From out of the City

by John Kelly

  As I gaze now at the candle’s flame, I recall the morning of my own fortieth birthday. There I was flexing my biceps at the mirror, watching them shrink back into nothing, convinced that a deep physical decay had commenced almost overnight. And only recently flabby about the waist, I became suddenly afraid of my life (and more so of my death), and all I could see was one of those men who strip themselves daily and wade into the caged-off shallows of Seapoint. The old men of the rocks out from first light, every day of their lives, stripping off within spitting distance of Sellafield and the oozing sewers of Swiftian Dublin. The ancient, hairy-eared, hornytoed cormorant-men of Dublin Bay with their saggy chests pointing earthwards in wobbly little W’s that were once matters of pectorals and pride. As a dangerous little treat, I had vodka and orange for breakfast that morning and then I did something I had solemnly promised I would never do again.

  For years, as agreed, there hadn’t even been eye contact. Now, temporarily deranged by vodka, Weetabix and crisis, I broke all my own promises and knocked at the door of no. 28. Mr S was at work and the boy was at school. Mrs S didn’t say a word. She just turned and walked back down the hall, me floating behind her into the sitting room. I stood there, literally shivering as she moaned a theatrical moan and, with two lightly trailing fingers, dragged her sparkly red slippers from under the sofa and guided her red toenails towards them. It was a simple action but it made something instantly marvellous of her legs – sheer, perfect shapes no matter where you looked, the points of the prima ballerina, the calves of the cellist, the thighs of wild-haired Carmen rolling fat cigars on flesh the colour of coffee. Mrs S was a beautiful woman who well knew her beauty, understanding every last twist of her toes.

  – We had promised, she said, examining her fingernails. And it was working well.

  – I know, I whispered, visibly trembling now.

  – So why today? she asked. We have managed for years.

  – I don’t know, I said. But it’s my birthday today.

  – Ah! smiled Mrs S. The Big Four-Oh. I nodded with mock sadness.

  – We have an hour, she said. Then we must never, ever speak to each other again.

  – I’m sorry for turning up like this.

  – You’re just lucky I’m in the mood.

  And so I prayed very urgently (to all the gods of my childhood) that I might still look passable in a certain light. In candlelight perhaps? Or the demure tilt of an anglepoise? Surely in the flattering chiaroscuro of the Caravaggisti I mightn’t look too bad for forty? At least in some flickering golden glow which might give me some illusory definition and a little waxy contrast and tone. Perhaps even a touch of warmth and sparkle? But what an imposter I was! What a deluded interloper! To even consider standing in all my wreckage before the astonishing nakedness of Mrs S.

  The bedroom was out of bounds for many reasons, and so Mrs S tapped the blinds and the living room darkened in a pre-performance hush. And then, with Mrs S making the definite first move, we made urgent love on the sofa and seriously damaged the coffee table. It was all over very quickly and when I moved in for dessert she gently pushed me away, telling me to leave by the back door and, if I could at all manage it at my age, climb over the wall. I smiled a grim smile and saluted. Mrs S saluted back. This had been a pleasant but extremely dangerous slip and all vows were solemnly re-sworn on the spot.

  And then I watched as Mrs S closed her eyes. She really was so very, very beautiful, and I could have kissed her again as a lover might, but I had promised. There would be no more. And in any case, she was perhaps already in her dream, in her turquoise lagoon with some fruity drink with rum and sugar served in a coconut with a purple parasol, weightless in a golden haze that fizzes with emerald hummingbirds, zigzagging back and forth among palms and droplety ferns, her shiny brown skin all nut-smelling and slippery with factor 55. And almost as if within that lustful tangle of black Medusa hair Mrs S could still feel my eyes upon her, she stirred and said something that sounded like a very firm no. Spoons would have been perfect but I had to scarper like the Pimpernel. I blew a final kiss and watched it loop towards the hot salty flesh of her throat and I left. The boy hadn’t been mentioned once.

  And here, of course, another denouement of sorts. And this perhaps more interesting than the last and certainly more faithful to the French. An untying rather than a wrapping up. Schroeder. The boy. His father’s son. Ah yes, the secrets of paternity always sure-fire dynamite in fiction and in life. The contacts and near-misses. The resemblances uncommented on. The cragginess, the thinning hair, the ridges of potato drills on his skull. And now that boy is forty. A man as I was then.

  And so, on this his birthday, Schroeder shaves, showers and slaps on aftershave which was a present from Francesca two Christmases ago. He buttons up an Italian shirt, also a gift – linen, grey and faded but fragrant still with memories of holidays and rich meals of Chianti and wild boar. But today he’s not thinking of Francesca Maldini – he’s thinking of Paula Viola, and Maximillian has already been given a talking to. Nose hairs have been plucked, shoes have been spat upon and three dusty bottles of Brunello di Montalcino face off on the sideboard. Everything conducive and copacetic. And, a full hour ahead of the crew, she arrives bang on time.

  Dressed as a vampy librarian, the body of Paula Viola moves beneath her blouse in ways that make Schroeder instantly dizzy. Her hair is longer now, gathered up in a scrunchie, and to see her sitting in the very armchair in which he has so often imagined her is, to Schroeder, almost unbearable. Everything about her is perfect. Even her teeth make him horny.

  – So why now? she asks. It’s been six months.

  – It’s my birthday.

  – I left a lot of messages. You never got back.

  Schroeder’s brain is working very hard. He can hear it chunder with the sheer effort of trying to sound impressive.

  – I needed time. I was taking stock. I was getting fit. Writing again.

  – About what happened?

  – Partly that. But mostly about extremophiles.

  – Terrorists?

  – No. They’re not terrorists. They’re a sort of microbe and they’ll outlast everything else on Earth. Think of a place where nothing can possibly live.

  – Like Limerick?

  – Worse. A stalactite, say, in the deepest, darkest cave on the planet. Or inside a rock in the hottest desert. Or in polar ice. Or in the sulphurous springs of Hell. Anywhere you can think of. That’s where you’ll find an extremophile. The worse the conditions, the better these little fellas like it.

  – Sounds interesting.

  – Well we’ll see. It’ll need a few more drafts.

  Paula Viola’s hand rests on her thigh. Maximillian rages and I monitor everything with growing dismay.

  – So what have you got for me? asks Paula Viola.

  – I’d like to discuss it further.

  – In what way discuss it? We agreed on the phone.

  – I’m not so sure, now that I …

  – We have agreed on an interview, Mr Schroeder. The crew is on its way.

  And so what can I do? So close and yet unable to act. Short of Navy Seals bursting through the walls, nothing will get in the way of what will happen next. Schroeder has imagined this day for years, day after day, night after night. And for six months now he has struggled with the enormous fact that he has the power to make his fantasies come true, that he has the very information which would bring Paula Viola right into his home.

  – Ms Viola. How much do you much you want this interview?

  – I’m here, aren’t I?

  – I know who killed King.

  – Claude Butler killed King.

  – He didn’t.

  Paula Viola blinks. She takes a breath.

  – OK, then. If, for the sake of argument, Claude Butler didn’t kill King, then who did?

  Schroeder smiles.

  – Don’t do it, Schroeder, I’m saying to the muffin on the plate.

 
– Don’t do it, Schroeder, says Taylor Copland to the gun in her glove compartment.

  – Don’t do it, Schroeder, says Francesca to the kites above Tiananmen Square.

  – Don’t do it, Schroeder, says Princess King to the portrait of her dad.

  But before Schroeder quite realises what he’s doing he reaches out and touches Paula Viola’s damson hair, slipping his fingers deep into its strands and gripping slightly, tenderly. She leans her head back but Schroeder brushes a fingernail along the side of her neck and his fingers move to her cheek.

  – Mr Schroeder, what exactly do you think you’re doing?

  – Ms Viola, I want you to come upstairs.

  – Let’s just pretend I didn’t hear that, shall we?

  – Come upstairs with me now. And I’ll tell you exactly who killed Richard King.

  Paula Viola pulls away.

  – This is bullshit. Claude Butler killed him. Everybody knows that.

  – He didn’t. And I know who did.

  – Give me a name.

  – I will.

  – You mean in exchange for sex? Is that what you’re saying? You’d go that low?

  – I would. The question is would you?

  – Oh yeah, it’s the story of the century. I forgot.

  – Governments will fall, Ms Viola. I guarantee it.

  Paula Viola stands up and smoothes her skirt. Schroeder sneezes.

  – You’re lying. Schroeder stands up.

  – I don’t lie.

  – OK then, who’s your source?

  – I can’t say.

  – Tell me who your source is right now or this goes no further.

  – I can’t tell you that.

  Paula Viola suddenly grabs Schroeder by the buckle of his belt and pulls him close. His breath catches as she stares hard into his face, searching for flickers of falsehood or truth. She presses herself against him.

  – Who’s your fucking source?

  – I can’t say.

  Paula twists the buckle tight.

  – Who killed Cock Robin, Mr Schroeder? Tell me.

  – It wasn’t Claude Butler.

  She yanks the buckle hard.

  – You sure about that?

  – He was stitched up.

  She exhales deep and hard right into his mouth.

  – You better not be playing me with this.

  – I’m very serious.

  She grabs his hair with her free hand.

  – Tell me who your source is.

  – No.

  And then Paula Viola stands back, arches an eyebrow and flicks at a button.

  – Tell me who your source is.

  Schroeder stares at the open button.

  – Someone very close to the President. That’s all I can say.

  – Nobody close to the President would talk. Especially to you.

  – My source is someone close to the President.

  Paula Viola opens another button with one hand and waits for the sneezing to stop.

  – How well did you know Princess King?

  – She was a student of mine at Trinity. That’s all.

  – Is she your source?

  – My source is someone very close to the President.

  Another button.

  – And you’ll go on record?

  – Yes.

  Another button. Another sneeze.

  – And you’ll tell me everything. On camera.

  – Yes.

  – Everything?

  – I’ll tell you everything.

  Schroeder sits back on the sofa and watches Paula Viola strip down to stilettos and a G-string. Then her hair comes down and she tousles it just as he imagined she would.

  – You’d better hurry up, she says. The crew will be here soon.

  Paula Viola turns and walks out of the room and although Schroeder watches and lusts, he stays exactly where he is. And whether or not he ever really considers following her upstairs is a secret he will never share. Perhaps he just wants to see how far she will go? Or how far he will not? Paula Viola, to whom he is utterly addicted, has just presented herself at last and he is saying no. He hears her stilettos cracking like bullets on the bare stairs of no. 28 and Schroeder, at forty, is saying no.

  And so, on the morning of the Big Four-Oh, Schroeder quietly gives thanks for Francesca Maldini and her parting gift, for Taylor Copland and her ruthless sleight of hand, and yes, for Paula Viola too, as naked as he’s dreamt her, her heels now digging into his brand-new goose-down duvet. But most of all he gives thanks for Princess King – a President’s daughter who rejected all dysfunction and moved, in one generation, from lost to decent soul and entrusted him with secrets which might, one day, clear the way for who knows what and when. So no. He will not disappoint her. Not now. He must not.

  But this, no more than any previous denouement is no way to end things. To either wrap, or more correctly, untie. Not with this soundtrack. A wah-wah, bump n’ grindy jazz setting of “Unlaceable You.” No. Not with an unconsummated sex scene (contains some nudity) which might, at best, be seen as rather obvious commentary on the treachery, venality and general unseemliness of the media. Or perhaps on the dull predictability of sexual desire and the limited vision of the male gaze. Or, then again, having said that, on the timeless allure of the stiletto. Not the kitten heel, of course, but a proper dagger. Invented by Leonardo, they say. And which, as any schoolboy will tell you, can inflict more damage on your metatarsus than an elephant. But there it is. Dénouement pour Alto Solo. Smorzando.

  Next door at no. 26, I pout at the flame, extract the smoking candle and raise the muffin before me. I bite down hard and reason as I chew. Yes. Everything is indeed broken now. Without question. Presidents kill themselves, innocent men get executed in their turn and touts and handlers play out their several games. Unhappy men addicted to booze, sex, information and power stupefy themselves with drugs that unblock their brains on one side and then eat right through them on the other. And yes. I am, in ways, one of them myself. But today, on Schroeder’s fortieth birthday, it seems that stranger things are happening. Somehow. Up above my head.

  There are tiny spits of rain as I watch Schroeder disappear along Hibernia Road carrying the yellow manila folder. For months, this same folder has been a source of some torture for me, every night listening to Schroeder tapping away, sometimes slowly, sometimes with what seems like rage. But for all my surveillance skills, for all my instinct and experience, even I can’t hook into a Hermes 3000. And whatever is in that folder, only Schroeder knows for now. He stands at the corner under a cordyline, stuffs the folder underneath his shirt and watches the rain come down. This is a good day, he tells himself. And a day which is now his own. All this rain, he’s thinking to himself – if he’s anything like me at all – is as thrilling as a snare drum.

  Or perhaps he is just now realising that, based on what he knows, he must concentrate entirely on the assassination. On the conspiracy and the cover-up. And nothing else. No pandiculation, no Borgnine reveries, no retromingent dogs, no historical asides, no ornithology, and as little taxonomy and toponymy as possible. No Latin, Irish or Greek for sure, and in my opinion certainly no comic interludes, sousaphones and words like fuck and fucksake. Most of all, and this is crucial, he must leave himself out of it entirely. And me too. At all costs. And then he’ll have some story on his hands.

  I’m an old man now and the best I can do is bequeath him all I have. He will have everything at his disposal, including, for what it’s worth, this shirt-box full of hurried pages. After I’m gone, of course, as per my instructions to Blood, Tobin & Fry Solicitors.

  And so I leave things here, with Schroeder under a cordyline, me at the window and Ms Paula Viola – broadcaster and succubus – arranged like some vicious odalisque on Schroeder’s bed. She’s trying to figure it all out. That if, for the sake of argument, it wasn’t Claude Butler, then who? And if, for the sake of argument, it wasn’t Claude Butler, then how would Schroeder be a
ware of same? But then of course, as I have said on more than one occasion, there is nothing which cannot be known. Not a thing. And as I descend to my garden to inspect my dacha and my barricade and see what gilded finches may have landed in my hedge, I can still hear her summons through the walls. Shouting up at the chandelier. The general thrust of her vociferation – from the Latin vox and ferre – being that Schroeder get his skates on and that, whatever it is, it had better be good.

  And now the rain comes down in sheets. In over Dublin Bay. The drops and the droplets and the dropletíns blackening the sandbanks and the quays, the hardware and the hulks from San Diego, Everett and Norfolk, VA. Washing clean the bones of Eblana, the pots of the Norsemen, the Thingmote and the Liberties. Strongbow in Christchurch my eye! Fitz-this and Fitz-that and all that follies – the rickety remnants of urchin, junky and hoor. The fallen houses of merchants and nobles, ecclesiastics and Lords Lieutenant, statues and plaques to rebels and laureates, shoulder to shoulder with skanger and sangar and dazzle-painted checkpoints all nets and puffs of smoke. And the Four Courts and the Custom House, and the bits of broken bridges nosing in the Liffey’s shallow trough. Trolleys, lorries, bodies, old silver barrels from James’s Gate. Exponential distribution is what it is. Bendita lluvia. Báisteach. As per the Marshall-Palmer Law. A Poisson Process? I forget. The position of errors. Bogholes in a plotlet and such. Characters and the like. Charcuteries such as your one, presently shouting at the Seán D’Olier.

  But just to think of it. The fluid dynamics of it all. The Tolka gurgling. The Dargle in spate. Flooded culvert and catacomb. The steamed-up windows of the empty DART, the retro chippers and the charnel houses. Cascading gutters at government buildings. Guttersnipes and gulpins. Dams of dead pigeons, the wringing Guards. Obedientia Civium Urbis Felicitas. And oh, that Monsieur Fish and his fine weather for the Peking ducksworths in the wet windows of Chinatown. For the spires of San Patricio, for the flag (upside down this long time) on the GPO, and for the watchtowers of Ballywashington in the treetops of the Park. Fresh water. Precipitation. Fionn Uisce. Not the fabulous bird at all. The landmarks removed. The rhinoceros dead.