Máirtín Ó Cadhain - Graveyard Clay - Cré na Cille

— Let on you don’t hear her at all, Nóra …

— Yep , Dotie. I fell head-over-heels in love with him, Dotie. He was like a brand-new statue of bronze with life breathed into it. The pupil of his eye was like the sparkle of a star in a mountain lake on a frosty night. His hair was like black silk … But his lips, Dotie. His lips … They were on fire. On fire, Dotie. Burning from The Red-Hot Kiss itself …

And the stories he told me about foreign countries and ports. About turbulent seas and the driven storm blowing white foam to the topsails. About bright sandy estuaries in the recesses of wooded headlands. About snow-covered, windswept peaks. About sun-drenched pastures on the margins of gloomy forests … About foreign birds, strange fishes and wild animals. About tribes that have stones for money, and about other tribes that wage war to capture spouses …

— That’s cultured enough, Nóra …

— About tribes that worship the devil, and about gods that go courting milkmaids …

— That’s cultured too, Nóra …

— And about adventures he had himself in Marseilles, Port Said, Singapore …

— Cultural adventures, I suppose …

— Oh! I’d give him the last drop of my heart’s blood, Dotie! I’d go with him as bondmaid to Marseilles, to Port Said, to Singapore …

— You stabbed one another after all that …

— We had only known one another briefly at the time. An ordinary true-lovers’ tiff , Dotie. That was all. He was sitting by my side on the sofa. “You are beautiful, my Nóróg,” he said. “Your tresses are more luminous than the sunrise on the snow-capped peaks of Iceland.” Honest , he did, Dotie. “Your eyes are more sparkling, my Nóróg,” he said, “than the Northern Star appearing over the horizon to the mariner as he crosses the Equator.” Honest , he did, Dotie. “Your countenance is more beautiful, my Nóróg,” he said, “than white-crested waves on the smooth strands of Hawaii.” Honest , he did, Dotie. “Your slender body is more stately, my Nóróg,” he said, “than a palm-tree by the rampart of a seraglio in Java.” Honest , he did, Dotie. “Your snow-white body is more delicate,” he said, “than the lighthouse that guides the mariners to the port of Brightcity and that beckons me to the loving embrace of my fair Nóróg.” Honest , he did, Dotie. He embraced me, Dotie. His lips were aflame … Aflame …

“Your well-formed legs are more shapely, my Nóróg,” he said, “than the silver bridge of the moon over San Francisco Bay.”

He made a grab at the calf of my leg …

— He made a grab at the calf of your leg, Nóróg. Now for you! …

— Honest , he did, Dotie. “ De grâce ,” said I. “Don’t be grabbing my calves.” “The curves of your calves are prettier, my Nóróg,” he said, “than a whirl of seagulls in the wake of a ship.” He grabbed my calf again. “ De grâce ,” said I, “leave my calves alone.” “The calves of your legs are more beautiful, my Nóróg,” he said, “than the Milky Way, thrown on its back in the raging seas of the south.” “ De grâce ,” I said, “you’ll have to leave the calves of my legs alone.” I grabbed a book I’d been reading from the window ledge and I smacked him on the wrist with the edge of it …

— But you told me, Nóróg, that you took a pot-hook to him, like I did myself …

— Dotie! Dotie! …

— But that’s what you told me, Nóra …

— De grâce , Dotie …

— And that he drew a knife, Nóróg, and made a sudden lunge to stab you; and then he apologised and said it was the custom in his country to grab another person’s calves as a sign of friendship …

— De grâce , Dotie. De grâce …

— That you made it up again then, and that every time his ship reached Brightcity he wouldn’t take his finger off his nose till he came as far as you …

— De grâce , Dotie. “Finger off his nose.” Very uncultured …

— But that’s exactly the way you put it yourself, Nóróg. And you said he used to write to you from San Francisco, Honolulu, Batavia, Singapore, Port Said and Marseilles. And that you were down in the dumps for a long time when you got no letter from him, till a sailor told you he was laid low after being stabbed with a knife in a bistro in Marseilles …

— Ugh! Ugh! Dotie. You know how sensitive I am. It would upset me greatly if anybody should hear that story. Honest , it would, Dotie. You are my friend, Dotie. What you said a while ago would give me a terrible reputation. That he would draw a knife! That I would do something so uncultured as taking a pot-hook to somebody! Ugh!

— That’s what you told me a good while ago, Nóróg, but you didn’t have as much culture then as you have now …

— Hum , Dotie. It would take a rustic like Caitríona Pháidín to do a thing like that. You heard Muraed Phroinsiais say it was boiling water she took to Big Brian. She must be a right harridan. Honest! …

— It’s a terrible shame he didn’t bury the knife to the hilt in you, you sailors’ leavings. Where was it you said he sat down beside you? Oh, Lord God, the unfortunate man had no mind to do what was good for him. Easily known he’d be stabbed in the end if he sat down with the Filthy-Feet Breed. He had a fine present parting from you, indeed: a cargo of nits …

— Let on you don’t hear her at all, Nóróg …

— … Now, Red-haired Tom, for God’s sake listen to me. I’m yelling at you for the past hour and you’re paying no more heed to me than if I were frogspawn. Why don’t you have confidence in me? Weren’t we the closest of acquaintances above ground? …

— The closest of acquaintances, Master. The closest …

— Tell me this, Red-haired Tom. Is Billyboy the Post unwell? …

— Billyboy the Post? Billyboy the Post, now. Billyboy the Post. Billyboy the Post, indeed. Faith, there is such a man, Master. Billyboy the Post definitely exists …

— Arrah, may the devils and the demons and the thirty-seven million devils that were present at Alexander Borgia’s death-bed take Billyboy the Post to hell with them! Don’t I know he exists! Do you think, Red-haired Tom, I don’t know Billyboy the Post exists. Is he unwell, the blubber-lipped little lout? …

— Some people say he is, Master. Some people say he’s not. Many a thing is said without a grain of truth in it. But he could be unwell. He could, faith. He could, surely. It’s a wise man …

— I humbly ask you, Red-haired Tom, to tell me if Billyboy the Post is unwell …

— Oh! He could be, Master. He could be, indeed. He could be, Master. He could, surely. Musha, devil do I know …

— I implore you, in the name of the age-old custom of neighbourly gossip, to tell me if Billyboy the Post is unwell … Good man, Red-haired Tom … I’ll love you forever, Red-haired Tom … You’re my golden apple, Red-haired Tom, but tell me is Billyboy the Post unwell, or is he likely to die soon?

— It’s a wise man …

— I implore you, Red-haired Tom, as a man who was espoused to a woman — as I was myself — to tell me if Billyboy the Post is unwell …

— He could be …

— My earthly store, white of my eye, my life’s help, Red-haired Tom! … Do you believe in private property at all? … In the name of everybody’s duty to sustain the natural foundation of marriage, I implore you, Red-haired Tom, to tell me if Billyboy the Post is unwell …

— If I told anything, Master, I’d tell it to yourself as soon as to anyone else, but I won’t tell anything. One should keep one’s mouth shut in a place like this, Master. It’s not a place to be indiscreet. Graves have holes …