A Lonely and Curious Country (3 page)

Vague shapes came into view and faded away again as the area of light expanded and contracted amorphously as the three men moved their arms independently, before realizing that they needed to huddle and concentrate the illumination.

“Youcef!” Hakim called the name as if shouting into a cavern – which the room might have been, for all they could see of it. “Hallo! Youcef! Anyone here, please? Hallo?” The words fell dead and echoless from his lips, bringing no response. In the silence that followed, they heard the breeze brushing the tiles and rafters just inches above their heads, the floorboards creaking beneath their feet. Nothing else.

“What is?” Hakim headed in one direction and the others followed. Their pooled light revealed a chair piled high with papers. Nearby, a music stand with a cello propped against it, together with its bow. All were covered with what they thought, for a moment, was more of the ash, before realizing that, no, it was dust. Just dust.

“Same as the chair in my room,” said Yves, unsure if that meant anything. He picked up the topmost sheet of paper and shook the dust from it. It was music; something with a German title. The sheet below: also music. Yves could not read music and put it back. The men moved slowly around the small room, defining the edges. There were some boxes and an old, old suitcase, packed with clothes, a Homburg hat beside it. Yves picked it up and peered inside in search of a label. ‘E. Zann’ was inked in a shaky hand on a grimy white patch. He set it down on the case. Moussa said something sharp; Hakim nodded.

“
Junk!
He says is junk.”

“Yes.” Yves nodded. “Looks that way.”

“But you say you hear someone. You sure.”

“I was. I could have sworn. Obviously, I was mistaken. Sorry.” Hakim said something guttural to Moussa, tilting his head to indicate Yves as he did so. There were a couple more harsh words and a gesture – none of which Yves understood – as the Algerians ushered him out of the room, dragged the door shut and wrestled the lock back into place. “Sorry!” he said again to their backs, as they stamped downstairs to return the keys to Blandot and continue their search elsewhere. Yves still had his lighter in his hand. He lit another Gitanes, returned to his room and sprawled across the bed.

Youcef. Had he ever seen him? He hadn’t known any of the Arabs’ names before tonight, or which one lived in which room. Now that he knew Youcef was the occupant of the room below his, he was able to conjure a face: about twenty, tightly curled hair, hollow cheeks, pale (for an Algerian), and, quite distinctly now – a frightened expression. Terrified. When had he seen him? When had he ever seen anyone that scared? If it wasn’t for the sickly-sweet fug of the room, maybe he would recall. Yves watched the smoke from his cigarette move horizontally, carried by the breeze that blew again – or, rather, blew still, unceasingly – through the split and moldering frame surrounding his otherwise sealed window.

‘I’m opening that!’
He stared at the dusty pane, reflective in the pallid bulb-light because of the black shutters immediately beyond.
‘I’ll find a hammer, pliers –something – take those nails out and force the lock. I’ll smash it, if I have to. Eduard’s right: I need air. And I want to see! As soon as I’ve finished this. Five minutes.’
But the Gitanes smoldered down to his lips, before being stubbed reflexively on the floorboards, as Yves drifted into a half-sleep. A half-sleep studded by dreams and memories, and memories of dreams, and dreams of memories. Of a wind and a sound and a scent that carried meaning and a spirit and a whisper. Of eyes staring, staring, staring into an abyss and eyes – or what served as eyes – staring back. Of an outsider that sought admittance. Of fugitive footsteps in a nighted building, descending and ascending like a Minotaur in a vertical labyrinth. Of stealthy searching and stolen keys and unlocked doors. Of a sleeper waking in terror, hands about his throat, choking, unable to move, choking, choking. Of windows flung open and a howling cosmic Sirocco that scours bodies to powder with the breath of aeons.

***

Eduard was annoyed that Yves did not, after all, join the demonstration the next day; Anne-Marie chagrined that he did not show up for their date. It was only some days later that they noticed he had stopped attending all meetings, happenings and – once they resumed – lectures. Having no proper contact details for Yves, the best Eduard could do was wander the endless cobbled alleyways beyond an unhealthy river, one hot June afternoon. But he gave up at last, unable to find the Rue d’Auseil. He, and all Yves’ friends, concluded that he must, after all, have dropped out. It happened.

In the third house from the top of the Rue d’Auseil, it took very nearly as long for Monsieur Blandot or any of his tenants to realize that the sole occupant of the sixth floor did not, in fact, appear to be in occupation. When a search was made, all that was found was the typical untidy array of a student’s room, dusted with a thin layer of aromatic ash (or something very like ash) and a shattered windowpane. The prevailing wind must have been blowing against the unlatched shutters, and blowing hard, for Hakim (Blandot’s favored agent that day), was unable to push them open. He did not try for long, and, to placate the crippled landlord, dragged the missing student’s possessions into the room across the landing, as requested. With both rooms secured, he returned the keys. Blandot, for reasons he did not discuss, decided that he would not, in future, permit any further tenants on the sixth floor.

Paudie O'Brien and the Bogman

Seán Farrell

Paudie walked carefully, his slow steps lit by the moon. Right foot, then left, no hurry. Had to be careful. He'd left his home an hour ago and still had many miles to travel. But he knew exactly where he was going. This gave him great comfort.

He'd walked this path many times in his life before, from a babe to a boy, and though each time was different, he had a good feeling now. He had a great gift with him, and this coupled with his knowing where he was going, so to speak, left him beaming; his dirty brown teeth gleaming dully in the moonlight. He was dressed in the clothes he'd woke in - tanned boots and trousers, and a worn paintstained shirt. The night was quiet and vast. There was no one around for miles.

The path Paudie walked wasn't well known anymore. It whispered across fields and streams, up and down damp hills, traces here and there. Sometimes it changed, one night as straight as the beam of light that peeked through his keyhole each morning, the next, as curved as the swirling black pool in the river that ran from behind his home.

He used to try and plot his progress in the stars when he was younger. But he'd been led astray so many times, that he'd learnt it was best to just take your time, and follow the route that seemed right.

Paudie'd learnt about the path from his mother. On the night he was born, through wind and rain that had clattered off her back like sheets of leathered straps, she brought him out here herself, the birthmark on his face a thumbprint from that night. He used to say to her that he remembered it. Black and moist, and stinking, its inkline grooves filling slowly with the blood of his newborn body, before finally taken away, leaving a permanent mark below his right eye. He'd dream of that night again and again.

Although his mother disagreed, as he grew up, Paudie became well known as a fool. So stupid was he, that he could have been the king of the fools if there was such a thing.

Paudie O'Brien was simple they said. Touched in the head. His skull filled with water and a brain like a sod of turf. 45 and barely able to boil an egg. He'd be seen at the back of mass on a Sunday, and heard, talking endlessly about whatever seemed to come into his head.

“There's Tierney now, he has the pigs up at the farm. Awful smelly those pigs are. Awful smell of shite off them.”

Or you'd see him walk out of Kelleher's grocery, bread and bacon peering out the top of a brown bag, and a couple of bottles of porter to wash them down with.

“Ah hello Mrs. Murphy, how are you keeping I'm good myself now but I've an awful pain in my leg, I can barely walk on it without being reminded of it. And how is the baby doing is he healthy? Ah good, good and how are you yourself, I heard that Mr. Murphy has fucked off has he? Ah that's terrible terrible but Mrs. Murphy didn't my father do the same and didn't I turn out OK in the end, and even after Mammy dying when I was just 17 and barely able to fend for myself, and sure it's all in God's plan that's what the priest says, and what's the use in worrying.”

People tolerated Paudie, said hello when they passed him, and blessed themselves when he was gone. But they didn't laugh or joke. Or shake his hand. Or compliment him the way you'd normally congratulate a simpleton for managing to get up in the morning and put on his clothes and brush his teeth without causing himself serious injury. There were rumours, whispers really, about him. Nothing that even amounted to anything as substantial as a story. But they treated Paudie differently, gave him a wide berth. Because for all of Paudie's dimness there was one thing you couldn't call him, and that was harmless.

***

“Hello my dear”

“Hello to you too Tom Breathnach”

He had a smile on his lips. He looked rocken. Elemental. The smooth face of seacarved stone - flushed cheeks and wet black hair filled with movement.

“How was it?”

“Glorious. I'd say one of the best days the sea has ever seen.”

He put Lucy down in her mother's arms, and wiped his head with a tea towel.

“How are you feeling? Better?”

“Much better. Needed the nap. But the headache's gone, as well as the stomach pains. Feeling much better really. And how was Lucy?”

“Ah great. Her little blue eyes were stuck on the water.”

Putting a cigarette to his lips he sparked the flames of the cooker briefly, and bent down to light the tip. Puffing out, he looked calmed, settled.

Nora put Lucy's hands around her thumb.

Tom leaned on the cooker and spoke again:

“Imagine seeing the sea as a baby. Seeing it for the first time. What would you think?”

He exhaled, and the smoke curled into the air like icy lines on a frostdewed window.

“It always makes me wonder actually, when you're down there, down past Joe's road, and up past the old lighthouse. You know, down where the sea's made the stone so tangled, like knotted hair. When you're there, and it's just you and Lucy and the lapping of the waves, and the whole world behind you. What must it have been like? Way back when. To have been the first person to go out and see it. To see the sun break through the clouds, over the water. And not a candle or stitch of cloth to your name.”

“I know what you mean”, Nora said. “Is it any wonder we have old stories of giants and witches, and God and the saints?”

Lucy gurgled in Nora's arms, hands twitching with new control.

“I went down to the cove as well, gave Lucy a bit of sand to run through her fingers. Get a bit of texture into her paws.”

Nora could feel the tiny grains between her skin and Lucy's, held in perpetuity. Spots of rockglue joining their hands together.

***

Black flies filled the chipped brown mug. Flecks of light flicked off their twitching wings, like sun through sandglass. A dark hand appeared, shuddering. Haired nails at the end. It grabbed milk from a bowl, running through its fingers and filled the mug. Now brought to dark lips drinking deep.

Nora heard the crunch and saw wings, jutting out between curved fishhook teeth, like a pike's jaw almost. Looking closer, and the wings changed, to fingernails, eyelashes, toes, ears. An eye. She put her hands among the teeth, opened the slack soggy jaw further and further, until like tar it fell away in her hands. She dug deeper.

To her right and left, black crows crawled beneath dark soil, beaks filled with muck and worms, drowning in the sullen earth. It was getting warmer and warmer the deeper she went, and soon she felt a beating pulse. A dull thud in the dirt, like a hammer from miles and miles above. Smashing the surface - beating through eternity.

Jesus the heat was almost unbearable now. But she had to dig deeper. Clawing through, tombed in a dirty sodden womb she had to break through until finally. Air. A gleam of light reflecting from a small corrugated shed. A black scorched symbol on the door. Two vertical lines crossed by a horizontal. As straight and perfect as if God himself had written it.

She opened the door and saw she was at the edge of a bog. Paudie O'Brien was curled up in the distance, on his haunches at the bog's edge. Naked, he looked at her, a black spiraled mark beneath his eye, almost glowing in the depth of its darkness. His hands were in the bog, up to his wrist, and he was pushing something down, down beneath the surface.

But her eye was drawn to the figure behind Paudie, standing quietly. Tall, at least 15 feet, lumpy and misshappen, but always changing, slightly. Black as dirt from head to toe, clumps falling off his body. Moving slowly, suddenly. Imperceptible almost. As if through time not space - existing here in one second, there the next.