by John Boyne
Afterwards, she didn’t invite me to take a shower. She went into the bathroom while I dressed and only when I knocked to say that I was leaving did she come out. She had been crying. She handed me my money. You have my number, I told her and left. I went for a beer in a nearby bar where I saw a boy from my schooldays sitting in the corner with his arm around a girl. Once, several years before, he had approached me at a party and told me that I had beautiful eyes.
I met a girl and tried to like her. She worked in a café I often visited. She told me she was from Hiroshima. I didn’t know people still lived there, I said. Oh yes, she told me. Has your family lived there a long time, I asked her. No, she said. Her parents were both from a city called Masuda in the Shimane Prefecture. But they moved to Hiroshima in the 1980s after their marriage. I was intrigued by this idea. I asked her would she like to come for a walk with me some evening and she said yes.
I’m not accustomed to dating. I’m not even accustomed to sex, outside of my job. I have no interest in it. The boys in my class at the university talk of little else, perhaps because they get so little. The girls hold back, not for moral reasons but because they enjoy the power they have over the boys. I can understand this. Feeling desired can be a very potent force.
The girl’s name was Hamako, which, she told me, meant child of the shore. She had come to Ireland to study medicine but discovered quite early on that she had no aptitude for the subject. She was frightened by the cadavers. She hated the smell of formaldehyde. She didn’t care for blood. She wasn’t even particularly interested in helping people. She said that she couldn’t tell her parents she had left the course because they would be furious with her and insist that she return home.
Don’t you like Japan, I asked her. No, she told me. It took me years to escape. I’m never going back. But what will you do, I asked her. What I am doing, she said. I can waitress for a year or two, save some money, then move somewhere else. Anywhere that isn’t Japan.
The third time we went out, she took me to the beach in Killiney. I’d never been before but she came regularly. She knew a family who lived nearby and twice a week she would take their dogs for a long walk. Why can’t they walk their dogs themselves, I asked her. They’re too busy, she said. Besides, it’s easy money for me. We called on the family and for a moment I thought I recognized the man who opened the door but I was wrong. I‘d never seen him before. He seemed pleased that Hamako had a boyfriend, even though I was not her boyfriend. He asked me many intimate questions about my family life and my studies at the university. His wife forced me to eat a slice of shop-bought cake and drink a cup of herbal tea that tasted like flowers. Their house was decorated with Japanese art and furniture. There were ink paintings on the walls featuring women in black and white kimonos, their hair held up with combs and pins, and a woodblock print of two kabuki actors performing before an audience of skeletons. Hamako didn’t seem to want to leave, nor did she show any interest in taking the dogs for a walk.
Have you heard Hamako play the piano, the man asked me, and I shook my head. Oh no, don’t ask me to, said Hamako in the kind of voice that made me realize that this was one of the reasons we were still here. Ask her to play, the man said to me. She can play if she wants to, I said. I’ll play, said Hamako quickly, and she sat down before it, raised the lid and did some finger exercises in the air before starting. She was adequate, nothing more, but the man and woman applauded enthusiastically at the end. Isn’t she wonderful, they asked me. They watched her as if she was their own child. She could do no wrong. I looked around and saw that there were no pictures of children to be seen anywhere. They asked me whether I could play a musical instrument and I shook my head. They asked if I could visit any city in the world, which one would I choose. I stopped talking. Another hour passed. I was invited to stay for dinner. I stood up and left.
When I returned home, I found a message waiting for me on my voicemail from Hamako telling me that she had never been so embarrassed in her life, that she had brought me to meet people who were important to her and I had behaved abominably. She said she wasn’t sure if she wanted to see me again and that she would have to give it serious thought. She told me not to contact her again, that if she wanted to talk to me then she would be in touch. I deleted the message. She texted a few hours later in an advanced state of outrage and once again told me not to contact her. I deleted the message. When I woke the next morning, there were two messages, both quite abusive, and a third arrived during the day. I threw away the SIM card and bought a new one. It wasn’t my work phone so it didn’t matter and very few people had the number. Only my former social workers, who called me occasionally, and I informed them of the change.
I stopped frequenting Hamako’s café and months later, when I thought enough time had passed that I could eat there again, she was nowhere to be seen. I asked what had become of her but the waitress who served me didn’t know. Perhaps she had gone travelling after all. Or perhaps she’d returned to Japan.
Sometimes men phone, then hang up. Ten minutes pass, then they phone again. Their confidence has built up. Maybe they’ve written down what they’re going to say. I saw your profile online, they tell me. Are you available tonight? What time are you thinking of, I ask. As soon as you can make it, they say. They don’t want to wait. They’re in the mood, they have the urge, they hate themselves for it. They just want to do it so they can get on with their night. That’s when they call me. Or boys like me.
Sometimes they block their number and when I answer, before they can say a word, I tell them to call back with an unblocked number. And then I hang up. Sometimes they call back. Sometimes they don’t.
They might ask if I know someone I can bring with me. No, I tell them. There’s no one you can call, they say. No. There’s plenty of other lads online, they say, I thought you might all know each other. No. There’s a long pause. So you don’t know anyone, they say. No. All right, they say, come on your own. And I go on my own.
Only once did I go with someone else. Or rather there was someone else there when I arrived. This was in the early days. I couldn’t have been doing it more than a few weeks. The boy was younger than me, maybe sixteen years old. Wild-eyed, probably on drugs. I came in and he was sitting on the sofa with his pants around his ankles. He barely looked up at me. His eyes were locked on a cat that was stretched out before an open fireplace, purring with contentment. Sit beside him, the man said. I sat beside him. Put your mouth on him, the man said. I put my mouth on him. Hit him, the man said, and I was going to say no but he must have been speaking to the boy because he roused himself, slapped me hard across the face and I fell off the sofa in surprise. I stood up and walked over to the man. Give me my money, I told him. But you haven’t done anything yet, he said. I have so many ideas for the two of you. You’re both so beautiful. Give me my money, I repeated, staring directly at him. He gave me my money. I left. I saw the boy another time near the canals in Baggot Street.
Sometimes they like to abuse me, verbally. They tell me how dirty I am. They say that I’m a nasty little scumbag. They tell me that I love it, the things that I do, and usually, when they’re dribbling their bitterness, I’m thinking about an exam I have to take or whether I have enough milk in the fridge for breakfast. You’re a disgusting fucking whore, they tell me. A filthy little cocksucker who takes it up the ass. You like the taste of it, don’t you. I do, I tell them. I don’t care. I’ll say whatever they want me to say. It means nothing to me.
Once, I told someone. A boy from my class at the university who was gay and who’d made it clear that he was attracted to me. We were spending too much time together but it’s not often that I make a friend. He asked me whether I had a girlfriend and I told him I wasn’t interested in girls. I could see the desire in his eyes and didn’t want to lose him. I didn’t want to hurt him either. I considered sleeping with him, just to make him happy, but I don’t do that for free. I told him how I made my living and he must have thought I was joking becau
se he started laughing. I shrugged, looked away, and he sat back with a frown on his face. Are you serious, he asked me. I am, I told him. I’m not going to pay you, he said, offended. I never asked you to, I said. You’ve been leading me on, he said. I haven’t, I told him. I like you. But he stopped liking me after that, which was probably easier for both of us.
Another time, I got a call from a man who grew aggressive when I said that I wouldn’t be able to be there for an hour, maybe a little longer. Can you not come sooner, he asked, as if I should be at his beck and call. His voice was familiar to me. I thought maybe he’d called me before. I can’t, I told him. I can be there in an hour, maybe a little longer. Well try, will you, he said. I waited an hour, maybe a little longer, and then I showed up. I rang the buzzer for his apartment on the outside wall. He lived in a good part of the city, a part I often find myself visiting. He kept me waiting in the cold. There was a camera above the buzzer and I put my finger across it. I didn’t want him looking at me when I couldn’t see him too. Finally, he answered. Another five seconds and I would have walked. Who’s that, he said. It’s me. About fucking time, he said. The door buzzed and I thought about going home. I had a bad feeling about this. I prefer nervous men to angry men. I went up a flight of stairs, then another, then another. I found the door. I put my finger across the spyhole. I knocked. He kept me waiting again. He opened it and looked at me. Jesus fucking Christ, he said, putting a hand across his mouth in shock. I started laughing. I’ll leave you alone, Peter, I said. I walked away. I went home. I wiped his number.
Once, I took a beating. It was a young guy who called me. Twenty-two, twenty-three years old. There were three others waiting in another room and they set upon me. They pulled my pants down and poured lighter fluid on my cock and balls, then lit a match and held it in the air. They called me a dirty little faggot. Why are you doing this, I asked them. You know why, they said. But I didn’t know why. I started to cry. They held the match closer. It went out and they lit another. When it burned out, they started hitting me. They didn’t set me on fire. They let me go. I went home.
I received a call to tell me that Rachel wanted to see me. It had been more than six years since we’d last spoken and I wasn’t sure that there were any ties left between us. My social workers asked me why I felt such anger towards her. They told me that she had a disease and that she could not be held responsible for it. I told them that I felt no anger towards her. Of course, they didn’t know everything that had happened between us.
I asked whether Rachel was still in hospital and they told me no, that she had been an outpatient for a couple of years but only now felt ready to rebuild her relationship with me. Is she back in our old house, I asked, and they told me that Peter had sold the house long ago. It was his to sell, they said. Your mother has a flat in a new development off Pearse Street now. She gets a rent allowance from the state. How much did Peter get for the house, I asked, but they said they didn’t know.
I brought a bunch of flowers when I visited. She opened the door and started to cry and I felt an unexpected emotion building inside me. I rarely feel things, so this was a surprise to me. She pulled me to her and hugged me tightly. Knowing that she would appreciate the gesture and that it would cost me nothing, I hugged her back. She let her head rest on my shoulder. I could feel her lips against my neck and pulled away.
You’ve grown tall, she said. And so handsome. You were just a boy when I saw you last. I’m still a boy, I told her. No, you’re a man, she said. No, I said. No, no, I’m not. How are your studies going, she asked, and I told her that I had just completed an important set of exams and come fourth in my class. You were always so intelligent, she told me. I still can’t believe that a son of mine goes to university. You’re the first in our family ever to go there. I don’t know where you get your brains from. It wasn’t from your father or me, that’s for sure. Do you know what you’re going to be when you grow up, she asked. I thought of things the other students in my year said and decided to repeat their lines. I’d like to travel, I told her. I’d like to make a difference. I’d like to contribute to society in some meaningful way. I’d like to be an artist. I’d like to write a novel. I’d like to hike the Santiago de Compostela. I’d like to build houses in Africa. I’d like to meet someone who really understands me. I’d like to work for a non-profit. I’d like to be rich. I’d like to get on the property ladder. I’d like to have a job that gives me a clothing allowance. I’d like to effect real change in the places that matter. I’d like to help those who need help.
And you’ll do all those things, she told me. With your brains, you can do anything you want to do, be anything you want to be. Thanks, I told her. I didn’t want to do any of those things, of course. But it made me feel normal to say them aloud.
She made two cups of tea and put too much milk in mine. She offered me a slice of cake, home-made, but I said no. You need to eat, she said. There’s not a pick on you. Did you miss me, she asked. While I was away, did you miss me, did you think of me? I thought of you every day, I said, even though I hadn’t, for I felt no urge to be cruel to her. I suppose you blame me for the things that happened to you, she said. Nothing happened to me, I told her. You were moved from place to place, you had no home of your own. You must blame me for that. I don’t blame you for anything, I told her. You’re a good boy, she said, stroking my face. You were always a good boy. Her fingers were rougher than I remembered them.
I stayed for an hour. I was happy to stay that long. And then I was happy to leave. You’ll have to let me know how you get on with all those things you want to do, she said, trying to put a five-euro note into my hand, but I made a fist of it and kept it close against my side. I didn’t want her money. I will, I said. I hope we can start again, she said. I hope so too, I told her, turning my phone on for it was evening now and the calls would start soon. Can I see you again sometime, she asked me. I could phone you and we could meet for lunch. You have my number, I told her.
It was raining as I walked home. When the phone rang in my pocket, I thought it might be her but no, it was a man. Where do you live, I asked him. Smithfield. I’m only ten minutes from there, I said. Can you come over immediately, he asked me.
I can, I said.
The Country You Called Home
The brick crashed through the front window shortly after midnight and Émile woke with a start, his heart pounding, his eyes raw from interrupted sleep. The room was dark and as he reached across for the wristwatch that lay on the bedside table, he knocked it off and heard it land on the wooden floor with a heartbreaking crack.
‘No!’ he whispered to himself in dismay.
His father had given him the wristwatch two weeks earlier as a present for his ninth birthday and he treasured it. Looking down now, he saw that the glass that covered its face had shattered, scattering splinters across the floor. The watch wasn’t new, of course. It had belonged to his grandfather, William Cross, who had bought it more than fifty years before on the morning he left Newcastle to begin a new life in West Cork. He’d passed it down to his son, Stephen, who in turn had given it to Émile, telling him that he needed to take great care of it for it was a precious family heirloom.
And now it was broken.
The boy put his head in his hands, wondering how he would ever tell his dad.
A moment later, he heard his parents’ bedroom door open and the sound of their feet running along the hallway into the front parlour of their small cottage and Émile remembered the noise that had woken him in the first place.
He jumped out of bed, his left foot landing on one of the small shards of glass, and sank to the floor, curling his foot around to examine the damage. A small chip, like a piece of broken ice, was half submerged in the ball of his foot and he turned his thumb and index finger into a pair of pincers to pull it out. A spot of blood appeared in its wake but he pressed his hand against it and when he took it away again it had disappeared. Standing up, he tested his weight on the injur
ed foot before opening his bedroom door and following his parents into the parlour.
‘Émile,’ said Marie, turning around when she heard him. ‘What are you doing up?’
His mother was wearing her nightdress and her hair hung down loosely around her shoulders. He hated seeing her like this. Marie usually wore her hair up in a tight bun and even though she didn’t own many clothes she always made an effort to look elegant. Stephen, Émile’s father, put it down to her French upbringing. He said women looked after themselves over there, not like Irish women who’d go around in a potato sack every day except Sunday if they could. But seeing her like this, in the middle of the night, she looked old and tired and not Marie-like at all.
‘I heard a noise,’ he said. ‘It woke me up.’
‘Don’t come over here in your bare feet, son,’ said Stephen, who had taken yesterday’s newspaper off the table and was using a brush to sweep the broken glass from the window on to the front page.
‘The window!’ said Émile, pointing across the room. A breeze was blowing through, making the net curtains on either side dance in the early-morning air like a pair of young girls waltzing in their nightclothes. ‘What happened?’
‘Someone put a brick through it,’ said Stephen.
‘But why?’
‘Émile, step back,’ said Marie, putting her hands on his shoulders and pulling him away from the fragments of glass. ‘Just until your father is finished.’
‘Why would someone put a brick through our window?’ asked Émile, looking up at her.
‘It was an accident,’ said Stephen.