Irish Journal

by Heinrich Böll

  “Why don’t you ask the Archbishop?” said my Irish companion; he turned his window down still farther and held out his package of cigarettes. The policeman took a cigarette.

  The little gift seemed to have reminded the policeman of his real, his tiresome earthly life; his face suddenly grew old again, bloated and gloomy, when he asked:

  “By the way, can I have a look at your registration?”

  The driver did not even try to pretend to look for it—none of that artificial nervousness with which we look for something we know is not there; he simply said: “Oh, I left it at home.”

  The policeman did not bat an eyelid. “Oh, well,” he said, “I expect your face is your own.”

  Whether the car is his too is obviously less important, I thought, as we drove on; we drove along glorious avenues, past magnificent ruins, but I saw little of them. I was thinking of the dead Indian who had been found on Duke Street by a nun, in a storm and lashing rain: I saw them both clearly, a pair of angels—one in war paint, the other wearing brown underpants darned with pink wool; I saw them more clearly than the things I might actually have seen: the splendid avenues and the magnificent ruins.…

  12

  GAZING INTO THE FIRE

  It must be fun to have your own peat ditch; Mr. O’Donovan in Dublin has one, and any number of O’Neills, Molloys, and Dalys in Dublin have them; on free days (and there are plenty of those) Mr. O’Donovan needs only to get on a Number 17 or 47 bus with his spade and drive out to his peat ditch: the fare is sixpence, he has a few sandwiches and a flask of tea in his pocket, and he can dig peat in his own claim; a truck or a donkey cart will carry the peat back down to the city for him. For his compatriot in other counties it is even easier: there the peat grows almost into the house, and on sunny days the bare hills, striped greenish-black, are as busy as at harvest time; here they are gathering in what centuries of moisture have built up between naked rocks, lakes, and green meadows: peat, the sole natural wealth of a country that for centuries has been robbed of its forests, that has not always had its daily bread but almost always its daily rain, no matter how little: a tiny cloud sailing along on a day of brilliant sunshine and—half jokingly—squeezed out like a sponge.

  Behind every house the lumps of this brownish cake dry in great stacks, sometimes higher than the roof, and in this way you can be sure of one thing: fire in the fireplace, the red flame licking the dark lumps, leaving pale ash, light, odorless, almost like cigar ash: white tip to the black Brazil.

  An open fire renders one of the least attractive (and most indispensable) objects of civilized social intercourse superfluous: the ashtray; when the time the guest has spent in the house is left behind chopped up into cigarette ends in the ashtray, and the housewife empties these malodorous dishes, the stubborn, stickyish, black-gray mess remains. It is strange that no psychologist has yet investigated the lowlands of psychology and discovered the branch of buttology, for then the housewife, in collecting the chopped-up time to throw it away, could turn the butts to her advantage and practice a little psychology: there they are, then, the half-smoked, brutally bent cigarette ends of the man who never has time and with his cigarettes struggles in vain against time to gain time—there Eros has left a dark-red border on the filter—the pipe smoker the ashes of his dependability: black, crumbled, dry—there are the frugal remains of the chain smoker, who lets the cigarette burn almost to his lips before he lights the next one; in these lowlands of psychology it would be easy to find at least a few rough indices as by-products of civilized social intercourse. How kindly a fire is, consuming every trace; only teacups remain, a few glasses, and in the fireplace the glowing heart round which from time to time the master of the house piles up fresh black lumps of peat.

  And all the meaningless brochures—for refrigerators, trips to Rome, “Golden Books of Humor,” automobiles, and investments—this flood that, with wrapping paper, newspapers, tickets, envelopes, is rising alarmingly, here it can be transformed directly into flame; add a few sticks of wood picked up during a walk on the beach: the remains of a brandy case, a wedge washed overboard, dried out, white and clean: hold a match to the pyre and at once the flames leap up, and time, the time between five in the afternoon and midnight, is so quickly consumed by the quiet flame of the fire; voices are low; for someone to shout here he must be one of two things: sick or ridiculous. Sitting here by the fire, it is possible to play truant from Europe, while Moscow has lain in darkness for the past four hours, Berlin for two, even Dublin for half an hour: there is still a clear light over the sea, and the Atlantic persistently carries away piece by piece the Western bastion of Europe; rocks fall into the sea, soundlessly the bog streams carry the dark European soil out into the Atlantic; over the years, gently plashing, they smuggle whole fields out to the open sea, crumb by crumb.

  Shivering slightly, the truants put fresh peat on the fire; pieces laid carefully in layers to light the midnight game of dominoes; the needle glides slowly across the radio panel to pick up the time, but all it catches is shreds of national anthems; slowly the light in the panel dies away, and once again the flame leaps up from the peat: there is still one layer there, one hour: four lumps of peat above the glowing heart; the daily rain comes late today, almost with a smile, falling softly into the bog, into the ocean.

  The sound of the departing guests’ car dwindles toward lights lying scattered in the bog, on black slopes already in deep shadow, while on the beach and over the sea it is still light; the dome of darkness moves slowly toward the horizon, then closes the last chink in the vault, but it is still not quite dark, while in the Urals it is already getting light. Europe is only as wide as a short summer night.

  13

  WHEN SEAMUS WANTS A DRINK.…

  When Seamus wants a drink he must decide on when to order his thirst: as long as there are tourists in the place (and not every place has them) he can allow his thirst some degree of license, for tourists may drink whenever they are thirsty, so that the native can confidently take his place among them at the bar, especially as he represents a folkloric element that encourages tourist trade. But after September 1, Seamus has to regulate his thirst. Closing time on weekdays is 10 P.M., and that’s bad enough, for during the warm, dry days of September Seamus often works until half-past nine, sometimes longer. But on Sundays he must force himself to be thirsty either up until two in the afternoon or between six and eight in the evening. If Sunday dinner takes a long time, and thirst does not come until after two, Seamus will find his favorite pub closed and the landlord, even if Seamus knocks till he comes to the door, will be “very sorry” and not in the least inclined to risk a fine of five pounds, a trip to the county capital, and a lost day’s work all for the sake of a glass of beer or a whisky. On Sundays pubs have to close between two and six, and one can never be quite sure of the local policeman; there are some people who suffer from attacks of conscientiousness after a heavy Sunday dinner and become intoxicated with adherence to the law. But Seamus has also had a heavy dinner, and his longing for a glass of beer is far from remarkable, still less sinful.

  So at five minutes past two Seamus stands in the village square, thinking. In the memory of his thirsty throat, forbidden beer naturally tastes better than easily obtainable beer. Seamus considers: one way would be to get his bicycle out of the shed and pedal the six miles to the next village, the landlord in the next village being obliged to give him that which the landlord in his own village must refuse him: his beer. This abstruse drinking law has the additional embellishment that the traveler who is at least three miles from his own village may not be refused a cooling drink. Seamus is still pondering: the geographical situation is unfavorable for him—unfortunately it is not possible to choose one’s place of birth—and it is Seamus’ bad luck that the next pub is not three but six miles away—uncommonly bad luck for an Irishman, for six miles without a pub are a rarity. Six miles there, six miles back—twelve miles for a glass of beer, and what’s more, part of the w
ay is uphill. Seamus is not a heavy drinker; if he were he wouldn’t be so long making up his mind, he would have got on his bicycle long ago and be gaily jingling the shillings in his pocket. All he wants is a beer: there was so much salt in the ham, so much pepper in the cabbage—and is it decent for a man to quench his thirst with spring water or buttermilk? He gazes at the poster hanging over his favorite pub: an enormous realistically painted glass of stout, dark as liquorice and so fresh, the bitter drink, and surmounted by white, snow-white foam being licked off by a thirsty seal. “A lovely day for a Guinness!” O Tantalus! So much salt in the ham, so much pepper in the cabbage.

  Cursing, Seamus goes back into the house, gets his bike out of the shed, and angrily pedals off. O Tantalus—and the power of skillful advertising! It is a hot day, very hot, the hill is steep; Seamus has to dismount, push the bicycle, sweating and cursing: his curses do not belong to the sexual sphere like those of the wine-drinking races, his curses are those of the spirit-drinkers, more blasphemous and cerebral than sexual curses, for don’t spirits contain spiritus? He curses the government, probably also curses the clergy, who stubbornly cling to this incomprehensible law (just as in Ireland the clergy have the last word when it comes to granting pub licenses, deciding on closing time, dances), this sweating thirsty Seamus who a few hours ago was standing so reverent, so candidly pious in church listening to the Gospel. At last he reaches the top of the hill: this is the scene of the sketch I would like to write, for this is where Seamus meets his cousin Dermot from the next village. Dermot has also had salt ham, peppery cabbage. Dermot is also not a heavy drinker, all he wants is a glass of beer to quench his thirst; he too—in the next village—has stood in front of the poster with the realistically painted glass of stout, the epicurean seal, he too stood making up his mind, finally got his bike out of the shed, pushed it up the hill, cursing, sweating—now he meets Seamus: their conversation is brief but blasphemous—then Seamus races down the hill toward Dermot’s favorite pub, Dermot toward Seamus’ favorite pub, and they will both do what they never intended to do: they will drink themselves into a stupor, for it wouldn’t be worth coming all this way for one glass of beer, for one whisky. At some time or other on this Sunday they will push their bikes up the hill again, staggering and singing, will race down the hill at breakneck speed. Seamus and Dermot, who are not drunkards at all—or are they after all?—will be drunkards before evening.

  But perhaps, while he stands thirsty in the village square after two o’clock and looks at the foam-licking seal, Seamus will decide to wait, not to get his bike out of the shed; perhaps he will decide to quench his thirst—Oh the shame of it!—with water or buttermilk, to fall onto the bed with the Sunday paper. In the oppressive afternoon heat and quiet he will drop off to sleep, suddenly wake up, look at the clock and frantically—as if pursued by the devil—rush over to the pub opposite, for it is a quarter to eight, and his thirst has only a quarter of an hour left. The landlord has already begun to call out mechanically: “Ready now, please! Ready now, please!” In haste and anger, always with one eye on the clock, Seamus will down three, four, five glasses of beer, knock back several whiskies, for the clock hand is slipping closer and closer toward the eight, and the lookout posted in front of the door has already reported that the village policeman is slowly strolling across: there are some people who on Sunday afternoons suffer from attacks of ill humor and adherence to the law.

  If you find yourself in a pub shortly before eight suddenly listening to the landlord’s “Time, gentlemen, please!” you can watch the influx of all those who are not drunkards but who have suddenly realized the pub is closing soon and they haven’t yet done what they possibly wouldn’t feel in the least like doing if it were not for this insane law: they haven’t got drunk yet. At five minutes to eight the crush at the bar is tremendous; everyone is drinking to ward off the thirst that may come at ten, at eleven, or even not at all. Besides, everyone feels obliged to stand the other fellow a drink: so the landlord desperately calls upon his wife, his nieces, grandchildren, grandmother, great-grandmother and aunt, because at three minutes to eight he has to draw seven rounds: sixty pints of beer, the same number of whiskies, have still to be poured, still to be drunk. This urge to drink, to be generous, has something childish about it, it is like the furtive cigarette-smoking of those who vomit as furtively as they smoke—and the final scene, when the policeman appears at the door on the dot of eight, the final scene is pure barbarism: pale, grim seventeen-year-olds hide somewhere in the barn and fill themselves up with beer and whisky, playing the senseless rules of the game of manhood, and the landlord—the landlord fills his pockets, heaps of pound notes, jingling silver, money, money—but the law has been kept.

  Sunday is by no means over, however, it is exactly eight o’clock—early yet, and the scene acted out at two in the afternoon with Seamus and Dermot can now be repeated with a cast of any number: about quarter-past eight in the evening, up on the hill, two groups of drunks meet; in order to abide by the three-mile regulation they are merely switching villages, switching pubs. Many are the curses that ascend to Heaven on Sunday in this pious Catholic country on which no Roman mercenary ever set foot: a bit of Catholic Europe beyond the borders of the Roman Empire.

  14

  MRS. D.’s NINTH CHILD

  Mrs. D.’s ninth child is called James Patrick Pedar. The day he was born was the seventeenth birthday of Siobhan, Mrs. D.’s oldest child. Siobhan’s future is already settled. She is to take over the post office, look after the switchboard, receive and transmit calls from Glasgow, London, Liverpool, sell stamps, issue receipts for registered letters, and pay out ten times as much money as is paid in: pounds from England, converted dollars from America, baby bonuses, prizes for Gaelic, pensions. Every day about one o’clock when the post office truck arrives she will melt the sealing wax over a candle and press the great seal with the Irish lyre onto the large envelope containing the most important items; she will not—as her father does—have a beer every day with the driver of the post office truck and exchange a few terse remarks which resemble the severity of a liturgy more than a friendly chat over the counter. So that’s what Siobhan will be doing: from eight in the morning till two in the afternoon she will sit there in the post office, with her assistant, and again in the evening from six to ten, to look after the switchboard; she will have plenty of time to read the paper, novels, or look out over the sea with her binoculars, to bring the blue islands from a distance of twelve miles to a mile and a half, the bathers on the beach from five hundred yards to sixty: women from Dublin, fashionable and old-fashioned. But longer, much longer than the short bathing season is the dead, the quiet time: wind, rain, wind, now and again a visitor buying a fivepenny stamp for a letter to the Continent, or one sending registered letters weighing three or four ounces to cities called Munich, Cologne, or Frankfurt; who obliges her to open the fat tariff book and make complicated calculations, or has friends who compel her to decipher telegraph texts from code: “Eile geboten. Stop. Antwortet baldmöglichst.” Will Siobhan ever understand what “baldmöglichst” means, a word she writes so neatly in her girl’s handwriting on the telegraph form, making an oe out of the ö?

  In any event, Siobhan’s future seems certain, as far as anything in this world is certain; even more certain appears the fact that she will get married: she has eyes like Vivien Leigh, and in the evening a youth often sits on the post office counter, dangling his legs, and one of those laconic, almost mute flirtations is carried on which are only possible in cases of ardent passion and well-nigh pathological shyness.

  “Lovely weather we’re having, aren’t we?”

  “Yes.”

  Silence, fleeting exchange of glances, a smile, long silence. Siobhan is glad when the switchboard buzzes.

  “Are you there? Are you there?”

  A plug pulled out; a smile, a glance, silence, long silence.

  “Wonderful weather, isn’t it?”

  “Wonderful.”<
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  Silence, a smile, the switchboard comes to the rescue again.

  “This is Dukinella, Dukinella calling—yes.”

  Plug in. Silence. Smile with the eyes of Vivien Leigh, and the young man, his voice almost cracking this time:

  “Marvelous weather, eh?”

  “Yes, marvelous.”

  Siobhan will get married but continue to look after the switchboard, to sell stamps, to pay out money, and to press the seal with the Irish lyre into the soft sealing wax.

  Perhaps one day she will suddenly rebel, when the wind blows for weeks on end, when people walking along at a slant struggle against the storm, when the rain beats down for weeks on end, the binoculars fail to bring the blue islands within sight, and in the fog the smoke of the peat fires hangs close and bitter. But whatever happens she can stay here, and this is a fabulous stroke of luck: of her eight brothers and sisters, only two will be able to stay; one brother can take over the little boardinghouse, and another, if he doesn’t get married, can help him out there; the boardinghouse will not support two families. The others will emigrate or be forced to look for work somewhere else in the country; but where, and how much will they earn? The few men who have steady jobs here, at the dock, fishing, digging peat, or on the beach where they sift gravel, load sand, these few men earn five to seven pounds a week; and if a man has his own peat claim, a cow, chickens, a cottage, and children to help him, he can just about make a living—but in England a laborer, if he works overtime, earns twenty to twenty-five pounds a week, and without overtime at least twelve to fifteen; this means that a young fellow, even if he spends ten pounds a week on himself, will always send from two to fifteen pounds home, and there is many a granny living here on these two pounds sent her by a son or grandson, and many a family living on the five pounds sent by the father.