by Tim Buckley
CHAPTER 15
She said I betrayed you. Is that what you think? I expect so. Who else could have led her to that conclusion if not you. Now that I’ve met Hélène, I have created a picture of you both in my head that lives with me every day, like a painting hanging on the wall of my imagination. You are sitting with her at a café, somewhere in the 6th. Maybe the Café de Flore or Les Deux Magots. It’s summertime and you are at a table on the pavement in the still-warm early evening sun. You have come from a class and your violin case is at your feet. Your light, white summer dresses flutter in the gentle breeze, or in the draft of a bus as it trundles along the Boulevard St. Germain. You draw admiring glances from the men walking past on the street, and from the “m’as tu vu?” boys riding past on their scooters with carefully crafted nonchalance.
I want your face to beam and glow with a healthy joie de vivre inspired by the city around you – but I can’t get it right. Instead you look angry: your eyes are narrowed and your brow is furrowed in deep annoyance. Your arms are waving in irate gesticulation. Hélène is sitting quietly, allowing you to vent your ire, all the while nodding sympathetically. She feels your pain, I think she wants to make it go away. She is your friend and she loves you but are you too blinded by your own anger to see or reciprocate? An anger that is my fault.
I think you are talking about me. One morning, did your mother hand you the brown envelope with the Harp? Did she take it from her pocket, where it had been secreted while she agonised over what to do? Her eyes were wet, I’d say. She said that she and your father only wanted what was best for you and that they would support you, always love you, whatever you chose to do. You took the envelope and turned it over and over in your hands.
And even though you feared a betrayal of your own, of the very people who had cherished and nurtured you, you reached out to find me. Me, who had betrayed you. And for months, for a year, for longer, you waited for me to respond. Checked every day for a sign, for some signal that I was out there, that I cared. And then finally you gave up. You angrily deleted the web-site address from your computer’s Favourites, perhaps? And you never went back. Why should you? I had forsaken you once, abandoned you. Betrayed you. Is that what you said to Hélène? That I betrayed you? And now when you had given me the chance to redeem myself, I had ignored it. Ignored you. Was that my last chance?
I want to explain, to defend myself – but I can’t. You see, I’ve spent years trying to build my case with logic and reason. We were young, I argue. We had nothing to offer you. We could never have provided the secure home that you deserved. But there is no reason that justifies leaving you with strangers. So I appeal to the judge for clemency, beg him to understand. But he just shakes his head with a withering look. He picks up his gavel and brings it down with a final crack. Guilty of the worst treason. Now I can only hope for mercy, that you will find it in your heart to forgive. But why should you.
So when Hélène accused me of betrayal, I had no response. She is your friend, loyal and true. And yet I, your father, could not dredge from my being the merest fraction of that fidelity. She has nothing for me but a bitter loathing. I cannot seek her out or follow her because I have nothing more to say.
And so now I stare at the painting in my head, but something has changed. Hélène is not looking at you anymore. Now she is staring intensely out from the canvas. She has seen me looking in and she is staring out at me. And in her eyes I see a new spark, a new emotion. I lean in and peer closer to make it out, and realise with a jolt that it is anger. I try to change it, paint over it, retouch her eyes with understanding or sympathy or pity even. But I cannot even temper the contempt.
Contempt for a betrayal.
CHAPTER 16
The rain swept across the headland in sheets so dense that I could barely make out the sea below, like the curtain closing on an Ibsen stage. The wet stones that bordered the narrow path were so treacherous that I slowed to no more than walking pace lest my old running shoes should lose their grip and send me sliding down the heathered slopes above the cliffs. On days like these Howth had always seemed to me its own secret kingdom, isolated and removed from the rest of Dublin and the country. The city’s high rise buildings and bustling streets, the lights that blinked on top of the Pigeon House, the distant Sugarloaf, were all hidden and ceased to exist in my dominion.
My head was filled with the fug of too many pints in McGrath’s, and the rain was in truth a relief. The Master’s robust support for my pursuit of a work to hang at Lochlann’s exhibition finally convinced me to look for a way to go on in the face of Hélène’s abrupt departure – because despite my bullish refusal to give up, I had in my mind no real strategy to continue. And despite his assurances that Dublin was filled to creaking with beautiful, haunting-eyed subjects, I had not the first idea how to go about finding one.
Oran had joined us later, in surprisingly buoyant if typically caustic mood and the three of us talked about football and rugby and old schoolmates and well-embellished tales of childhood skullduggery from long-gone schooldays. I nestled in the cosy camaraderie of conversations that meandered well clear of Aoife or Caitríona or food critics – not deliberately, but naturally. It was the kind of impromptu session that is invariably the best kind.
It was already late when the Master made his excuses and bade us goodnight, in what even my stout-addled mind could plainly see was yet another of his ploys to mend my broken bonds with the past. The barriers lowered by what we had already drunk, Oran and I sat there until closing time, the tone of our banter dipping innocently below the threshold of what would have been acceptable in the Master’s company. When the barman questioned for the umpteenth time the existence of our abodes, we shuffled to the exit and planted manly slaps on each other’s shoulders.
“See ya tomorrow then, Aengus,” he said, pulling up the zip on his jacket against the rain that had already started to drift in from the sea.
“Yeah, see ya, Oran.”
And with that the chasm’s closure was complete.
I was back at the house and pulling off muddy shoes in the doorway when Lochlann appeared from his study. He looked surprised to see me.
“Did you have a good run?” he asked.
“In that?” I said with a sceptical snort, gesturing out to the rain that darkened even a summer morning. “You must be joking.”
“Indeed,” he nodded distractedly. “I was just about to make some coffee. Would you like some?”
“That’d be great. I’ll just go and have a quick shower, back in a few minutes.”
The steaming water in the shower stung my frozen skin and I shivered involuntarily in the heat as I tried to figure out how to break it to Lochlann that I no longer had a model. I couldn’t, or didn’t want to, explain to him why she had left, and so I probably wouldn’t be able to explain what had happened. He would think me flighty, no doubt, as unreliable as always. He might call a halt to the whole project. But even if he did, even if he pulled the plug on my work at his exhibition, I realised with some surprise that I was resolved to go on, to finish this thing anyway.
I towelled myself down, threw on some clothes and went back down to the kitchen.
“There you are,” said Lochlann with a hint of impatience, glancing at his watch. He poured me a coffee. “I hope that it’s still hot.”
I took a gulp.
“It’s grand,” I said.
“We missed you at dinner last night,” he said pointedly. “Perhaps in future you might tell Pauline if you plan to eat elsewhere.”
I inwardly slapped myself for the indiscretion.
“Shit, sorry, Lochlann,” I said with a shake of my head. “That was really stupid. I’m not used to my plans affecting anyone else. Sorry.”
“Hmm,” he nodded what I took be acceptance of my apology. “You went out I suppose?”
“Yes, yes I did. To McGrath’s.” I took a deep breath.
“I needed a bit of time to think. You see, Hélène – the girl who’s sitting for me – she, er... walked out on me yesterday.”
My father, to whom a show of surprise was a display of weakness, could hardly mask that this was, to say the least, unexpected. He looked out the window for a moment, then back to me.
“I see,” he said. “Might I ask why?”
“We couldn’t agree on the pose,” I lied. “The look I wanted, she thought it was too sad, too weak, I think.”
I immediately regretted the fabrication that made her the flighty, unreliable one.
“Well, that’s the end of that, I suppose.”
I looked for the hint of relief or of smug self-congratulation that I expected, but to my surprise there was none. If it had been anyone else, I would have said there was even a touch of disappointment in his voice. If it had been anyone else.
“Look, I’m sorry to have messed you about,” I said, slowly. I paused, looking for the right words to make my proposition. “But if it’s ok with you, I’d like to keep trying. To find someone else or to do it without a model? At least try to get it done in time. And if not, well then fair enough.”
“Time is not on your side, Aengus,” he said, with a despairing shake of his head. “I would have to change the literature, amend the floorplan... It’s not simply a case of making the decision the night before we open.”
“I know, and I won’t ask you to wait too long,” I found myself pleading in spite of myself. “Just a few days to see if there’s any way. Maybe you know where I could find another model?”
He paused.
“Speak to Johnny Wright,” he said. “He may know of someone. If you go through the agencies, it will take too long.”
Johnny Wright was a long-time friend, confidante even, of Lochlann’s. He owned an art supplies shop in Dublin where Lochlann had sourced his materials for as long as I could remember.
“OK. Thanks.” I looked at my watch. “I’ll go in now. Will he be there, do you think?”
“I expect so, yes.”
“OK.” I drained my coffee and picked up my jacket from the back of the chair. I looked back as I pulled open the door.
“Thanks, Lochlann,” I nodded, and left.
The DART trundled its way along Howth head’s northern shore, across the isthmus and into Sutton. The rain rattled off the windows and the roof like a continuous blast of pebbles and grit. I had bought a newspaper for the trip into town but it sat unopened on my lap. I was preoccupied by Lochlann’s reaction to news of Hélène’s desertion, as I had inadvertently painted it. I had been prepared for him to be condescending, to smugly remind me that he had told me so. I was ready for him to take the opportunity to call a halt to the whole project, to cite time constraints and my obvious inexperience as justification, if indeed any was needed. But his objections had been weakly made and he had left the door, if not open, then at least ajar.
Johnny Wright’s shop was on the east side of Parnell Square, in the centre of the city, so I got off the DART at Tara Street, crossed the river at O’Connell Bridge and made my way up O’Connell Street. When I was a boy, I thought O’Connell Street must be one of the grandest city thoroughfares in Europe. In the world, even. Wide and straight and proud, steeped in history and culture, it was our Champs Elysées, our Fifth Avenue. Guarded at either end by Parnell and O’Connell, its statue-lined length is like a passage through our history. From Smith O’Brien’s futile rebellion and Larkin’s lockout to the GPO and the vacant spot where Nelson used to stand, it remembers a violent history of bloody defiance.
In the school holidays of our childhood, Oran and I would get the bus into town to buy new football boots or socks or gloves in Arnott’s, or a book in Easons, or to marvel at Clery’s Christmas window. Later, we would take shy girlfriends on the DART to the cinema – the Carlton or the Savoy. But then O’Connell Street fell victim to another invasion, one that it couldn’t repel. Now fast-food shops, amusement arcades and Euro-shops line its pavements and the boorish crowds that spill from its pubs hold hostage its night-time hours. And so now she roams Dublin’s heart like the homeless that beg coins from strangers – a once proud woman reduced by the greed of others to rag-clad poverty.
Johnny Wright’s shop was old and old-fashioned. The shop-front was of dark wood, with his name in ornate, intricate script painted over the shop-window. I lingered a moment outside, surveying through the window the neatly ordered floor-to-ceiling shelves inside that held the shop’s vast array of stock. Johnny himself was sitting on a high stool behind the counter, reading the newspaper. He was an instantly recognisable older version of the man I knew from those days when I had been able to persuade Lochlann to take me with him on his trips into town to replenish his stocks. Lochlann always drove into the city – not for him the indignity of the bus – and I beamed with giddy pride until my face ached as I peered out of the window from the front seat of his car, willing everybody to see me and take note. Johnny always had a toy or a comic for me to pass the time while Lochlann selected his wares, but the wonder of the treasures on display was beguiling diversion enough to pass twice the time.
I pushed open the door and walked in, and an old bell above the door tinkled gently to announce my arrival. He finished the piece he was reading before looking up to see who had come in. He looked at me a fraction too long.
“How’re ye?” he said with the faintest of nods.
“Hi, Johnny,” I replied.
So I knew his name. He looked at me again, his brain racking behind impassive eyes, but couldn’t dredge me from his memory. I stepped forward and introduced myself.
“Aengus, Lochlann’s son,” I said, hand outstretched. “It’s good to see you again. How are you keeping?”
The impassive eyes glinted with recognition.
“Ah Jaysus, it is too,” he said softly, rising from his seat and coming around the counter to shake my hand, clasping it firmly in both of his.
“It is too,” he repeated. “How are ye, son? God, sure it must be what, fifteen years?”
“And the rest, Johnny,” I smiled, standing awkwardly with my hand still in his.
When he finally released me, we chatted about where I had been and what I had done – a sanitised, abbreviated version of the events of almost twenty years – and we talked about his business and the boom in artistic endeavour in Dublin.
“Your father’s a busy man these days,” he said, his face getting serious. “The exhibition is important to him, eh?”
“Yes, I think so,” I said, suddenly embarrassed that I actually didn’t really know if it was or not. “Yes.”
“He was in the other day, getting a few things,” Johnny continued. “He’s lookin’ well all the same, thank God.”
“He is,” I said, suppressing a sudden urge to smile at the universal need of Irish people of a certain age to issue a health bulletin – invariably negative or, if positive, then positive in spite of everything.
Johnny straightened himself .
“So, to what do I owe this pleasure?” he asked.
“Well, I’m actually looking for some supplies – and for a bit of advice. I’m going to work on a portrait to show at Lochlann’s exhibition.”
Johnny’s face inadvertently betrayed his surprise, and a fleeting shadow of doubt.
“Jaysus, that’s fantastic,” he said, recovering his composure. “Fantastic opportunity.”
He cocked his head slightly and the doubts peered out again from behind his eyes.
“Big commitment though, big responsibility” he said. “How much work have you done on it?”
“I haven’t started. I’ve scoped it in my head and I know what I want to do, but…” I let it hang, the implication needed no elaboration.
Johnny exhaled with a long whistle.
“Jaysus, lad, you’ve got your work cut out, so you have. So
what are you thinking of doing?”
I explained the girl with the violin and what she represented, and he nodded kindly.
“The problem is –,” I started, “actually the first of a long list of problems – is that my model walked out on me yesterday.”
“D’ya have to have a model?” he asked, skipping past the obvious but pointless question why.
“I think so. I think I need the face in front of me. And I need the inspiration of a real person, if that doesn’t sound too pompous.”
“No,” he said, as though considering it and arriving at a conclusion, “I know what you mean. So you need another model then?”
“I do, and Lochlann said you might know of someone.”
He rubbed his chin and nodded slowly.
“I might alright, I might. And you’re going to sketch in pencil?”
That he had so pre-empted my next question took the wind out of my sails, and I stared at him with a frown for a moment.
“Well,” I fumbled, “that’s the plan I suppose. Why do you say that?”
“I just assumed that’s why Lochlann came in, to get those pencils and charcoals?”
The stock that he had apparently found in the storeroom. Suddenly my determination to work in paints seemed somehow ungrateful and duplicitous.
“Yes…” I said, my mind distracted. “I suppose so.”
My stuttering vagueness did nothing to persuade Johnny that I could deliver a work of any quality in the time available, and eventually his patience ran out.
“So,” he said with an air of finality, “is it different pencils you’re looking for, or more of the same?”
I took a deep breath before answering.
“Actually, Johnny, I want to paint, not sketch. It’s too late for oils, I know that – but there’s still time to work in acrylics. And I’m going to work in monochrome.”
If I had shown myself to be naïve, then at least I hoped I had shown also that I could be decisive.