Nine Folds Make a Paper Swan

by Ruth Gilligan

  When she looks at them again, though, there is something else she feels, something a bit like guilt. Because how could these figures ever match up with the lives she writes each day? Like that lad with the tartan slippers – could he really be the Admiral she did last week? Two wars. Ship’s captain. Twenty-five grandkids and a handshake from Her Highness and all for what? For this? Or how about that biddy singing softly in the corner – could she be last month’s pageant superstar turned feminist? A full pager with a stunning little snap that caught the male journalists’ eyes; a gag about necrophilia that left the air slightly spoiled.

  So really, Aisling thinks, these are barely even the same selves any more – the people we are in our lifetime, and the people we become. No, maybe we have all changed into something other by the end, whether we decide to or not.

  ‘Well, Mr Sweeney, here we are now and it looks like you’re after getting yourself a visitor.’

  Aisling looks around. They have come to a conservatory; another batch of bodies and a chair by the window with a pair of shoulders hunched.

  ‘Mr Sweeney,’ the nurse repeats, a little louder, though her smile stays nothing but warm. ‘I said there is a young lady here to see you, you lucky thing.’ Aisling notices a flirtation to the tone, which somehow leaves her glad. Because by now she knows that everybody is in need of a soft spot, even if they struggle to admit it.

  ‘Are you going to say hello?’

  She isn’t sure the old man has actually heard he takes so long to move, too busy staring at the nothing view. But eventually he nods, just the once, and turns his head towards Aisling; a slow swivel of his sinewy neck.

  The nurse leaves them be. Aisling watches her go, a sway to her floral hips and the bump of her pregnancy only visible from the side when she disappears around the corner.

  Aisling returns to the old man, Mr Sweeney. The son of Máire Doyle. She takes him in, piece by piece. The blanket on his lap. The too-big shirt. The narrow fingers on the armrests tapping an inaud­ible beat. And when she is almost finished she finds it, mounted on the crown of his skull, and she smiles.

  The kippah covers his bald patch exactly. It is unadorned – no clip like she sometimes sees to hold the thing in place; no fastener at all. Only gravity. An act of trust. Up close, it is smaller than she expected, the same size as the palm of a hand, and yet, already it says so much.

  ‘Mr Sweeney, my name is Aisling Creedon and I have… This book… It used to belong to your mother.’

  She stops herself, though she wants to go on.

  Your mother, I see, who must have done it…

  Your mother who saw it through…

  Your mother who had a Jewish life because you are her Jewish son…

  But the son doesn’t seem to want to answer. Not yet. His lips are pursed, making a point at the end of his two jagged cheeks.

  ‘Your mother, Máire Doyle?’ She tries again, the name this time like a question. And then: ‘Your Ima?’

  Until finally, his eyebrows begin to rise. And then the rest of him.

  He pushes up from his chair. He is a giant, even with his stoop. Aisling realises that underneath the blanket he is wearing shorts, two ghost-white shins exposed despite the season.

  The legs begin to walk, indicating that she should follow, while the hands drag along the wall like a blind man tracing his way. She half-wonders if he is. She checks behind, as if they are being tracked, but then he turns off and she has no choice but to stop, caught in the doorway.

  The walls of Mr Sweeney’s bedroom are completely covered. There must be hundreds of them, she thinks, a patchwork of pages all tacked up from floor to ceiling, layer upon layer; white sheets on a washing line out to dry.

  She takes a seat and looks around, trying to find her bearings. Of the entire room the window is the only space not covered. She sees how its sunlight has warped the pages on the opposite wall a different colour from the rest, a dull, jotter yellow.

  When she looks back, the old man is right in front of her, so close they could almost touch. She flashes him a smile, an instinct and an embarrassment, but he has no interest in her – only in the bundle in her arms.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she says, as if suddenly remembering. ‘This… I suppose this is for you.’ Slowly, she hands over the book, supporting it like a child. ‘I’m sure she would have wanted you to have it.’ Her own words surprise her; she hadn’t expected to give it up, but it seems the right thing to do. Even so, she feels a flicker of jealousy as it goes, then a tug from the curl of tape as it catches her fingertip, almost like it doesn’t want to say goodbye either. ‘If you look inside you’ll see her notes about halfway through, written in the margins.’

  But the old man is far past listening now, too busy staring, examining, nestling down into the edge of the bed as he fingers the indents on the cover. His lips move along with the words. Aisling notices pips of white in the corner of his mouth as if it hasn’t been opened in days. And from nowhere then she wonders if it must be strange to be fluent in a language that you read from right to left, and also one you read from left to right? And if maybe your mind sometimes goes away and then comes back again, meeting itself in the middle?

  She leans into her chair, giving the old man space. She glances over her shoulder where the pages are strung up. She smiles again. The handwriting is exactly like his mother’s.

  It all started on Clanbrassil Street in 1941, an unlikely place for love.

  What about a man and a woman who court via pigeon mail, until the woman falls in love with the pigeon instead?

  Aisling pauses. She thinks how much Noah would like that one – she must remember to tell him the next time she sees him.

  But the thought only returns her focus, her priorities back in check. Because despite the kippah, despite the old man and his room and his hunger for the book, there are still her own questions that need to be asked – other things at stake and not a lot of time. ‘Mr Sweeney, out of interest, would you say your mother had a happy life?’

  The old man pauses, his lips gone still. Aisling waits. He doesn’t look up.

  ‘I mean did she seem… glad with her choice, like?’ Even she is startled by the bluntness of the enquiry, the hint of interviewer in her tone. ‘Sorry, I know it’s a personal question…’

  Still his head is bowed, so all she can see is that circle. She pictures Noah wearing one. There was an old Bar Mitzvah photo of him hanging in the Gellers’ toilet, the most important day of a Jewish boy’s life.

  ‘It’s just that my boyfriend…’ But this time she has to stop, realising she needs new words. New everything. ‘My partner… My partner has asked me to convert for him, like your mother did for your dad. Joseph, wasn’t it? So I just wanted to see if…’

  Finally, the old man looks up. His forehead is creased, his expression odd, unreadable.

  She waits a little longer, giving him space to reply. And she doesn’t know why, but in the silence she almost feels that there are people outside the door, listening in; ears shoved against the cracks.

  So she decides to just tell them everything, going back to the very beginning. She tells them about the random meeting on the Tube, the leap and then the fall; about the Ikea trip and the houseboat and the book, the expectation. The panic. And as she listens to herself, Aisling realises it already sounds like a very old story, the account fully formed in her mind. ‘She ordered it off the Internet, second-hand. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s totally out of date. All very… Orthodox you know, whereas Noah’s more… so I’m sure we could…’ She trails off, some bits less formed than others. ‘But it was a good place to start, like, to cover all the basics. And it was the address in the margin that helped me find you – I drove to Glenvar Road last night – Christ, I must have looked a right state.’

  She knows she is going too fast now so she bites her nail for time, drops the remnants of
it to the floor. She looks at the stranger. He seems to be struggling, far too much to try and keep up. But she knows she has to push on, building up to a climax that, despite the rush, she thinks she can already see.

  ‘And actually, they told me that they were very close, your mum and her brother. Your Uncle Gerry, like. Apparently she used to visit him all the time, even after she had gone through with it – I kind of assumed your dad would have made her cut ties, you know? Leave her old life behind? But it just… just goes to show she could still do her own thing; still be her old self as well.’ She takes a pause, allowing herself a moment to see. ‘Because, Mr Sweeney, I have a brother too…’ And she can picture him now, back in the house, comatose on the couch. Just a bowl of cereal, though, and he will be cured – the magic trick that has always made her smile. ‘So I was worried, you know, about what that would do to us. To me. But it doesn’t seem to have altered your mother, does it? Doesn’t seem to have changed much at all!’ And she realises now just how well Séan and Noah would get on. Will get on. The gentleness in them both; the fun that never pushes. They could all head to O’Gormon’s for pints, or maybe they will go and visit him next year in Australia. She always promised she would try to make it across, and she and Noah will need some time now anyway to plan. Or just to talk. To be. ‘No, it seems you were a very happy family. You… you must feel very lucky.’

  By the end she is totally out of breath. It is the most she has said aloud in days. Between her inhales she notices the music has gone silent, a hush that fills the building. Until the next track kicks in, the melody pure and low.

  She realises he isn’t going to reply.

  ‘Mr Sweeney…’ When she finally manages to stand up she is surprised by the lightness of herself, limber without the burden of the book. ‘I’ve got to head.’ She glances towards the door. The gap at the bottom goes from dark to light, the listeners scurrying away.

  As she crosses the room she wonders if she has time to go home, to say goodbye to Séan; to tell her parents to sit down and talk. But maybe better to just head straight and leave the car there, parked up with all the others that have been abandoned. She read about the Departures Area in recent years, the spaces clogged with unclaimed vehicles ditched for one-way flights. And the poor authorities who don’t know whether to clear them away or just wait until the emigrants have finally returned, starting up engines that can afford to breathe again at last.

  ‘But Mr Sweeney.’ She stops herself before she forgets, smiling at the old man one last time. ‘Thank you. For everything.’ For more than he knows.

  Only, he is still too preoccupied with the book to reply – totally fixated on this link back to his mother.

  Aisling can tell just by watching him that their bond must have been so strong. In a way, it is the only proof she needs.

  Back in the corridor the light is already diluting – probably coming up to three o’clock, the Grafton Street mobs getting impatient for the buskers to tune up their guitars and belt out their heart-warming choruses. Old airs and new hits; layers of verses and bridges about the things we do for love and how everything else will, somehow, find a way.

  And as she makes it past the receptionist’s voice she pictures the carol singers from yesterday afternoon, travelling from home to home. She sees the little girl with the bellybutton and the feather hanging down. Just as the snow begins to come, covering the car park, covering Dublin, the flakes like a plumage too. A whole flock of frozen swans falling from the sky.

  Epilogue

  The girl slams the door behind her with an end-of-the-world bang. The draught makes the pages on the wall flutter so that their breath blows over the old man’s face.

  He stares down at his lap. The book looks small, like it is far away. He tries to measure it. The distance from the bottom of his palm to the tip of his middle finger gets him about halfway up the spine. He looks at his nail. He thinks of the girl, demolishing hers.

  He measures the book again, just to be sure. Because when he was a boy it looked so much bigger, up there on his parents’ shelf. His mother’s diary – the thing he longed more than anything to read.

  But now he has it in his hands and it is a very different story.

  Slowly, he opens the front cover. The black tape crunches like a joint, arthritic and sore, the words of the introduction just as stiff.

  Right from the Commencement of the Journey, One Must Be Open and Honest About the Myriad of Thoughts That Will Undoubtedly Fill One’s Mind.

  His head begins to hurt. He closes his eyes. He gets terrible migraines these days, sharp, searing things like someone is after bashing a thumbtack into his skull. But he forces himself to look again, to carry on with the list. Because he will read the whole thing now if it kills him.

  Be Sure to Contemplate the Glorious Scale of One’s Journey’s Final Goal.

  One Must Try One’s Utmost Not to Flee When it Becomes Too Much. Undeniably It Is an Overwhelming Process, but Thorough Rewards Will Ensue Provided One Remains Calm and Committed.

  He goes very carefully, the sentences as fragile as the pages themselves. He barely notices the light as it drains from the day. But eventually the words are too dead to make out, so he crosses the room and turns on the bedside lamp. He pauses. He thinks he can smell toast.

  He reads on in the orange light, hunched at the edge of the bed. After a while it strikes him that maybe he should sit on the floor, all things considered. It isn’t an easy descent, an origami fold of hinges and creaks, but he makes it, crosses his legs and rests the book against his knees. He almost smiles then, his body relaxing into the pose; the memory of it.

  By the next chapter he spots the comments written along the bottom, just as the girl warned him he would. The sight of his mother’s hand lifts his heart, almost too high; almost as if she were speaking to him directly, back from the grave. Back, even, from Israel.

  He never did see his Ima after that day in Montague House; never brought himself to send that postcard. He only learned that she had passed away, years later, when he got a letter from the family solicitor. Another heartache. A little sum.

  Máire Sweeney née Doyle.

  He still remembers his surprise at the words. He hadn’t known her maiden name.

  He had always wondered if his voice would return once she was gone. But of course, to speak ill of the dead felt even more despicable, so really, nothing changed that afternoon, only that the single light left in him went out.

  He made so many rips in his shirt the thing was long past wearing.

  He glances up from the page now. Somehow, it is morning. He listens. He thinks he can hear snow. Then he hears the sound of carols from the Common Room, the cries of children ushered in for Granny’s last Christmas.

  ‘Time for pressies! Everyone gather round for pressies!’

  He remembers the girl that came to see him yesterday afternoon. He wonders if she reached wherever she was going. Although, thinking of her only brings back the echo of her words, louder now than any other sound.

  ‘They were very close, your mum and her brother. Your Uncle Gerry…’

  ‘Apparently she used to visit him all the time…’

  ‘Because Mr Sweeney, I have a brother too…’

  Uncle Gerry, he thinks as he closes his eyes. Uncle Gerry from the Glenvar Road.

  A knock on the door makes him flinch. He wipes his face. The nurse is armed with a plateful of Christmas cake and a glass of something red. Even from the floor he can smell the sharpness of the cloves. She doesn’t see him at first, then she finds him, shaking his head. He isn’t hungry. Instantly she goes awkward; flashes her eyes to the top of his head as she pulls the door behind her. The pages make their sigh all over again.

  When he first came to this place he wasn’t yet an old man. There had been an enquiry into the country’s mental-health facilities which left Montague House
condemned – a report that revealed things the government still couldn’t quite believe. But by the time he was free it was too late, really, to start again; to try and figure out how an eejit like him could fit into this mess of a world. So instead he had used his mother’s money to get a room in here, a nurse who would bring him cake, a pen and a pad of paper whenever he wanted one.

  A chance, at least, to repay an old debt.

  He looks at the walls now; at their off-white flounce. There are a million different versions of Alf’s tale up there, scribbled down through the years. There is the digging on the bog and the loving on the bed; the bomb and the War and the wheels instead of legs. But most of all there is the woman with the different-coloured eyes, the green one and the brown. Because every bit of her now has been immortalised, a legacy of love that will live forever – one of the great Irish tales, never to be forgotten.

  To be honest, the old man has written it so many times he knows each moment implicitly, almost as if it were his own story. His own life. But of course it is not. Because his story, he has just discovered, was nothing. Sixty years of silence, for nothing.

  He returns to the first chapter of the book and begins again, focusing this time on the margins. When he is finished he tries to stand up, but his limbs have lost their circulation. He does ten thumps each side (left then right) to bring back the blood. It resents the request.

  When he makes it he fumbles his way over to the wall and begins to untack the pages. It takes him hours, right through the night, his fingers gnarled stiff from the motion of the pinch. Once finished, he bundles the words into an envelope to give to one of the nurses in the morning. He will have no need for them any more.

  He is exhausted but sleep holds little interest. He sees the day in, increments and the rest, the place much quieter than yesterday’s hullaballoo. He gears himself up then shambles out to foist the envelope at somebody, a fiver for stamps, then shambles back to the book. He missed it in his absence.