When finally the evening was over, and Phoebe was putting on her shoes and her poor, ruined hat, Rose took her arm and led her aside, and looked at her searchingly and said, “What is it, dear, what’s the matter?” Phoebe said nothing was the matter, and tried to break free, but Rose held her all the more tightly. Quirke and Malachy were still at the table, sitting in silence, Quirke smoking and drinking whiskey and Malachy doing nothing, as Malachy usually did.
Phoebe turned her face aside; she was afraid she might begin to cry. “You said it was my father you were going to marry,” she said.
Rose stared. “I did? When?”
“That day outside the American Express place, you said it then.”
“Oh, my,” Rose said, and put a hand to her cheek. “I probably did. I’m sorry. I always think of Malachy as your father- he was your father, for so long.” Dismayed, she let go of Phoebe’s arm at last. “My poor, dear girl,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”
Quirke had finished his drink, and the waiter brought his overcoat and his hat. There were good nights. The waiter held the door open. Quirke followed Phoebe out, and through the green baize door. She felt the tears welling in her eyes now but forced herself to hold them back. She did not take the lift but hurried to the top of the stairs. Quirke was at the lift, calling to her to wait, and saying something about a taxi. She went on, down the staircase. The doorman smiled at her. Across the road, in the Green, behind the black railings, the branches of the trees were laden with snow; she saw them through a shimmer of unshed tears. She turned and walked away along the pavement, hearing only her own muffled footfalls and the dinning tumult in her heart.
Quirke came out of the lift and went through the revolving door out onto the steps. That morning he had got a call from Ferriter, the Minister’s man. The Minister, Ferriter had said, in his soft, smooth voice, was sure he could count on Dr. Quirke’s discretion in the matter of his nephew’s tragic death. Quirke had hung up on him and walked into the dissecting room, where Sinclair was sawing through the breastbone of an old man’s corpse and whistling to himself. Quirke had thought of April Latimer, whom he had never known.
Now he looked up and down the street, but his daughter was nowhere to be seen. A taxi drew up, and he climbed in. The driver was a sharp-faced fellow in a cap, with the stub of a cigarette stuck in one corner of his mouth. Quirke sank back luxuriantly against the greasy upholstery, chuckling to himself. Rose Crawford and old Malachy- ha!
The driver turned to him. “Where to, squire?”
“Portobello,” Quirke said.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BENJAMIN BLACK, the pen name of acclaimed novelist John Banville, is the author of Christine Falls and The Silver Swan. Christine Falls was nominated for both the Edgar Award and Macavity Award for Best Novel; both Christine Falls and Silver Swan were national bestsellers. Banville lives in Dublin.
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Elegy For April Page 26