Call Me the Breeze: A Novel

by Patrick McCabe

  One day I ran into Austie, finding myself declaring: ‘My soul — no longer bound — is free from the creations of the world.’

  ‘Sure,’ he said, ‘sure it is, maestro.’

  I knew by the way he said it that it didn’t mean very much to him. It didn’t matter. I knew I was never going to bring everyone with me. ‘Nobody ever does,’ I said to the kids. ‘A small band of devoted followers would be infinitely preferable to a horde of uncertains!’

  It was Mangan who heard it first, the ‘Parable of the Birds’, I mean, or whatever you might like to call it. I couldn’t sit still as soon as I’d read it and ran straight over to tell him. “‘Chickens of Forgiveness”?’ he kept saying, all the time trying to kick the used condom back in under the bed where I wouldn’t see it — he’d just been at his doll, whose head was still sticking out from under the bed. ‘What kind of chickens would they be, Joey?’ he croaked.

  I made sure to take my time and explain. He kept nodding as I spoke, but I knew he wasn’t listening as he tried to nudge the wigged head back underneath with his boot.

  ‘Will you leave it alone, Mangan!’ I said. ‘She’s of no consequence now!’

  He spluttered into a fit of coughing, turning puce again before nodding compliantly as I paced about the caravan and continued: ‘You see, Mangan, there was this Christian woman, although strictly speaking I’m not a Christian — a Springian, perhaps, but not a Christian specifically — who owned two prize-winning chickens. One afternoon, the birds worked their way out of her yard and into her neighbour’s garden. The neighbour, known for his hot temper, captured both birds, wrung their necks viciously and threw their lifeless carcasses across the fence into the woman’s yard. The woman was undoubtedly hurt and considered giving the neighbour a piece of her mind. Instead she took the poultry home and prepared two pies, whereupon she took one to her neighbour and then apologized for not being more watchful of her chickens.’

  I paused. ‘Mangan?’ I said, suddenly stabbing the air with my finger. He started, taken aback a little — I suppose I was used to being direct with the kids. ‘What do you think the man’s reaction was?’

  I could see his Adam’s apple squirming as he swallowed. He was plucking at his pocket with the crook of his thumb as I heard him reply: ‘Jeekers, Joey, I don’t know!’

  I didn’t mean to shout as loud as I did.

  ‘He was speechless, Mangan! Speechless!’

  And I left his caravan straight away. I had a few other ideas I wanted to jot down.

  A Letter to the Council

  There was talk of us improvising another short film based on the story — I had prepared a basic storyboard and the barest bones of a script —but we never actually got around to doing it. Which is a pity because the kids were a hundred per cent behind it.

  ‘Let me be the chicken!’ says one of them. ‘Yeah, Joey! I could do it!’

  They could be little fuckers at times! You know, taking the piss!

  But what an image, if we’d ever managed to get around to shooting it! A close-up of the shocked man’s face and the two crusted pies just sitting there steaming …

  And then — blam! — in great big block letters, in emerald neon, say:

  THE CHICKENS OF FORGIVENESS!!

  It would have been absolutely fantastic, but I was so busy with my posters, it was pretty much impossible to get around to it. I simply hadn’t time for everything. Then there were other ideas, one of the most exciting ones being getting a campaign started and actually going out and building the thing — the Temple of Colossal Dimensions, I mean. I could not stop thinking of the reaction of tourists when they’d come into this little village, expecting the usual old rural stuff, nothing much to write home about. A couple of tractors parked on the road, say, or an old stray dog just scratching its ass when all of a sudden they turn a corner and —Jesus! — the ‘Fuck Me!’ hotel paling into insignificance as they gasped: ‘Can you believe it? Can you fucking believe your eyes, Mabel?’, this magnificent polished white marble structure then rising up before them out of nowhere, with Doric columns, majestic colonnade, the works!

  The great thing about that being that it would no longer just be a spiritual thing at all but our own private colosseum in memory of the dead built by our very own selves.

  And the more I thought of it the more plausible it began to seem, because when you’re dealing with something practical like that, something that people can actually see and feel and touch, it can excite people’s imaginations. It’s very hard to drum up support for an idea or philosophy. But with an actual building … I reckoned they’d be queuing up to give us grants — cross-border bodies, European Regional Funds, you name it!

  Not to mention the enthusiasm that the locals would demonstrate. I reckoned they’d soon be throwing money at it, not to mention volunteering their labour. I dreamed up a slogan: ‘The dead! We work to make them live!’ and of getting Fr Connolly to announce the scheme at Mass whereby every Saturday each man woman and child in the Scotsfield area would give of their time, free, gratis and for nothing, to construct this edifice with their own bare hands so that it would belong to the community in a way that had never before been thought possible.

  It never happened, though, even though I wrote to the council. Spent hours composing the letter, in fact, in between trying to contact people with regard to what was happening to the movie scripts and video cassettes I’d sent them, something which was really beginning to irritate me. I mean, it was months now and — apart from the usual letter of acknowledgement — I hadn’t heard back from any of the distribution companies. Which, as I had learnt from my experience long before with Mr Bono, meant sweet and effing fuck all! After polishing the first few paragraphs of the letter I put through another few calls and managed to track down a certain Simon Elliott.

  ‘Just what the hell is going on?’ I asked him. ‘You could at least give me your opinion of the picture! A lot of those kids have worked damned hard on it, Mr Elliott!’

  He was very polite, of course — as usual — and then says: ‘I’ll put you on hold,’ and before you know it you’re into ‘Pop Goes the Weasel’ or, even worse, Latin American pan pipes, as you stand there waiting for the fucker to come back. Which, eventually, he did, and what’s the verdict then? ‘We’ll be in touch as regards your film, which the board have pencilled in for viewing tomorrow. Thank you!’

  ‘Yes! And thank you, Mr Elliott!’ I snapped and slammed down the fucking receiver. Jesus! I thought. You think the hard bit is going to be coming up with the ideas! Coming up with the ideas and then getting them on to the screen! But no! It’s not true! That’s not the hard bit at all! The hard bit is getting the fuckers to watch it! Tuckers like Elliott with his half-English accent!

  I don’t know how long I was working on the letter altogether. The guts of one whole night, all told, I reckoned, with my Roget’s Thesaurus and dictionary beside me. That might sound over the top but I didn’t want them — the council — treating this as some Mickey Mouse scheme, along the lines of new traffic lights or the widening of a road. No, sir, this was a whole different deal, a new departure, the beginning of a massive, big-thinking adventure. I scanned it one more time, then popped it in the post before heading up to the library to see if Una Halpin had got me my book.

  Since finishing the movie, I had started reading up on historical figures, basically trawling around for ideas, with a view perhaps to preparing a major biopic of a significant historical figure — perhaps a spiritual leader. Such as Gandhi, perhaps, but he’d already been done. Maybe even Éamon de Valéra, the President of the Irish Republic who had fought the fight against the British.

  But that was all over, I thought then; it was the opposite of that we wanted. I was after someone who had nothing to do with so-called ‘freedom fighters’. The opposite, in fact. ‘Peace’ men. The ‘good’ Charlie Mansons, in other words.

  Perhaps even Jesus Christ himself, I thought, wondering could I play him myself now
that my hair had grown long — not unlike The Seeker’s, actually — but thought that might be too ambitious and cost the kind of money we just didn’t have. Unless, I grinned as I came in through the library doors, we actually ‘shot for the moon’ and went further than ever before. I asked Una whether she had a Who’s Who, and sure enough she did.

  ‘There you are, Joseph!’ she said, and put it into my hand. I was so taken with this new idea that I went and forgot my biography of Martin Luther King. All the way out to the caravan, I couldn’t stop thinking about Harvey Weinstein. I’d been reading about him in Variety. One of the most influential movie producers in the world, they reckoned. ‘You wanna do what?’ I could hear him saying.

  And all that kinda shit, before he’d have to admit that it was one hell of a good idea! ‘Jesus Christ reborn in this tiny little Irish village? I gotta say it has a ring to it!’

  I would call him first thing in the morning, I decided.

  What the fuck! I thought as I slid into bed. What’s the harm in ringing up one of the most important movie producers in the world? I mean, all he can say is no, like Elliott, and I might as well get a refusal from someone who’s important as some skinny little jumped-up cunt with a name like that!

  I couldn’t believe it the very next day when, after only half a minute (I timed it!) — So much for you, Elliott! I thought, as I gave the air a chop — I got straight through to his secretary, an absolutely fantastic chick who told me that Harvey was ‘power breakfasting’ but would be back around eleven or twelve — could I possibly call back then? ‘Could you possibly call back then, Mr Tallon?’

  ‘Could I possibly call back then? I sure could!’ I chirped. ‘Absolutely no problem at all!’

  The fact that when I called an hour later I was told he’d been delayed — it was a different secretary this time — but would take my call on Wednesday didn’t faze me, not in the slightest. At least I knew I was dealing with someone who had genuine demands on his time, what with doing deals and signing contracts and what have you, not like cunthooks Elliott and his ilk who had nothing to do except file their nails and switch on weasel machines.

  I was over the moon at these new developments and had gone into town to work out my pitch — ‘Hi! Mr Weinstein! Joey Tallon here, I called you a couple of days ago, yeah? It’s about my movie on the life of Jesus Christ’ — then the basic points of the story. I was thinking of him being born maybe in a room over Austie’s pub then crucified on the Gaelic football field. It was while I was turning all that around in my mind that I looked up and who was there? Boyle!

  ‘Joey!’ he said, and I replied: ‘Mr Henry!’

  I hadn’t been expecting to see him and it wouldn’t have been so bad if I had — I wouldn’t have started my usual ‘rabbiting on’.

  ‘Ah, Joey! Joey! Hush with that now!’ he said. ‘We have things to talk about!’

  He told me then that he had an important message for me from the council. That he’d been looking for me for the past few days, in fact. He went on to say that they had received my letter — under the dual mandate system he could be both senator and a serving member of that body — and that all of them were ‘very, very excited indeed’ by its contents.

  ‘It’s only a matter of them doing the figures,’ he said. ‘I mean, it’s a wonderful idea, this temple!’

  It’s hard to believe it now, but I heard him uttering those words. Boyle Henry! Boyle!

  It almost brought tears to my eyes when I heard him speaking in that encouraging manner, tolerant and patient and genuinely magnanimous. It was all I could do not to grab his hand and kiss the back of it, I was so genuinely relieved and grateful!

  And I think he knew that’s what I was thinking, for just then he pulled back a little and said: ‘Ah now, Joey!’ as his eyes twinkled a little and he said: ‘Sure there’s no need to be getting too excited! Wait till we have something concrete! Such as a temple, for example!’

  Then he burst out laughing. Before saying: ‘Well, goodbye then, Joey! OK?’

  ‘Sure thing, Mr Henry!’ I shouted after him.

  I understood. He was right.

  ‘See you then!’ he called back and strode across the road to the Fuck Me, on the roof of which the beautiful flags of Europe were all fluttering away in the warm Scotsfield wind.

  When I got home, straight off I wrote in my diary:

  The Caravan

  Thursday p.m., 12 October 2001

  Met Boyle Henry completely by chance and he’s given me some wonderful news! It seems it’s only a matter now of them totting up the figures and deciding on the plan’s feasibility. Obviously this does not mean it’s going to be built for absolute certain, but it’s a very good sign that they’re taking it very seriously indeed. Boyle says that if the cost isn’t prohibitive they definitely will draw up a plan and submit it both to the Pax Cross-Border Fund for Reconciliation and Peace and to the various European Regional Fund Schemes that cover this type of thing. ‘There’s loads of money available,’ Boyle said. ‘It’s just a matter of us getting our hands on it!’

  Before he left me, he said it was ‘visionary’.

  I can’t believe that things have turned out like this. I have this notion of Scotsfield now as a sort of Athens, a post-conflict type of golden place that will show everybody else the way. A sort of … what’s the word … I saw the type of thing I mean in a video the other night (Gladiator, actually, by Ridley Scott!) — Elysian Fields, yeah!

  A long way from the drab old seventies and that’s for fucking sure, compadre!

  Martin Luther King

  Whether it was because of Harvey Weinstein getting my goat up (they eventually told me to stop calling his office — not just ‘told’, in fact, but ‘warned’) or the all-pervasive influence of the reverend MLK’s unshakable self-belief, or whether it was just a hangover from the acid days, even today I’m still not sure. But I had started actually taking photos out at the reservoir, which I was now convinced provided the perfect site. Sending them to the council, along with a recommendation that ‘The Memorial’, as I had taken to calling it, be erected right there or very close by, perhaps in memory of Campbell Morris and others who had died along that stretch of water.

  Now that I had become quite buoyed up by the council’s initial enthusiasm, on this particular occasion when I didn’t receive a reply by return, I became quite irritated, which was ridiculous, of course, and began to telephone them regularly, requesting that I be put through to the various departments. ‘I mean, it’s not that difficult!’ I remember saying. ‘It’s not like you’re the Harvey Weinstein Corporation or something! So come on, please. Thank you!’

  Maybe if I had showed more understanding I might have succeeded better than I did. I ought to have learnt from my experiences with Principle Management and, indeed, the Harvey Weinstein office. But no, the truth is, I got carried away. I couldn’t stop myself thinking of the temple’s almost shocking polished whiteness, the imperious colonnade as it rose up like magic out of the green-topped trees.

  With its triumphant banners and chiselled names — among them my own, of course, I who had committed the most grievous sin of all.

  Because, as I explained in some depth to the guy on local radio — the news had begun to get around and they had asked me in for an informal chat — everyone involved would have their contribution acknowledged in this way. At first I had refused to take part in the programme, mainly because I didn’t have anything concrete as yet. But in the end he got around me, persuading me of its importance and so on and so forth.

  It was a wide-ranging interview, covering the various aspects of my life. Before the green light went on, he specifically asked me not to confine myself to the topic of ‘the troubles’ and the proposal to build the temple but to cover as much ground as I possibly could, with particular reference to my movie-making aspirations and the creative work I’d been involved with at the college. I must have been talking for almost fifteen minutes, without a single break, bef
ore he said: ‘Right then, that’s it then, Joey!’ and threw the phone lines open.

  There was quite a heated debate then, with the listening public breaking down pretty much fifty-fifty into those who had ‘really enjoyed it’ and those who most definitely had not. Including a number of parents and kids from the college who announced, quite aggressively indeed, that in their considered opinion I should never have been permitted to go on the airwaves at all. But the outcome of it was — and, boy, does this seem crazy now, considering what it started — someone, quite flippantly, I think, to begin with, suggesting that instead of running to the council with suggestions — ‘and I think it’s a wonderful suggestion, this memorial’, he’d added — had Joey Tallon not given any thought to actually running for the council himself, to putting his name forward as a candidate in the forthcoming local elections …?

  ‘Well, no, I haven’t …’ I began.

  But the moment the words were uttered it was like some glorious Roman candle going ‘puf!’ inside my head.

  And all that evening, after I got home to the caravan, I couldn’t bring myself to sit still, picking up a book — Steppenwolf, as it happened — and the minute I saw the cover, succumbing to complete hilarity. Before flinging it smack! against the wall. What a lot of nonsense and blather those books now seemed to contain! A lot of piffle and fuck! Zen! The Yogi dyes his garments! The fish in the water is thirsty! Who gives a fuck about fish! For life, if it’s about anything, is about living and doing, not sitting there cross-legged staring down at your big fat gut! In fact, it’s about running for office!