Кен Бруен - A Fifth of Bruen - Early Fiction of Ken Bruen

Waking... on the better site of intimacy, we had gotten to the bed. A hangover hadn’t yet decided on its strength. Marisa stirred. I lit a cigarette. Oh God, luck.

“What are you thinking about, Dillon?”

“I’m thinking about you, dear.”

She smiled, deep. But there’d be more. Had to be.

“Do you think you might love me... a little bit Dillon... do you?” She was lisping.

“Well... I’m not in love with you... if I say I am, you’ll want to hear it and hear it a whole lotta times. It’s the first time that opens the dam. I like you a whole lot... let’s not mess it about with that loaded term.”

Far too long a theory. The hangover moved up. I headed for the bathroom. Morning prayer... on my knees to the porcelain. Sloo... sh... here went Robbie’s bet... coloured gay. Twenty to the good.

Blast the shower... grief it meant to be. I chanced a glance to the mirror. Wet... I said... I look wet... right. M... m... mh.

A shade dismantled, alas. I managed to make some shook coffees. It’s Saturday so... so perchance a jigger of that Irish. Morning drinking... hello, alcoholism. Back to the bed. Marisa was groaning.

“I’m ill.”

“Have a hit on this.” More of it, I thought.

“Ah, what’s in this...”

“Sugar.”

“Are you sure?”

“No.”

She took a cigarette... coughed... coffeed and shook.

“Julie told me why you go to the funerals.”

Good old chatty Julie... mebbe she could take out full-page advertisements. I savoured the coffee; no sugar there.

“She says you didn’t go to your father’s, and you’ve been compensating ever since.”

“Could be... I might have me some of that line of thought.”

“... and that you carry guilt because you don’t recall your mother’s burial. Is this very painful?”

“Hangovers are painful.”

“Robbie said you were a death-freak.”

“Ary, stop... I’m too ill for this... alrite.”

“Why do you go...”

“I started initially because I had a dread of them... I was afraid to go... now I think I’m afraid not to go...”

“I don’t understand.”

“Since I began to follow the funerals, nobody close to me has died.”

“But that’s crazy.” She spilt the coffee in exasperation. T’would be a whore’s ghost to remove coffee stains.

“Look, I didn’t start out saying this was logical... did I? Why does it have to be rationalised. Where does it say this must make sense?”

“But you can’t live like that.”

“Why?”

“... Because... oh God... what... because it’s weird. Julie says it’s neurotic...”

I moved. To ease the knife Julie was burying up to the flogging hilt in my back. How much whiskey was there yet in that bottle.

“I’m going to tell you about Julie... she lived in Greece for three years. Her father-in-law was in the army, and her Greek husband didn’t understand a whole lot when she began sleeping with the colonel. Like a bad literary joke. They forgot to tell her no-one sleeps with the colonel.” Marisa listened with the delight of the truly scandalised. The joy of the completely horrified. I could have stopped there. I saw her eyes again... as that coin spun in the air. Go to it.

“After a confrontation, the father-in-law leapt in his car... roaring... and an articulated truck put him and his guilt all over the centre of downtown Athens... that stopped the roaring... and his gallop—”

“Ker-ist.”

“Julie got divorced and came back here. She gave me something she’d written and said it would explain everything and shed light on nothing. She called it — levels. Which she certainly wasn’t... on the level I mean.”

“Could I see it...”

My instincts said no.

My loyalty whispered... no way.

I said... “Sure...”

   “Levels...”

   Ending school

   at 17

   as I was then... a

   gutter-d level was

   what they fore-saw

   for me... I half-

   elated

   on some reputation tough... as I believed

   believed thru years astray

   should manic give me

   bestow a mantle of

   recklessness... from acceptance

   lower

   Second level

   in Athens

   on a Sunday

   would you not

   a day in sunshine say — near

   had to be

   and you’d be wrong

   as wrong as I

   descending

   from a claustrophobic bus

   witnessed

   an army funeral

   a silence thru the rain

   you’d think

   would you

   I felt a sense

   of something... something surely

   that you could

   describe — you’d be

   on levels most

   you’d be correct

   Rising to the

   third level

   the level ultimate

   is open to

   the thousand interpretations

   yet... a knowledge

   only basic

   is all I can

   anticipate

   have never once

   articulated

   that... as know

   I mebbe know

   mebbe

   I almost might

   The level fourth

   it what it is... it

   what you have believed

   from me

   and Lord...

   amazing as it is

   the rock belief

   you placed... in me

   might

   bring

   me... very near

   towards

   what I can but visualise

   the level fourth

   — beyond the words

   mundane

   Fifth and final...

   dream... on

   sacred fear itself

   I’ve feared

   you are

   but what we dreamt

   from aspirations

   basked...

   in urgency

   My handicap it

   is

   my words out race

   their meaning

   every wasted time

   and time

   I never seem to get

   to line your meaning

   clear...

   it clearly now

   is at

   the level fifth

   near you

   I have belonged

       “it only needs

       to read

       to where I am

       right now... you

       read these levels five

       five countries full

       from you

       ... removed”

Outside the morgue. A smartly dressed middle-aged man kept sneaking looks at me.

“Did you know the deceased?” he asked.

“Not well.”

“Ah, who did... who knows anyone.

“Ego... life is the constant search to define it.”

I nodded. I couldn’t rise to the verbal lunacy this morning. I wondered if he might be related to the head wino, Padraig. They attended the same speech coach mebbe! A three-day beard emphasized the crazed light in his eyes.

“You’ll walk behind the hearse.”

“Yeah.”

“Ponder this, my silent friend, as we take the high road... ego is the sum of false ideas we have about ourselves.”

“Piss off,” I said.

I don’t enter the cemetery. At the gates a wedding party roared past... horns blaring. I was too hung-over for irony. I mouthed the Beckett line and felt little solace. “They give birth astride of a grave.” Hoot on. Who gives a diddly-fliggit.