The Last Storyteller (19 page)

“Well, lay-dees and genn’lmen, let me assure you I could remove everything—everything—without her—or you—even knowing it, even the small tattoo on her lovely bottom that says, ‘I love Gentleman Jack.’ The quickness of the hand deceives the eye.”

He patted Venetia on the behind.

After all these years, was my proprietariness also political? We Irish
don’t let go. For centuries we wrote of our country as a woman who had been taken from us and whom we wanted back, whom we had never stopped loving. Too preposterous? Well, maybe not.

When the last bangle and the last bow had been removed, Jack Stirling led Venetia forward to the footlights and asked her to take a bow.

“Round of applause, please, lay-dees and genn’lmen, for my lovely friend.”

Venetia, trouper that she always was, bowed low and smiled as sweet a smile as she had ever given me. Or—was there yearning in it now? She’d never been wistful, not even when playing Juliet, a role to which she’d brought more muscle than we usually see. Now, though—or was it my imagination?—her smile never reached the limits of its curve.

Gentleman Jack led her back to center stage and declared that his act had now truly begun. I noted that he had never given her a name—he didn’t say “my lovely assistant, Venetia”—nor did he have any other showbiz name for her, “Anthea” or “Cordelia” or “the beautiful Miranda” or any of the names within that old convention. No: Venetia’s anonymity had been deliberately created and maintained.

For the core of his act he called for volunteers from the audience. They lined up, laughing, giggling, shoving one another, taunting, teasing. A bulky girl in a fluttering white dress—she looked like a wedding cake—lost her shoes without knowing how. Her swain lost his necktie and his watch, and then his vest—from beneath his jacket. His pal lost the laces from his shoes but not the shoes. A game elderly woman lost a wristwatch and her earrings, Gentleman Jack again holding them up to the audience in triumph before handing them back to the astonished old dear.

His tour de force came when, after some swift passes over and around a girl’s head, he held up her brassiere and waved it like flag. The girl, fortunately, laughed in what seemed like genuine mirth, and I watched Venetia. She laughed professionally—but she didn’t laugh. I knew her laughter; when truly amused, she belly-laughed. Not here, not now.

Much had been made in Ireland of “The Risen People,” the brave generations who, in the deep darkness of cultural and educational deprivation, had held on to our old traditions of sainthood and our instincts for scholarship. Was this vulgar display what The Risen People had risen for? I thought not.

And there was one more patriot to come and warm himself at this low fire. I should have known; why hadn’t I anticipated it?

He had changed his clothes. No longer the elegant dark, striped suit; now he wore a Prince of Wales check with a burgundy waistcoat, and he had draped a silver pocket-watch chain across the stomach. His shoes had points that could have taken a snail from its shell, and he wore yellow socks with red diamonds on them; he looked like a singer from a shoddy band.

“What’s your name, my friend?” asked Gentleman Jack.

“James, but you can call me Jimmy.”

“Very good, James. Is this yours?” Jack held up the pocket watch and chain. Jimmy patted his stomach, then looked down, then looked up and shook his head.

“How did you do it?”

“Trade secrets, James, trade secrets. And is this yours, dear boy?” He handed Jimmy his necktie.

“Do it slowly,” said Jimmy. “We’d all like to learn.”

The audience loved this. Jack, however, flinched; was this man going to upstage him? He was. Jack now waved Jimmy’s burgundy vest. Remember: I watched all of this but couldn’t see it actually happen; it was like lightning. I saw as far as the flash of the hand, and then the object would appear in that same hand—but how or in what fashion he got the vest out from underneath the coat sleeves I have no earthly idea. After the vest came the wallet from Jimmy’s inside pocket and a pen. And then came the upstaging.

When Jimmy saw the vest, then the wallet, and then the pen, he stepped back in mock alarm and pretended to try to escape from Jack, heading to the rear of the stage. Then, ten feet from the action, he turned.

“All right, all right. I know when I’m beaten.” He made a gesture of surrender, hands out, palms flat—and began to unbuckle his belt and take off his pants. The audience cheered and cheered. Jack didn’t look pleased. Jimmy had gotten his waistband down as far as his knees when Jack called a halt—and I left my seat. I did so without any real thought other than to avoid meeting Jimmy outside after the show.

The audience wanted more—and more, and more. I stopped in the aisle to look back as Venetia bowed beside Jack. We had once upon a time anticipated that audiences would do exactly this for Venetia—but it was to have been Shakespeare, and the Greeks, and the best of Shaw and Wilde, in different theaters all around Ireland. Neither of us would ever have meant for this talented, distinguished, and dignified classical actress to be propping up the butt of a coarse trickster show.

Do you remember it, children? Your mother’s shows in Dublin? Not her first ever, of course, because she had been part of the Abbey Theatre all those years before, but this was her first time in Dublin as the “Friend” of Gentleman Jack. Perhaps you do recall it—because you were there; I saw you both.

It had begun to rain, not heavily, just a pretense at a drizzle. My exit took me through a side door into an alley lit by the “Stage Door” sign, a rectangle of white light with the words in red letters. For a moment it felt almost as a lighthouse to a mariner—and then I remembered that lighthouses stand there to remind sailors of the rocks beneath.

Just as I thought of leaving the shadows and heading for the dry safety of Dora Fay’s house, I heard voices. You emerged from the door beneath the lighthouse sign, you first, Louise, then you, Ben, and you fell into step side by side. Even in that dim light, and even had I been a stranger, I’d have known that you were twins. Not that you looked alike; you felt alike, and that’s a very different thing.

I turned back toward the exit door, pretending to light a cigarette, and I know that you didn’t even see me, my face close to the old, dirty brick. As you walked past, how did you not smell the fatherhood off me?

But no: you walked on. I heard you speak; you were discussing the
fact that the show had three matinees a week and hoping that “Mom won’t be too tired.” The Americanness of your voices carried in the night.

And then I followed you. In a father’s life, nothing is so poignant as the backs of his children’s heads as they walk away from him. I didn’t walk fast after you; I made no attempt to stay within earshot—I just wanted to see you. In Florida, on that terrible day less than a decade earlier, when I’d first learned of your existence, I didn’t ask what you looked like, whether you’d been born free of blemish. Worse, and it was my crime, my awful crime—I didn’t ask whether I might meet the pair of you. So I didn’t know what you looked like. But I knew it was you.

I followed you along Dame Street, toward Trinity College. You were twenty-three years old and, as I now know, on your first visit to Ireland.

You came level with Foster Place, and then the Bank of Ireland. You crossed in front of Trinity College. You headed for Nassau Street, or perhaps Grafton Street. I say “perhaps” because I gave up following you at that moment.

Too painful. You were deep in a conversation I could never have with you, and there was I—back in the throes of loss again, this time in a misery I had never anticipated, not even once.

My mind went to a place I know in the Knockmealdown Mountains, where, in a pocket of rocks by the lake, I have spent many a bleak night. Too far away to get there now.

PART THREE
A Kind of Salvation

Do you think it strange that a stony mountain fastness can be comforting? Believe me: it can. Such places have embraced and saved me. Not that night.

I should have gone to Miss Fay’s and tried to sleep. Instead I walked. As your two shadows disappeared under the weak yellow of the streetlamps, your heads close together and both of you deep in talk, I watched you slip out of sight. Can I recall what I was thinking? No.

Remember, I had no means to measure what kind of feelings I had for you; I didn’t know how a father of children was supposed to feel. Ask me now, and I’ll keep you here all night.

Dublin in those days had locales to suit any dank and feeble mood. Behind the Olympia Theatre spread a web of narrow little streets. Cobbled and inward-looking. Shabby as shame. Just as I felt.

I retraced my steps, past the stage door, to the rear of the building, where I waited—and waited. For what? I was summoning up the courage to intercept your mother.

The courage didn’t come—surprise, surprise—and when I heard the applause, filtered like far-off machine-gun fire through the dense brick of the high walls, I walked away.

A vague river mist floated at knee height. These lanes had few lamps, and most houses had succumbed to the dark. Here and there, a window glowed. Through one, I saw a man sitting by the fire, fast asleep, his legs stretched out. The almost-closed lace curtains of another revealed an elderly woman with a shawl draped over a nightgown. Her gray hair fell
down to witch length; from a black, steaming kettle she mixed something in a mug. I stood and watched. Wished that I could knock on the glass. Be taken into her house. Comforted.

I heard a footstep. Or thought I did. Behind me. Close behind me.

Looking back, I saw nobody. But how could I tell? In that gloom everything had a shadow. A bicycle here, a tall old crate there—they seemed like creatures.

I stepped forward again, trying to soft-foot it on the cobbles. After five paces I halted. Yes, a footstep. I spun around. Did I see a figure step back into a doorway?

“Who’s there?”

No answer. I couldn’t be sure.
What do I do now?

I waited. Stood still. Didn’t move. For how long? It felt like ages, but had I timed it, it would probably have not amounted to a minute. I pulled my coat tighter, my long black coat, James’s coat. My bladder pressed. My breath came up short.

Move on. Set a strong pace. Begin as you mean to continue
. I looked as though I intended a destination; I picked up a firm walking style—not too fast, just that of a man who knows where he is going. (Dry chuckle at that thought, as I write it down.) I measured twenty of these strides, stopped dead, whirled around.

Nobody. Wrong. Somebody. Where? In the shadows. By the wall. An old warehouse. Do I wait? Tried that: nothing happened. Do I walk back? What if he’s dangerous? What if he has accomplices?

Already I had assumed that somebody had been following me. I froze. From my pocket I took one of James’s lighters and held up the little flame. I saw nothing, and it sputtered out.
Is that a shoe? At the edge of the shadows? A toe cap reflecting the light? Do I go back?

What do you think I did? Well, being me, as I then was, I ran. I didn’t even shout—I ran. On slippery cobbles. I took no thought of direction, just raced through those lanes, those mean little alleyways, and eventually, through an arch, I burst out on the river. And paused to take a breath. And listen.

Somewhere a song floated, followed by lazy cheers. I walked across a high-curved metal bridge, stopped, and looked down into the water. Sneaked glances back behind me.

More light here. Nobody could stalk or pursue without being seen. A
face briefly appeared under the arch, then ducked back again. A mild sense of comedy relieved me for a moment, but the river offered no support. Dark, silent waters, swirling wildly to no apparent purpose—did everything around mimic my state?

My boots clanging with false bravery on the metal of the bridge, I walked on. When I looked back I saw not a soul.

For ten, maybe fifteen more minutes, I roamed the old and dilapidated streets just north of the river: Capel Street, Chancery Street, Smithfield, where a light or two attracted me, but their rooms seemed to contain no people. I was alone in the city and the night. When I found myself again on Church Street, the wind must have changed, because for the first time my nose warmed to the most famous of all Dublin odors: the Guinness smell of the brewer’s malt from across the river. Just ahead of me a door opened outward, and a man lurched into the street.

“Give it a minute, Joey, and knock twice,” he told me, even though I hadn’t asked and my name wasn’t Joey. “Two big, slow knocks. Hard knocks, Joey. Life is the school of hard knocks. Yep. Hard knocks, sure enough.” He sauntered away, saying aloud, “Hard knocks, Joey, oh, aye, hard knocks.” He would surely sing ere long.

When the night had taken him, I knocked. Twice. A tall man in a brown mackintosh raincoat opened the door, jerked an invitation with his head, and closed the door behind me.

Back then, closing time didn’t stop people from drinking. Yes, we had raids, but not if the police sat in the pub; in fact, the raiding officers usually joined them. I counted seven cops that night, caps off, tunics open. And I listened. They chatted about overtime pay, patrol duty, studying for the sergeant’s exam. Not about guns. Not about me.