John Banville - Nightspawn

‘You stupid bitch.’

She tore herself away from me, and lifted her hands to protect her face. We glowererd at each other, teeth clenched.

‘Look —’ I began, but she flew at me, and her nails ripped my cheek. I leapt away, trying to hold my balance, and with an open fist I caught her a crack on the side of the head which must have loosened a filling or two. The knot of her hair flew asunder as she whirled away from me. A rug slipped under her feet, and she crashed to the floor. There she lay motionless with her head in her arms. I touched my cheek, and my fingers came away bloodied.

I flung open the door and went clattering down the stairs, and reached the street in time to meet a small boy coming from the lane with a dented but unbroken silver box in his little paws. He halted in fright at the appearance of this toothed creature with arms spread bat-like above him, and whipped the box behind his back. The presence of mind the little bastard could muster.

‘Little man, may I have my box?’

He looked at me silently with round brown eyes. I put my face in front of his and breathed brimstone at him.

‘Give. It’s mine.’

‘No.’

‘Sweet Jesus. Look, I warn you.’

‘No, I won’t, it’s mine, I found it.’

There was a light patter of steps behind me, and I looked over my shoulder to see Helena slip out of the doorway and disappear into the dusk. I gave a shriek, and caught the child by the throat. His eyes opened very wide, and his tongue came out. I reached down behind him and wrenched the box from his hands (please god he will some day beget a battalion of retards and die roaring after a long life of unmitigated failure), then threw him to one side and fled down the street with my knees knocking against my chin and the silver prize clutched to my breast. Behind me the child let out a roar. Helena was gone. Again. My heart.

I walked to the harbour, through streets luminous with the last light of day. The shops were closing, the owners sleepily gathering in their wares. The dusk rang with the far clear shouts of children, and those other cries, less easily identified, which seemed to reverberate above the roof tops, sounds that were out of time and place, that carried with them other times and places, the voices of nightingales and kings.

The white liner calmly rode at anchor beyond the harbour bar, and by the pier two yachts were anchored. The water barely stirred, bearing another island, another harbour on its back. Down there were windows washed with blue, the palest green, and boats drifted upside-down on the hulls of their progenitors. People came and went, came and went, their voices flying out across the bay to the other shores and islands. The trawlers were already setting off for the liner, bearing the first cargoes of mail and baggage, and the mysterious things which, with the rats, are the first arrivals on an outbound ship. The lights were coming on in the tavernas, and the nightclub on the hill was sending down the first strains of music, calling its few revellers. Hold this overworked twilight for a little longer, just a little longer.

I strolled along the waterfront, looking idly at the souvenirs, the postcards, the miniature plaster lions of Apollo. My steps took me toward the police barracks, which crouched in the shame of its drab grey stone, flanked on one side by the sea, by the astonishing geometry of the little blue-domed chapel on the other. I paused below the barracks steps, with my hands in my pockets, and craned my neck to peer through the open doorway. A large gaunt room was there, dimly illumined by the dying light from the sky which crept through a grimed mean window set high up in the wall. From where I stood, I could see the head and shoulders of a fat policeman in shirt sleeves, with his hands behind his head, bent as though in prayer over an ancient black typewriter. At intervals he emerged from his concentration, and his arms would drop and pounce upon the keys. The sharp little blows ravished the silence, and danced across the room like so many exclamation points. Beside his machine there stood a cabinet of gleaming steel. One of its drawers gaped, overflowing with dirty crockery, like a mouthful of broken teeth. The man at the typewriter stood up, punching a cramped arm, and touched a switch behind him on the wall. The light which he called forth was hardly brighter than that in the window, and the naked bulb dangled from the ceiling like a fat yellow tear. The policeman squinted at it, and shook his head. He caught sight of me, and we looked at each other in silence. A dog barked, a child squealed, and a little bell tinkled in the chapel. The sequence of sounds had about them the ineluctable precision of a mathematical formula, and, like the product of the equation, boots thudded somewhere inside the room, and an unintelligible phrase slithered down the steps. The fat policeman turned from me to the invisible speaker. He laughed, and nodded, and sat down again, tucking up the sleeves of his shirt. Strange how these inconsequential moments stay with one through all vicissitudes, doling out a little comfort now and then on the long journey from cave to grave. I turned, and walked away.

The taverna was crowded with diehards left over from a wedding feast held that morning. There was shouting and singing, and rampant smashing of crockery. I made my way to the bar. Constantinou, the proprietor, stood behind it in his usual pose, one hand on his hip, the other resting on the counter. He was a tall, diffident man, with the gentlest of smiles. He lifted his eyebrows at me, and was polite enough to ignore the wound on my cheek.

‘Ouzo,’ I said. ‘A bottle.’

‘Eh?’

I shouted my request. Crash, there went another plate against the wall. Constantinou looked to heaven, and set the bottle before me.

‘You leave tonight, yes?’ he asked.

‘No, I’m not leaving.’

‘It’s a pity.’

‘I beg your pardon.’

‘We shall miss you.’

Crash.

‘I’m not leaving. I said, I’m not leaving.’

‘Yes. You’ll have a good journey, the sea is calm tonight.’

‘How much do I owe you?’

‘Me? No, I could never leave the island.’

‘Yes, but I asked, how much? For the ouzo. How much?’

He lifted his hands, shoulders and eyebrows, and pushed out his lower lip, his way of saying, who cares.

‘Take it for your journey,’ he yelled. ‘A gift.’

I laughed, and shook my head ruefully, but said only,

‘Efcharisto, Constantinou.’

‘Kali andamosi.’

I made my way out to the little square, where extra tables had been set up, but still not enough to cater for the throng. A familiar voice wound its way to my ear.

‘And there were such flowers, you would …’

She sat at a table near me, her back turned. She was talking to … my Jesus, Erik. Over her left shoulder he was looking at me, his face betraying not the slightest sign of recognition. Helena made a gesture with her hands, and I went away.

In the little shop by the further pier, I bought a piece of cheese and a loaf of bread. As I was leaving, the island girl who had served me said,

‘Have a good journey.’

Before I could turn to speak she had fled in confusion to the back room. Outside, the painted lanterns which hung below the eaves came suddenly, wondrously to life, laying tender stains of light at my feet. With my provisions tucked against me, I went slowly out along the pier. At the end, where the green beacon flashed, I sat down behind the sea wall and laid out the meagre meal on the stones. I broke a piece of cheese and bit a chunk from the bread, and with my arms folded, and my legs crossed before me, I looked across the harbour. Over there, by the white yachts, the red light winked at its partner above me. The sky was of the palest blue, with one star burning faintly. The water lapped at the sea wall. I took a drink of ouzo, and ate another piece of cheese.