Benjamin Black - Even the Dead

“Oh,” Phoebe murmured, “it’s—”

The woman said something to the young man, and together they approached the table. Phoebe stood up. “Dr. Blake!” she said. “What a surprise!”

“Good evening, Phoebe,” the woman said. “How nice to see you.”

She had a slight foreign accent. She looked at Quirke. He stood up.

“This is — this is my father,” Phoebe said.

“Ah. How do you do, Mr. Griffin.”

“It’s Quirke, actually,” Quirke said. “How do you do.”

They shook hands. He hadn’t met her before. Her eyes, up close, were extraordinary, two great still pools of darkness. Quirke felt he had never been looked at in this way before; indeed, it was as if he were being looked at for the first time in his life, and he was unnerved.

“This is Paul Viertel,” the woman said, indicating the young man. “Paul, this is Phoebe, the person I told you about, who works with me. And this is Mr. — Mr. Quirke.”

Paul Viertel had a surprisingly firm handshake, though his fingers were long and slender, like a woman’s.

“How do you do, Mr. Quirke,” he said. He too had an accent, more pronounced than the woman’s. German, Quirke thought, or else Austrian; he wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. The young man turned to Phoebe. “Miss — Griffin, yes?”

“Yes,” Phoebe said, stammering a little, “Phoebe, Phoebe Griffin.”

“I knew your late husband,” Quirke said to the woman.

“Yes, you did, of course. I had forgotten.”

It was strange, Quirke thought afterwards, how for that moment it seemed as if there were only the two of them in the room, himself and this large, dark-eyed, oddly lovely woman, gazing at him out of what seemed a vast, inner stillness.

The headwaiter appeared, chafing his hands anxiously, and apologized to the newcomers for not having been there to greet them on their arrival. The woman, Dr. Blake, turned to him, faintly smiling. “It’s nothing,” she said, and he too, Quirke saw, felt himself singled out, and marked, somehow, fleetingly. Dr. Blake glanced back at the others. “I’m sorry, we have interrupted your meal.” She touched a fingertip to Phoebe’s elbow. “Please, do sit. Perhaps we shall see you later, before you leave.”

As they moved away, Paul Viertel turned back for a second and smiled at Phoebe and gave a small, quick bow.

Seated again, Quirke felt oddly discomposed. It was as if a sudden gust of wind had blown through the room, leaving everything slightly disturbed in its wake, including him.

“I didn’t realize you’d never met her before,” Phoebe said.

“Yes,” Quirke said distractedly. “I only knew her husband from the hospital, and not very well anyway. He was a surgeon, so our paths didn’t cross very often. He drank, I think.” He picked at what remained of the grouse; the meat was tough and had little taste. He drank his wine. He should have had red, to go with the game. His hand, he noticed, was not quite steady. “Is she — is she easy to work for?” he asked.

Phoebe raised her eyebrows. “Easy? I suppose she is.” She smiled. “She’s certainly a change from Mrs. Cuffe-Wilkes and her awful hats.”

“Are they awful, the hats? I thought you liked them.”

“They’re just silly, like Mrs. Cuffe-Wilkes. Dr. Blake, on the other hand, is certainly not silly.”

“Yes, she seems”—he groped for the word—“she seems formidable.” He pushed his plate aside, feeling slightly queasy now at the look of it, the mess of meat and smeared blood and tiny, dark bones. He lit a cigarette. “Who’s the young man?”

“I don’t know. A relative, don’t you think?”

“He sounded foreign.”

“Yes. Austrian, probably, like Dr. Blake.”

“What did she say his name was?”

“Feertel, something like that.” She looked at him closely. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Why?”

“You look — I don’t know. Peculiar.”

“The food didn’t agree with me.” He glanced about for the waiter. “I think I’ll have a brandy — it always settles my innards.”

She made a comically accusing face, letting her shoulders and the corners of her mouth droop. “Oh, Quirke,” she said, “you’re such a child.”

“What do you mean?”

“If you want a brandy, have a brandy. I think you shouldn’t, I really think you shouldn’t, but if you do, at least don’t lie to yourself about it.”

Stung, he glared at her, then shrugged, and smiled ruefully.

“All right,” he said, “I won’t have a brandy.”

“You’ve done so well,” she said, smiling, “please don’t give in now.”

He looked into her face, into her eyes, her mother’s eyes, and felt a slow, wavelike spasm in the region of his diaphragm, and something heavy and warm welled up in him, as if he might be about to burst into tears. The feeling lasted no more than a second or two, but he recognized it. It was something that happened to him now and then, at unexpected moments. Anything could provoke it, a soft word spoken kindly, a sudden poignant memory, a woman’s voice heard from another room, or just the look of things, a splashy sunset, a view on a winter morning of some known place transfigured in a mist, a gleam of April light on a rained-on road — anything. It was as if, deep inside him, deep beyond his knowing, there was a still, bottomless pool of longing, of sorrow, of tenderness, out of which on these occasions there rose up, unbidden, a bright and irresistible splash, rose, and fell back again, back into those secret and forever hidden depths.

A stranger; he was a stranger to himself.

But oh, how he yearned for a real drink: for many real drinks.

When they had finished and were leaving, the way out led past the table where Dr. Blake and the young man were seated. Dr. Blake looked up at them out of those dark, calm eyes. She had the air, Quirke thought, of some large, locked place, a castle keep, or a sequestered monastery where vigils were held, and nightlong meditations, and silent ceremonials at dawn.

He caught himself up. Where were such fanciful thoughts coming from?

“I hope you enjoyed your dinner?” Dr. Blake said, looking up at him.

“Yes, yes,” Quirke answered, “it was fine, it was very good.”

At this she only smiled, as if gently dismissing something superfluous. Her large hands were folded on the tablecloth in front of her, one on top of the other, like a pair of slumbering animals. The fair young man smiled too, but at Phoebe. “Good evening,” he said to her, in his clipped accent. “I hope we meet again.”

They were at the front door of the hotel before Phoebe’s blushes finally began to fade.

Quirke bought the Sunday papers from the newsstand outside the church on Haddington Road, and strolled down to the canal in the sunshine by way of Percy Place. He walked along the towpath until he came to his favorite bench under the trees, and sat down. A crowd of boys were out already, swimming from the lock at Mount Street Bridge. He lit a cigarette and watched them idly for a while, skinny, dough-pale creatures in sagging togs, loud and cheerful, and foul-mouthed as dockers. The more daring ones preferred to jump feet-first from the parapet of the bridge, holding their noses and flopping into the water like frogs. They were often here at weekends, and he marveled at their resistance to the countless species of microbes that must be swarming in this filthy water, afloat as it was with assorted garbage and the odd dead dog.

He was reading a long report about improving relations between America and Hungary when he heard the sound of footsteps. Looking up, he was surprised to see Rose Griffin approaching along the towpath.

“Well,” she said, “don’t you look the picture of ease, sitting here among beechen shade and shadows numberless.” She sat down beside him. “That’s Keats, by the way, in case you didn’t recognize it.” She wore a pale cream sleeveless dress and gold-painted sandals, and was carrying a small, white leather handbag. “Got a cigarette?”