liam’s Johnny, a tough, smart man who can handle himself, if a little too well; and his own wife, well-connected, coolly vain (hence distant: nice) and minding her own business—she has a difficult sister, true, but that’s true of all three of his wives—endemic to sisterhood, it would seem. Still, when the self-possessed though ruined Borkman attempts to enlist his son in a new venture—what balls after his conviction for defrauding investors—a venture that will recover the family’s pride and fortune, you have to admire the guy. Liam does anyway. Spunk. Defiance—acceptance of his guilt but, like, over it; others can be disabled by it—shamed; not him. That’s what Liam needs—a little Norwegian backbone. A little courage; the word for it is mot. To stand there, as Borkman does, full-bellied, three-piece suit, accepting his guilt and yet radiating a defiant You can’t kill me! Brogan takes this as a sign. He’ll call Johnny tonight, or this weekend.
IV
ACT IV
BORKMAN.
[Not listening to her.] Can you see the smoke of the great steamships out on the fjord?
ELLA RENTHEIM [his sister-in-law].
No.
BORKMAN.
I can. They come and they go. They weave a network of fellowship all round the world. They shed light and warmth over the souls of men in many thousands of homes. That was what I dreamed of doing.
ELLA RENTHEIM.
[Softly.] And it remained a dream.
BORKMAN.
It remained a dream, yes. [Listening.] And hark, down by the river, dear! The factories are working! My factories! All those that I would have created! Listen! Do you hear them humming? The night shift is on—so they are working night and day. The wheels are whirling and the bands are flashing—round and round and round. Can’t you hear, Ella?
ELLA RENTHEIM.
No.
BORKMAN.
I can hear it.
ELLA RENTHEIM.
[Anxiously.] I think you are mistaken, John.
BORKMAN.
[More and more fired up.] Oh, but all these—they are only like the outworks around the kingdom, I tell you!
ELLA RENTHEIM.
The kingdom, you say? What kingdom?
BORKMAN.
My kingdom, of course! The kingdom I was on the point of conquering when I—when I died.
ELLA RENTHEIM.
[Shaken, in a low voice.] Oh, John, John!
BORKMAN.
And now there it lies—defenceless, masterless—exposed to all the robbers and plunderers. Ella, do you see the mountain chains there—far away? They soar, they tower aloft, one behind the other! That is my vast, my infinite, inexhaustible kingdom!
ELLA RENTHEIM.
Oh, but there comes an icy blast from that kingdom, John!
BORKMAN.
That blast is the breath of life to me. That blast comes to me like a greeting from subject spirits. I seem to touch them, the prisoned millions; I can see the veins of metal stretch out their winding, branching, luring arms to me. I saw them before my eyes like living shapes, that night when I stood in the strong-room with the candle in my hand. You begged to be liberated, and I tried to free you. But my strength failed me; and the treasure sank back into the deep again. [With outstretched hands.] But I will whisper it to you here in the stillness of the night: I love you, as you lie there spellbound in the deeps and the darkness! I love you, unborn treasures, yearning for the light! I love you, with all your shining train of power and glo
ry! I love you, love you, love you!
ELLA RENTHEIM.
[In suppressed but rising agitation.] Yes, your love is still down there, John. It has always been rooted there. But here, in the light of day, here there was a living, warm, human heart that throbbed and glowed for you. And this heart you crushed. Oh worse than that! Ten times worse! You sold it for—for—
BORKMAN.
[Trembles; a cold shudder seems to go through him.] For the kingdom—and the power—and the glory—you mean?
ELLA RENTHEIM.
Yes, that is what I mean. . . .
BORKMAN.
Ah—! [Feebly.] Now it let me go again.
ELLA RENTHEIM.
[Shaking him.] What was it, John?
BORKMAN.
[Sinking down against the back of the seat.] It was a hand of ice that clutched at my heart.
ELLA RENTHEIM.
[Tears off her cloak and throws it over him.] Lie still where you are! I will go and bring help for you.
[She goes a step or two towards the right; then she stops, returns, and carefully feels his pulse and touches his face.]
ELLA RENTHEIM.
[Softly and firmly.] No. It is best so, John Borkman. Best for you.
[She spreads the cloak closer around him, and sinks down in the snow in front of the bench. A short silence.]
When John Gabriel Borkman ends, John Gabriel Borkman is curled up, dead in the snow, and Liam is pale in his seat. Died of a cold heart, or a cold in the heart, did Borkman. An ice grip. In the final tableau, the shadows of two women—his wife and his true love, his wife’s twin sister—stand over him. A weird triangle that Sophocles somehow overlooked; Freud, too. A genus of disorder that went extinct, thinks Liam, as he gathers himself up. He’s glad to be out of there. Borkman showed him something, and he is anxious not to drop it, which he will, he fears, if he stops or talks, so he brusquely weaves through the crowd to the street and hopes (!) his wife will keep up, but she willfully tarries and dawdles and constructs a show tent around her own particular needs and it takes time to raise this tent and time to greet her parents and to say good-bye and strike the tent, so they will argue, he knows, when she is through and good and ready and gone.
V
JAMES JOYCE LEARNED NORWEGIAN in order to read Ibsen. It’s tough to be in a bar in Brooklyn on a rainy night, after a row with your wife on the platform for the No. 2; after stomping off and out of the station, in protest and a certain coldness—from the She, from the surround, the ache-inducing iron and steel and the acrid tunnel breeze like death. That smell again. It’s tough, but then, the night air is cold like a drink of water. You are thirsty for the water. And there’s the soft orange glow of neon over there, some script in reverse on the damp street. Go there.
What was the fight about? The usual. He’s too “distant.” So there you are in a bar in Brooklyn on a rainy night; on a whim, you are reading letters written more than a century ago by two great artists. A scotch. There may be a hockey game from—Liam checks in for a minute—Montreal on the big screen, but Liam is in the archives of a defunct Irish newspaper.
Jeg har ogso laest—eller stavet mig igennem en anmeldelse af Mr. James Joyce i “Fortnightly Review” som er meget velvillig og som jeg vel skulde have lyst til at takke forfatteren for dersom jeg blot var sproget maegtig.
Yes, Joyce learned Norwegian—Dano-Norwegian—in order to read Ibsen, and as an eighteen-year-old he wrote a review of what was to be Ibsen’s last play, When We Dead Awaken—the play that followed John Gabriel Borkman. Ibsen got wind of it, somehow—he struggled to read the young man’s review. He wrote a note in his own language, care of the Fortnightly Review, which Joyce translated:
I have read or rather spelt out, a review by Mr. James Joyce in the Fortnightly Review which is very benevolent and for which I should greatly like to thank the author if only I had sufficient knowledge of the language.
And it’s nice and warm in the bar. Liam Brogan is at one empty end, the glow of his BlackBerry dealing mysterious hands into his reading glasses, darting hearts and diamonds.
I wish to thank you for your kindness in writing to me, wrote the young Joyce in reply, gamely in Norwegian. I am a young Irishman, eighteen years old, and the words of Ibsen I shall keep in my heart all my life.
Another source Liam finds quotes Richard Ellmann saying, “before receiving the note from Ibsen Joyce was an Irishman; thereafter, he was a European.”
Your work on earth draws to a close and you are near the silence. It is growing dark for you. Many write of such things, but they do not know. You have only opened the way—though you have gone as far as you could upon it—to the end of “John Gabriel Borkman” and its spiritual truth—for your last play stands, I take it, apart. But I am sure that higher and holier enlightenment lies—onward.
VI
DAD,
I drank a fifth of vodka last night. A little unusual as I usually drink half that to get me to that comfortable sleeping point. The night started off as a celebration. I had tested out of a comprihensive final exam. Although just a small insignificant community college class. I had done so well that the proffesor decided that I had done enough to be excused from the final two weeks and skip the final. A proud moment for me to say the least. As I sat at the computer trying to tell my tale to an assortment of disinterested people, I began throwing back the shots. Burning as it goes down. The simple act of holding the vile fluid in your mouth will induce vomit. I quickly chase it away with the soothing sweetness of cool green bubbly mountain dew. A flush of warmth grips my face. My mind begins to slip away from thoughts of bills and grdes and kids. I begin to aprediate myself. I start to feel great. To feel important and purposfull. I drink more taking it in easier and easier. To the point where the drink loses its toxicity, and takes on a life giving force. As if I am swimming in a different kind of water. Not the cooll awakening kind that most of us jump into. But a warm velvet like skin covering ever inch of my person. My movements become smooth and methodical. Making each gusture, each statement deep and meaningfull. I become insightfull, reflective. The next shot brings me to a point of thankfullness and regret about the things I should have done. The things I should have done. The things I should have done. The things I SHOULD HAVE DONE! A weight begins to pull on neck. My eyes noticeable become wet. Still high floating, near weightless I drink. My mother. Would she be proud? would she still love me? She Froze to death on a bender when I was ten. Fighting with one of her abusive boyfriends she tried to walk almost thirty miles drunk in a freezing rain. One more. She took her fucking clothes off! Why the fuck would she do that? In the snow and the ice she decided to get naked. The doctors said It was a natural reaction to hypothermia. Maybe she was just saying fuck it. Its cold I am drunk I cant stop drinking and whoever is in charg of this bullshit fuck you. The next one slides down my throat with no resistance. No need to chase it away. My body is ready. Receiving the poiso actively. My focus shifts to the consumption. I become clumsy now. Oops spilled my drink no. no. I caught it. Fuck! I spilled ths ash tray. I am smoking now. Nearly one for one with the drinks. I don’t remember starting. I don’t really want to but it goes on. Choking down the acrid smoke gulping down the burning clear fluid. Again. Again. Now two drinks in a row. I hate this fucking life. Fuck you. The house is a fucking mess dinner sucks. You are supposed to love me. Love me god damnit you fucking bitch you don’t apreciate anything I do! fuck you! Get away from me! I hate you! All you want to do is take the kids away from me! The door slams as she storms out. What is her fucking problem? Another. I can feel my head slumped on my shoulder. My eyes are darting around. I am still sitting at the computer. I start to feel the urge to play sad songs. Songs that will make me feel. Songs that will make me cry. I want to cry. Secret tears. Tears no one knows about. Tears that are mine and mine alone. They need to come out this is their only release. A flood of emotions, a damn broken on a river of sorrow that builds for a lifetime. finally a chance to flow. I am crying now.
Openly weeping. Why am I sad? why am I crying? why am I alone? One more. Its gone now. I smoke my last cigerette, wipe my face, and pass out.
Morning. Every one is mad at me. I am alone on the couch trying to dodge the resentfull glares of people. People who know me and love me. People passing by, trying to start their day. My mouth Feels filled with sand my head with cotton. I realize as I get up to piss. I had taken all my clothes off.
And somehow I’m here. In the Motel Six business center. Im gonna hit send. You won’t believe how cold it is.
VII
“SOMEBODY SHOT OBAMA.” The statement was heard, but apparently only by Liam. Then he heard it again. The bar was crowded now; it was midnight. All the young Brooklyn writers were there, as couples. They had nice clothes on, the women in flouncy dresses and fancy shoes, heels, straps across their long, bony insteps; the men in expensive sport coats over chambray shirts and flannel; they all wear stylish eyeglasses. Liam had been staring at them a long time. He places his hand across the forearm of a woman in a long dress and bandana who’s been sitting next to him while he plunged through his BlackBerry. He’s noticed her now. She seems like, well, a neighbor. She smells like that perfume that smells like pot and that Liam can never remember the name of. Howdy, neighbor. She turns to him, and she’s the image of a woman on the cover of Brautigan’s Trout Fishing in America. Arguably. Granny glasses. Gap-toothed. Loose. “Somebody shot Obama?” he asks her. “Really?” she says. “I’ll tell my husband.” Liam notes to himself: She said rilly.
The Business of Naming Things Page 12