Ithaca

by Alan McMonagle

  GRAFFITI ARTISTS

  Mario lived on the other side of the hill. Not quite along the stretch of fancy houses. But close enough that he had a reasonably high wall, a couple of trees and of course a buzzer gate. Close enough that if he wanted to he could claim membership of the plush neighbourhood. I pressed the buzzer on his gate and waited for an answer.

  Don’t make any rash accusations. Making a rash accusation had been the ruination of many a man, I’d heard them say up the back lane. Just try to get a proper look at him. See if we had anything in common. Eyes. Attitude. Blood type. And remember: try to find out more about this Paris trip. If it was a trip for two only. If I could tag along.

  There was no answer. I tried several more goes on the buzzer. Kept my finger on the keypad. Then let my pounding little fists go at Mario’s gate. Banged my head off the gate until I was reeling. Still no answer. I bet the lug was still talking Paris with Ma. Maybe he’d been held up selling bull nuts to an awkward farmer. Maybe that yoga wife of his had found out what he was up to and was now busy bouncing his head into the middle of next week. I hunkered down, peered through the gap at the bottom of the gate, strained for a decent peek. That’s enough of that, I said after a decent squint and I stood up again and started looking at the wall.

  I was still looking at it when I saw her. Half-skipping, half-floating, almost, through the open gate of one of the plush houses. The same raggy dungarees. The tattered tackies. My first thought was: she couldn’t live there. No way. No one dressed the way she dressed could live on Rich Hill. My second thought: what was she up to?

  Hey! I called after her, hurrying toward the bend she had disappeared round. For a minute I thought she’d slipped away from me. Like an eel. Or one of those mermaids she was keen to end up as. But look! There she was. Standing in front of Grehan’s unfinished wall. Admiring my handiwork.

  I did that, I said as soon as I reached her, scarcely able to contain my excitement. She looked at me and repeated the words I’d painted.

  I’ve got the moon in my pocket.

  Good, isn’t it?

  What the hell is that supposed to mean?

  My ma said it.

  Whoopideedoo. Where did you get the paint?

  Inside. There’s loads of it. Brushes, too.

  Well.

  Well, what?

  Well, go fetch. I haven’t got all day.

  I didn’t need to be told twice. I dashed up the driveway, praying that the tins were still where I had left them, that the gabby plush-buckets from the Hungry Worm hadn’t gotten to them first. They hadn’t.

  Is that the only colour there is? she asked me when I set down the three tins.

  Yep. It’s Marrakech. Goes very well with the sandy walls.

  Listen to you. You’ll be telling me next Picasso is your da.

  Who?

  Nevermind. Now. Choose a wall.

  Without giving it a second thought I pointed back towards Mario Devine’s place. Already she was skipping ahead of me, swinging a tin of paint.

  Open the lid, please, she said as soon as we were standing in front of Mario’s gate.

  She yanked the brushes out of my back pocket and dipped one of them into the dark-red paint, took the dripping brush and started to paint something. I wasn’t able to see until she finished and stood back like I had done the first time. I stood beside her and we both looked.

  POOR PEOPLE WITH MONEY LIVE HERE

  What does that mean?

  Oh, I’m sure a bright boy like you will figure it out. Come on, I’m only getting started.

  She wasn’t lying. For the next I had no idea how long, she was busy slapping lines on the walls in front of Mario’s house. Quickly she ran out of room and she was skipping on to the walls and gates of the next house. Then she asked me to go find a ladder, and I did find one by one of Fat Grehan’s sheds, and she used it to scale Mario’s wall and I lobbed unopened tins over the wall after her and then followed suit, and we had the lids off and she was slapping paint on the walls of the house itself and so quickly I hardly had a chance to stand back and read what was going up.

  Here, she said, throwing a second brush at me. Don’t just stand there. Have a go yourself.

  OK, I said, and took a turn at the next wall she was moving in on. She was so fast with her lines. Was worried I wouldn’t be able to keep up. No need. As soon as I approached the wall, an idea for what to slap on came to me. Then another. And another. And for the next while we took turns slapping on our lines.

  DON’T GO TO WORK, IT’S A TRAP

  MARIO DEVINE WOULDN’T SELL BULL NUTS IN A FAMINE

  FREEDOM IS AT THE BOTTOM OF THE TENTH GLASS

  MY MA CAN SHOW YOU A GOOD TIME

  YOUR FUTURE IS BEHIND YOU

  THESE DAYS SHE LIKES CUNTHOOKS AND GOB-PRICKS

  DON’T LOOK UNDER YOUR CAR

  WANK ME WITH A SPOON

  SHE WILL LIKE YOU TOO IF YOU PROMISE HER PARIS

  TO SAIL IS NECESSARY, TO LIVE IS NOT

  STAY INSIDE TODAY OR ELSE

  SHOVE IT UP YOUR COOCH

  CALL HER

  THE CANCER IN MY TESTICLES IS SPREADING

  By the time that last one went up we were both standing back, scarcely able to read each other’s lines, so hard were we laughing. It seemed each line was better and funnier than the one before.

  Wait. I just thought of another one, I said, still laughing, and quickly slapped up one last message for Mario, all the way across his buzzer gate.

  PS: ANY CHANCE OF A SEAT ON THE TRIP TO Gay Paree?

  Sign your artist name here, the girl said when we had stopped laughing. She was handing me a sharp-edged stone and pointing to the bottom of the wall where she had already scratched tiny lettering I could scarcely make out. I took the stone and did as I was told.

  Good. Now, follow me, she said next and she was up and over the front wall of Mario’s place, and on to the next gate and, turning to me with a grin and wink, she slapped up in great big zigzag letters:

  PUT YOUR THING IN ME

  I’m finished now, I said, and in spite of the imploring face on the girl for some kind of response from me, I threw down my brush and made my way back to Fat Grehan’s driveway.

  Hey! she called after me. We’re not finished.

  My arms are tired, I called back, heading up the driveway and then plonking myself down on one of the rocks. A few minutes later the girl arrived. We had used up four or five tins of paint and now I watched as she put everything back, including the ladder. Then she picked out a rock and plonked herself down beside me. Nobody had seen or heard us.

  That was fun, she said when she was comfortable beside me. It’s a pity there was just the one colour.

  I like it.

  So you keep saying, Picasso.

  Your lines are good. I don’t know what they all mean. But they’re good.

  Yours are good too. Shove it up your cooch. I like that one.

  It’s a line my ma uses. To sail is necessary, to live is not. What does that mean?

  Whatever you want it to mean.

  I like the sailing part. Sailing sounds like a good way to pass the time.

  Sailors belong to no one. Not even to themselves.

  I wish I knew who I belonged to.

  What does that matter?

  It matters because I’m living with a crazywoman. Been anywhere since I last saw you?

  Oh yes. I’ve spent time in the lost jungle cities. I’ve been to a desert where it hasn’t rained for four hundred years. I’ve taken a train that travels through the clouds.

  Sounds great.

  There’s this place I want to go to above all others.

  Where?

  Ithaca.

  Ithaca?

  You say it very well. It’s somewhere in the Mediterranean. Next to impossible to find. I’ve been searching and searching and I still cannot find it.

  Is it part of ancient Greece?

  That’s right. The famous hero lived there. After th
e war he spent twenty years trying to find it.

  What, he spent twenty years looking for where he lived?

  That’s right.

  He sounds like a numpty.

  He was a hero.

  Heroes can be numpties, can’t they?

  You really ask the oddest questions.

  Tell that to the numpty who takes twenty years to find his way home.

  Twenty years is nothing. Time flies, you know.

  What happened your arm?

  They’ve been running a brush along walls all afternoon – in case you hadn’t noticed.

  That’s not what I meant. And that bruise on your neck. It’s getting worse. Where did you get it?

  I can’t remember.

  Where is your ma?

  She’s out of town.

  Doing what?

  Oh, saving lives. I don’t know. Now, please. Stop the questions.

  I turned away from her. Looked out in front of me, at the town below, the Tower reaching for the sky, the cemetery where they put Flukey in the ground. She was talking again.

  I wonder whose house it is. They’re in for some land.

  It’s Mario Devine’s.

  Mario your-new-da Devine?

  I’ve left a message for him – about going to Paris.

  I saw that. Look. You can see my house from here.

  Where?

  She raised her arm and pointed towards a faraway cluster of houses, not far from the turn for the by-pass. Wondered about her da. What he did. What he looked like. Was he really as crazy as she made him out to be? Was about to ask her but she was busy reaching down in front of her to pick up something.

  Show me your hand, she said.

  What?

  I want to check something.

  Like the usual numpty I was, I offered my hand and she took it in her own, stared at it, turned it over, stared some more.

  Hmmm.

  Hmmm, what?

  Nothing.

  You can’t just stare at my hand and make uppity sounds.

  Can’t I?

  Show me your hand.

  No.

  Why not?

  You’ll just end up comparing and it’s bad luck to compare hands. Let’s make a blood pact instead.

  What?

  Without another word, she gripped the splinter of wood she’d picked up and punctured the palm of my hand. Then she did the same to her own hand.

  Now we join, she said, holding up her hand and getting me to do the same. We locked fingers. Touched palms. Swapped blood.

  Now we are inseparable, she said, glowing. Now you’ll have to put your thing in me. I’ll let you. Anywhere you want. I’ll let you put it in my mouth if you want. You’ll like it.

  I pulled my hand away, looked at the cut in the middle of my palm, the smudgy blood.

  You know, she said next, looking out at the view. All this painting has made me thirsty.

  We could go to McMorrow’s.

  Have you any money?

  I have two euros.

  You have two euros.

  Yep.

  You really know how to sweep a girl off her feet, don’t you?

  Is that a yes?

  Maybe. Oh, look! There’s my father’s car. Flip! He’s home early. I have to go now.

  She was already on her feet and heading quickly out of Fat Grehan’s driveway.

  Hey! I called after her and she turned around. See you in McMorrow’s?

  She shrugged her shoulders and kept going. It wasn’t the big Yes I was hoping for, but it wasn’t a No either.

  HAPPY HOUR

  Harry and Fergal were deep in conversation, practically touching heads, looking like a pair badly in need of those happy pills they were on about last time. Times were still tough for the lad at the end of the counter sipping from a glass with the one ice cube. At her low table by the wall, the pale-faced woman was smoking her unlit cigarette. The card game was still in progress. Shirley was staring at the high-up TV.

  I climbed into a high stool at the bar. I took out the first of my euro coins, set it spinning on the counter, slapped it down in front of me.

  Look who it is, Shirley said, without even turning to me.

  The one and only.

  Back for more punishment, then.

  You’ll get a crick in your neck staring up like that, Shirley.

  Don’t be smart. It doesn’t suit you.

  You were in a much better mood the last time I was in.

  I’m a woman, kid. My mood changes a million times every second. What’ll it be?

  The usual.

  Shirley grabbed a bottle, uncapped it, set it down in front of me along with a bag of nuts.

  Fanta and a packet peanuts. That comes to – one euro.

  I slid the coin across, took the drink and tossed it back in one long gulp. The peanuts didn’t last long either.

  Same again, I said, pushing the empty bottle out of my way. And another bag of peanuts.

  That’ll be – one euro, Shirley said.

  Can you put it on my tab, Shirley? I left the rest of my money at home.

  No tabs during Happy Hour, kid.

  How long does Happy Hour last?

  Until you run out of money.

  Harry looked over and started laughing. He told Fergal what he’d heard and there were two of them at it. The lad with the one ice cube couldn’t care less. Over my shoulder, the card players were slapping down coins on the table. The woman with the white face was in a world of her own. Was reaching in my pocket for the second euro when I heard Harry’s voice.

  Set up a drink for him, Shirley. It’s on me.

  I settled back into my stool. Harry winked at me. Shirley was in front of me, with an uncapped bottle of Fanta.

  I suppose you think you can fly as well, she said, setting the drink down on the counter.

  Of course I can, I told her. I have a magic carpet parked outside.

  Shirley slid over the Fanta. Harry and Fergal raised their glasses in my direction.

  Here’s to the sinking ship, I said, and the pair of them were chuckling again.

  And tell us, what brings you in here today, young Jason?

  As my ma says, if I tell you that, Harry, I’ll have to kill you.

  You’re a funny man, Jason.

  I am, Harry. Tell me, how do you know Jesus was an Irishman?

  They probably knew, but they let me finish anyway and had a laugh for themselves. We toasted the sinking ship again and I looked up at the TV, at scenes of what looked like one big happy street party going on somewhere. Then I asked Shirley for the time and she made a big show of letting me see the watch on her wrist.

  Expecting company? she asked me.

  Maybe.

  Like that, is it?

  A girl. I’m waiting for a girl.

  A girl. Well, then. Tell me more. What’s she like, this girl?

  Short hair. Freckles. Green eyes – I think.

  You think! You’ll have to look closer.

  Yeah. Crooked nose on her, too, but I don’t mind. Lets on she knows more than she does. We hang out together up the hill.

  Ohhhhh . . . I look forward to her arrival.

  No sign of her, though. The loon was probably back up on the hill messing with tins of paint. Not to worry. It was still early. I finished my drink, took another look about the sorry light, was thinking of asking could I join the card game when Shirley put another Fanta in front of me. Happy Happy Hour, she sang out, then the door swung open and in walked pretty much the entire town.

  Women.

  In no time the place was full of women. They arrived in all shapes and sizes, a steady parade of them, all perfume and make-up and handbags, and I didn’t know where to look. Some arrived together, chattering over each other like a haggard of sparrows. Some came in pairs, and so quiet they set themselves down without anyone noticing. Some came alone.

  Virgin Gemma walked in. She was a long, bony thing with lots of sharp points on her face. Everyone calle
d her Virgin Gemma because she spent most of her time avoiding men. You would need the driveshaft of a continental lorry to get through her knickers, I’d heard the Slug Doyle say. Wasn’t fully sure what he meant, but it sounded good and I’d made a point of remembering it. Steel Knickers was another name they had for her. She reminded me of a stork.

  Scary Mona Quinn showed up. She always carried a stick which she used to tap the ground in front of her – as though she was blind. But there wasn’t a thing wrong with her eyes. Any time somebody accidentally got too close to her she raised the stick to clobber them and never missed.

  There were lots more. Julie Oaks whose bum could touch her ankles. Fionnuala Quirke who had a missing little finger on her left hand. Nora McGuinness who wore hardly any clothes no matter what weather we were having. Big Beatrice Glynn who once arrived into our house and tried to convince Ma and me she was our cousin even though she never knew my name. And a few others I didn’t want to look at because I would only put myself in a worse mood.

  Don’t ask me where they all crawled out of. Or what was suddenly so special about McMorrow’s that made it the important place for them to congregate inside. I had no answers to questions like these. And a look on Harry and Fergal that let the place know when it came to women there were only two things they wanted – distance and silence. They might as well have been asking for a trip to Jupiter.

  Then Ma showed up. Wearing a black singlet with glittery writing that said Lazy Days and a denim skirt not much longer than the belt hitching it around her waist. The others were delighted to see her and she passed down the length of the bar, pausing ever so briefly when she caught my eye and blew me one of those kisses I thought she saved only for the boy-racers. A wonder she hadn’t stayed at home listening to Mario Devine’s sweet talk. No sooner was that thought in and out of my head than Mario walked in. He kept to himself at the door-end of the counter, though, giving Ma and the crew she was now with the occasional eye.