Beatlebone. Kevin Barry

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СКАЧАТЬ gives dapperness, and tapered strides, and teddy boys. He looks around his tiny room beneath the eaves and laughs – the West of Ireland by night. Oh just taking the fucking air, really. I’ll have a stroll in a bit. Try not to fuck myself in the briney. Fathomless depths, et cetera. Oh Christ, a read – fill up this sour brain with words. He slides a drawer on the tiny dresser – the dresser is so tiny it might be for the fittings of elves – and there is no Gideon’s, not as such, but there is an old book there:

      The Anatomy of Melancholy by Richard Burton

      Richard fucking Burton? What kind of establishment is this? Now the melodious syllables come to shape his lips – hammy, taffy, lispy, vaguely faggy? How did it go? In Milk Wood? He looks in the dull silver of the dresser’s mirror and mouths the words –

      I know there are

      Towns lovelier than ours,

      And fairer hills and loftier far,

      And groves more full of flowers

      And boskier woods more blithe with spring . . .

      Boskier? Fuck me. He flicks through the pages. Okay. It’s a different Richard. And there are all sorts herein. He falls onto the bed. He unknits his long, cold limbs. He falls into the drugged pages. He reads for hours and every now and then

      Thou canst not think worse of me than I do of myself.

      he speaks aloud but

      Melancholy can be overcome only by melancholy.

      just the two words, repeated

      He that increaseth wisdom, increaseth sorrow.

      over and over again

      If you like not my writing, go read something else.

      fuck me,

      fuck me,

      fuck me.

      *

      At last he gives into the night or at least makes an arrangement with it. He sleeps a long, unquiet sleep disturbed by quick dreams of woodland places. These come as no great surprise. He meets elves and sprites and clowning devils. Anxiety? He wakes at last to a new world and to a morning lost in a heavy mist. Sorely his bones ache – he traces the length of the soreness with a long, dull, luxurious sighing. Which is very pleasant, as it happens. Though also he feels about ninety fucking six. The grey buildings outside have softened in the mist and in places have all but disappeared. The hills across the river are entirely wiped out. He feels oddly at home, as though he’s woken to this place every day of his life: a sentimentalist. Maybe as the grocer or as the farmer or as the priest. Now his calm is broken by a set of angry steps come along the passage and a mad rapping on the door and the door is nearly off its bloody hinges –

      You’d better come in!

      It’s Hatchet-Face, his favourite crone, and she’s on the war path –

      Great spouts of steam gush from her hairy ears.

      Her pinned eyes are livid and searching.

      Her mouth contorts to a twisted O.

      Who’s dead? he says.

      She runs a filthy look around the room.

      She sniffs the air as if he’s pissed the bed.

      Do you realise, she says, that it’s hapist ten in the morning?

      Hapist? he says. Already?

      There are people, she says, with half a day put down.

      Best thing you can do with days.

      She eyes him – an owl for a mouse – and sucks her teeth. There is dark auntly suspicion in the glance, as if he’s been having a sneaky one off the handle. A clamminess, as of families. He has been drawn back into something here. The clock runs backwards. He holds the covers boyishly against his chest.

      Had I better make a move, love?

      You’d better, she says. There’s a woman down there has a home to go to.

      A woman?

      That does the breakfasts.

      Oh, he says. Her with the brass band.

      She has the mother bad. The mother is left with half a lung to her name. The other half is not viable. Or so they’re saying. All I know is she’d want to be gone home to the mother an hour since or the mother’ll be gone out the blasted window. Again.

      To be honest, love, I’m not big on brekkie. A Pepsi and a fag’ll do me. Mothers out windows?

      That wouldn’t be the worst of it, she says. But you’d want to come down anyway – I have a Mr O’Grady waiting on you.

      As she says his name, she fixes her hair and works her lips to an unseemly fullness.

      He says you’ve a man here called McCarthy? I says, well! I says I think I have anyhow.

      *

      Mother Mary of Jesus is sat up the dining room wall, blue and weeping, her long glance so loving – a tear of blood rolls.

      Cornelius O’Grady is sat just beneath – his hair is greased and fixed like a ducktail joint.

      Would you mind sitting down, John, he says. You’re making me dizzy.

      Daylight shows Cornelius in high fettle. There is vim and spark and big vitality. He considers John at length and silently; he shakes his head in amused suffering.

      The problem, he says, is they’d probably know you alright.

      He returns woefully to his breakfasts. He has two fried breakfasts laid out on the white linen. He moves the great boulder of a head in slow swoops over the plates as though by the arm of a crane. He slices daintily into the meats and chews and smiles grimly.

      But all we can do is fucken try, he says.

      A powerful chewer: the way his massive chin swings side to side and churns – they are handing out the chins around here. He mops a hunk of bread across the yellow of the egg yolks, and there is the smell of burnt fat and greasy cloy.

      Have you not et? he says.

      I’m fine, Cornelius. I’ll have a fag in a bit.

      Humorous eyes; a shaking of the head. He zips from plate to plate and back again. He is very neat about his work, slicing a rasher here, a sausage there, having a chew and half a grilled tomato, a soft chuckling, a little sigh of thanks.

      Black pudding? John says.

      Yes?

      Congealed blood is what it is.

      You wouldn’t eat a bit?

      Me? I’m macrobiotic.

      Which СКАЧАТЬ