John Banville - Long Lankin - Stories

— You’re impossible, she cried, and left the room. Down the stairs Julie’s cries followed her.

— You hate me! You hate me! You want to see me dead!

Helen went to the window and with trembling fingers lit a cheroot. This would have to stop.

She crushed out the cheroot with a savage twist of her fingers and went into the empty room where their cases were stored. Gasping with the effort she hauled them out and piled them on the couch. Julie came down the stairs, and Helen worked steadily on, pretending not to notice her.

— Don’t leave me, Helen, she said mournfully.

Helen paused, but did not turn. She said:

— We have to leave today, Julie.

— I know.

— And then you’re going away. You decided, didn’t you?

— You decided. You did. I decided nothing. It was you!

Helen beat her fists on the battered case before her, then ran a hand over her forehead, her mouth.

— O Julie Julie Julie.

She turned, and they looked at each other. Julie lowered her eyes and pulled in the corners of her mouth. She touched the cases piled before her, her face betraying an ill-controlled, frantic incomprehension of these square, heavy things. Helen said gently:

— We’re leaving today, Julie. You haven’t forgotten. It’s what you want. You want to leave here, don’t you? The summer is over.

Julie nodded dumbly, and stepped back from the couch. She lifted her hands and opened her mouth to speak, then turned away in silence. As she went to the door Helen watched her, and shook her head.

Julie stood in the doorway and looked out across the sound. The brittle autumn sunlight danced on the water and the far islands seemed to shift and tremble in their distance. Helen came behind her and touched the down on her neck. Julie started, and as though the touch had sprung some hidden switch she began to speak tonelessly.

— I want to get married. I want to have a baby.

— Of course you do.

— My mother worries about me. She asks what are my plans. What can I tell her? And I’m weak. I feel sorry for her. I want to tell her I’ve found someone. That everything is all right. That everything is … all right.

She sighed, and turned back to the room. With her hands against the door frame she halted. Helen spoke to her, but she was not listening. A bird called to her across the reaches of the sea. Helen took Julie’s face in her hands, and covered her ears with her palms, and in this new silence Julie seemed to hear vaguely someone screaming, a ghost voice familiar yet distant, as though it were coming from beyond the frontiers of sleep.

He shuffled down the corridor, trying the handles of the blind white doors. From one room there came sounds, a cry, a soft phrase of laughter, and in the silence they seemed a glimpse of the closed, secret worlds he would never enter. He leaned against the wall and held his face in his hands. There were revels below, savage music and the clatter of glasses, and outside in the night a wild wind was blowing.

Two figures came up from the stairs and started toward him. One went unsteadily on long, elegantly tailored legs, giggling helplessly. The other leaned on his supporting elbow a pale tapering arm, one hand pressed to her bare collarbone.

— Why Morris, what is it?

They stood and gazed at him foolishly, ripples of laughter still twitching their mouths. He pushed himself away from the wall, and hitched up his trousers. He said:

—’S nothing. Too much drink. That you David?

The woman took a tiny step away from them and began to pick at her disintegrating hairdo. David licked the point of his upper lip and said:

— Listen Mor, are you all right? Mor.

— Looking for my wife, said Mor.

Suddenly the woman gave a squeal of laughter, and the two men turned to look at her.

— I thought of something funny, she said simply, and covered her mouth. Mor stared at her, his eyebrows moving. He grinned and said:

— I thought you were Liza.

The woman snickered, and David whispered in his ear:

— That’s not Liza. That’s … what is your name anyway?

— Jean, she said, and glared at him. He giggled and took her by the arm.

— Jean, I want you to meet Mor. You should know your host, after all.

The woman said:

— I wouldn’t be a Liza if you paid me.

— Mother of God, said Mor, a bubble bursting on his lips.

David frowned at her for shame and said:

— You must be nice to Mor. He’s famous.

— Never heard of him.

— You see, Mor? She never heard of you. Your own guest and she never heard of you. What to you think of that?

— Balls, said Mor.

— O now. Why are you angry? Is it because of what they are all saying? Nobody listens to that kind of talk. You know that. We’re all friends here, aren’t we, Liza—

— Jean.

— And this is a grand party you’re throwing here, Mor, but no one listens to talk. We know your success is nothing to do with … matrimonial graft.

On the last words the corner of David’s mouth moved as a tight nerve uncoiled. Mor looked at him with weary eyes, then walked away from them and turned down the stairs. David called after him:

— Where are you going, man?

But Mor was gone.

— Well, said the woman. Poor Mor is turning into quite a wreck. These days he even has to pretend he’s drunk.

David said nothing, but stared at the spot where Mor had disappeared. The woman laughed, and taking his arm she pressed it against her side and said:

— Let’s go somewhere quiet.

— Shut your mouth, David told her.

Downstairs Mor wandered through the rooms. The party was ending, and most of the guests had left. In the hall a tiny fat man leaned against the wall, his mouth open and his eyes closed. A tall girl with large teeth, his daughter, was punching his shoulder and yelling something in his ear. She turned to Mor for help, and he patted her arm absently and went on into the drawing room. There in the soft light a couple were dancing slowly, while others sat about in silence, looking at their hands. In the corner a woman in a white dress stood alone, a little uncertain, clutching an empty glass. She watched his unsteady progress toward her.

— There you are, he said, and grinning he touched the frail white stuff of her gown. She said nothing, and he sighed.

— All right, Liza, so I’m drunk. So what?

— So nothing. I said nothing. Your tie is crooked.

His hands went to the limp black bow at his neck, and went away again.

— It’s coming apart, he said. The knot is coming apart.

— Yes.

He held her eyes for a moment, and looked away. He said:

— You have a sobering effect, Liza. How do you live with yourself?

— You always pretend to be drunker than you are and then you blame me. That’s all.

— You know, I met a woman upstairs and thought it was you. She was laughing and I thought it was you. Imagine.

He put his hands into the pockets of his jacket and looked at the room. The couple had stopped dancing, and were standing motionless now in the middle of the floor, their arms around each other as though they had forgotten to disentangle them. Mor said:

— What are they waiting for? Why don’t they go home?

— You hate them, Liza said. Don’t you?

— Who?

— All of them. All these people — our friends.

He looked at her, his eyebrows lifted.

— No. I’m sorry for them — for us. Look at it. The new Ireland. Sitting around at the end of a party wondering why we’re not happy. Trying to find what it is we’ve lost.

— O Mor, don’t start all that.

He smiled at her, and murmured:

— No.

David put his head around the door, and when he saw them he smiled and shot at them with a finger and thumb. He crossed the room with exaggerated stealth, looking over his shoulder at imaginary pursuers. He stopped near them and asked from the corner of his mouth: