John Banville - Long Lankin - Stories

— Well well, he said. What have we here then?

He looked at her, his head to one side, and with his lips pursed he stepped down from the bicycle and brushed at the wrinkles in his trousers. He was a very tiny man, smaller even than the girl, with a great square head and thick hands. His hair was oiled and carefully parted, and his eyebrows were as black and shiny as his hair. There were four buttons in his jacket, all fastened. At his neck he wore a gay red silk scarf. He said:

— My name is Rainbird.

With her mouth open she stared at him. He watched her and waited for a reply, and when none came he shrugged his shoulders and began to turn away. She said quickly:

— Is that your last name?

He looked around at her, and with his eyebrows arched he said:

— That is my only name.

— O.

He slipped his hands into the pockets of his jacket with his thumbs outside and took a few swaggering turns before the gate.

— Do you live in there? he asked casually, nodding towards the house.

— Yes, she said. That’s my house.

He looked up at the ivy-covered walls, at the windows where the lowering sun shone on the glass.

— I lived in a house like that before I went on the road, he said. Much bigger than that it was, of course. That was a long time ago.

— Was it around here?

— Eh?

— Was it around here you lived?

He gave her a pitying look.

— Naw. It was in another country altogether.

The suggestion that he came from these parts seemed to offend him deeply. There was a silence, and then he whirled about and said:

— I can tell fortunes.

— Can you?

With his eyes closed he nodded proudly.

— Yes. Do you want me to tell yours?

She pushed out her hand. He took her fingers with a sly grin, and the tip of his little red tongue came out and explored the corner of his mouth. Then he wiped away the grin, and with great seriousness he bent over her hand. After a moment he stepped back, and with vaguely troubled eyes he considered the sky.

— Well? she asked.

He folded his arms and ruminated deeply, a finger supporting his chin.

— Well it’s a difficult hand, he said. I’ll tell you that for nothing. You’re waiting for someone.

She laughed.

— Yes that’s right, you’re right. My papa is coming to visit me today. How did you know that?

He seemed a little startled, but he quickly covered it up and said:

— You haven’t seen him for a long time.

— I never saw him. He went away after I was born because my mother died.

— Yes, he said sagely. Yes.

He clasped his hands behind his back and walked around her in a circle, rolling from side to side on his short bandy legs. At last he stopped and shook his head.

— No, he sighed. I see nothing else. If I had my cards …

He looked at the ground, and pulled at his lip with a thumb and forefinger. She waited, and then said in disappointment:

— Is that all?

— That’s all. Well I told you, it’s a difficult hand. What do you expect?

— Can you do any magic?

— I surely can, he said. Why, that’s my job.

— Well do a trick for me then.

— I don’t do tricks, he said archly. I perform feats of magic.

— All right then, go on, perform a feat of magic. Go on.

— Take it easy, he said. Take it easy. Just hold on a minute now.

Once again he struck a pose with arms folded and finger under his chin.

— Look, he said, and turned up his hands for her to examine. Nothing there, right? Now wait.

She watched him eagerly. He made fists of his large hands and held them out before him, tightly clenched. He was quite still, concentrating, and suddenly he opened his hands again. In the hollow of each palm there lay a small white object. She stepped forward for a closer look, and cried:

— Eyes! They’re eyes!

She reached out to touch them, but he quickly closed his fingers over them.

— O let me see them again, she begged. Please. Let me touch them.

He shook his head.

— Forbidden.

— O please.

He grinned delightedly and shoved his fists into his pockets. Out came the tip of his tongue once again.

— No, he said softly.

— All right then, keep them, see if I care. I bet you had them up your sleeves. Anyway they’re not real.

She turned away from him and gave the rear wheel of his bicycle a kick. He pulled the machine away from her and glared at her in outrage.

— Watch what you’re doing, he threatened.

He gave her another black look, and with an expert little hop he was in the saddle and away down the hill. She watched him go, biting her lip, and then she galloped after him, crying:

— Wait! Wait!

He stopped, and with one foot to the ground he looked back at her. She came up to him, panting, and said:

— Listen, I’m sorry for kicking your bike.

He said nothing, and she lowered her eyes and fingered the rubber grip on the handlebar.

— Would you … she began hesitantly. Would you give me a carry down the road a bit?

He considered this for a moment, and the sly grin crept over his face.

— All right, he said, and giggled.

She pulled herself up and sat on the crossbar, and they bowled away down the road. She glanced over her shoulder at him nervously, and he winked.

They moved swiftly now, the hedges flew past on either side and the tyres threw up water that drenched her legs. She looked into the sky, at the swirling clouds, and the wild wind rushed in her hair.

— Allez up! he cried out gaily, and the little girl shrieked with laughter, and plucked the red scarf from around his neck and waved it in the wind. Down they went, and down, faster and faster, until at the bottom of the hill the front wheel began to wobble and when he tried to hold it still the machine twisted and ran wildly across the road to tumble them both in the ditch.

She lay smiling with her face buried in the thick wet grass. A hand pulled at her arm, but she shook it off and pressed herself against the ground. All was quiet now, and somewhere above her a bird was singing.

— Eh, listen, little girl. Are you hurt? Hey.

She turned on her back and looked up at him, her fingers on her lips. She smiled and shook her head.

— I’m all right.

He brushed the grass and flecks of mud from his jacket, and all the while he was looking worriedly about. He began to wipe his shoes with his handkerchief. The girl sat up and took the cloth from him and rubbed at the damp leather. He put his hands on his hips and watched her.

— Now, she said, and gave him back his handkerchief.

He took her hand and helped her to her feet. Hurriedly he retrieved his bicycle from the ditch and wiped the saddle with his sleeve. He paused with his foot on the pedal and turned to look at her. She stood with her hands joined before her, and there were leaves and bits of grass in her hair, and a long streak of mud on her cheek. He put a hand into his pocket.

— Here.

She took the little glass ball from him and looked at it. On one side two dark circles were painted, the pupils of an eye.

— Thank you.

He grinned, showing his yellow teeth, and said:

— They weren’t real.

— What harm.

Now he cast another look around, and whispered urgently:

— Listen, you won’t say you saw me, will you? I mean you won’t say I took you on the bike. I might get into trouble.

She shook her head, and he gave her a wink.

She watched him go away down the road. He did not look back, and soon he was gone around a bend. She turned and walked slowly up the hill. The sun had fallen behind the mountains, and the clouds, like bruised blood, were massing.

Tantey stood in the doorway, and when she saw the little girl come wandering along she cried: