Paul Murray - An Evening of Long Goodbyes

‘She was runnin around in the bushes like a mad thing, I don’t think she knows what she’s doin at all.’

‘Well, bring her in, would you, there’s a good chap —’

Mrs P made a contribution that was not audible from the second storey.

‘She keeps sayin that, who’s Mirela, Charlie?’

‘I don’t know, look, can’t you just —’

‘Hang on —’ A door opened and a tremble of light fell on the grass.

‘Hi Frank,’ said a new voice.

‘All right?’ Frank said. ‘What are you doin out here?’

‘I was looking for the bathroom,’ Laura said.

‘Maybe Charles knows where it is,’ he pointed up to me.

‘Hi Charles!’ she waved.

‘Hello, yes,’ I replied rather curtly, wondering how long this pantomime was going to go on for. ‘I think you were actually in the bathroom already, if you —’

‘It’s actually quite nice out, isn’t it?’ She had returned her attention to Frank. ‘Like sort of refreshing, is that why you came out?’

‘Look at all them stars…’ Frank reflected unconvincingly, craning his head back.

‘I say, Mrs P’s going to catch cold if you stand there much longer,’ I called down. ‘And Bel’s looking for you, by the way.’

‘Right you be, Charlie, right you be.’ He held the door open for Mrs P and Laura and followed them inside. I turned from the window and sat down at Father’s desk. On a sheet of paper was a row of faces, scribbled on with coloured pencils; it took a moment to see that it was the same girl in each picture. Beneath it were notes on the respective effects, his zigzags and hatching expressed as fiendish bracketed equations, strings of letters and indices that represented the colour, density and reactivity of the compounds in question. To most people, it was alchemy and nothing less; I confess it didn’t make much more sense to me. His portrait looked down on me from the wall. Why couldn’t you have a normal mortgage? I reproached him silently. Why did you leave us alone with this mess? He gazed back at me expressionlessly.

I composed myself, and considered the tattered remnants of my grand plan to save Amaurot. There was no question that the opportunity to leave behind any kind of inspirational message, or even a good impression, had by this point been lost. Death or no death, there no longer seemed much chance of Bel revising her opinion of me, coming to see me as noble, a good sport, etc. All I had managed to do was confirm her idea of Amaurot as some kind of South Dublin House of Usher. It was no wonder Frank seemed like a safe, responsible alternative. I had practically driven her into his arms. The whole thing had been a debacle from start to finish, and it struck me that if one tenth of this had happened to Christ during his last supper, it was debatable whether he would have bothered coming back from the dead.

Still, I supposed I had better get it over with. I got to my feet. As I did so, the painting caught my eye again. On the spur of the moment I decided I wasn’t going to leave it for thieves to take, or to be auctioned off. I seized the letter-opener from the desk and set to work cutting the canvas where it met the frame. From outside there came a guttural, otherworldly dialogue: I imagined wolves gathering, or some inverted horror film where a mob of irate monsters takes the torch to Frankenstein’s castle. The canvas came free: I rolled it up, folded it, and tucked it under the waistband of my trousers. Then, feeling marginally better, I fetched the bag of possessions from my room and made my way downstairs, planning to say goodnight to the others and then wait for death outside, where there was less chance of further embarrassment.

Voices were coming from the kitchen: but my first port of call was the dining room, where I picked up a candelabrum and saw to my satisfaction that the dresser, the cabinet, the nested tables had been stripped. Nodding to myself, I left the room.

‘Those Budweiser ads are hilarious — Oh, hi Charles.’

‘Well, well, isn’t this cosy?’

Frank, Laura, Bel and Mrs P were sitting around the table, illuminated by a single candle, cups of tea before them. Bel muttered something uncomplimentary as I came in.

‘Nice and cosy,’ I repeated, circling the table with my hands behind my back and staring meaningfully at Frank.

‘All right?’ Frank said. I smiled benignly. Let him pretend innocence for now; by this time tomorrow, his jig would be up.

‘Do you want some tea, Charles?’ Laura said. ‘We thought we should give your housekeeper some tea, like to warm her up, and then Frank said, why don’t we all have some?’

‘Found some Jaffa Cakes as well,’ Frank said, proffering the box.

‘Your hair is so shiny,’ Laura said to Mrs P, who looked positively catatonic and had not touched her tea.

‘As a matter of fact I was just on my way to bed,’ I said with a yawn. ‘But then I remembered I had something important I wanted to tell Bel.’

Bel made no response to this, other than adjusting her chair to face away from me.

‘.. em, Bel?’ I ventured again, attempting to sidestep in front of her.

‘Charles, please, I don’t want to talk to you right now —’

‘Yes, but just a quick — I say, can’t you stop moving your chair around?’

‘ — or look at you. I’m sorry, but I can’t.’

‘It’s just that the thing is —’ gripping the back of the chair and sort of leaning across her –

‘Oh, what then?’ she exclaimed. ‘What is it?’

‘Um…’ Caught on the hop, I couldn’t remember what I wanted to say. I straightened up, tapped my foot, trying to think of something fitting. ‘Well, goodnight, I suppose, for a start —’

‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Goodnight.’ She crossed her arms and returned to glowering into her teacup.

‘Well,’ I said uncertainly, ‘that’s it, then.’

‘Yeah, g’night, Charlie.’

‘Goodnight, Charles, thanks for a lovely dinner.’

‘Right.’ I moved numbly over to the back door, feet heavy as lead.

‘Charles, where are you going, exactly?’ Bel said irritably.

‘Me? Oh, just popping over to the Folly for a minute.’

‘At this hour? What for?’

‘No reason,’ I said vaguely, my hand resting on the handle. ‘Just thought I might, ah, pop over…’

‘Fine.’ She turned away again, sounding exasperated.

‘Well, goodnight everyone.’ I opened the door. ‘And if for some reason I don’t see you again, then, ah… well, try to love one another, you know.’ I began to back out of the room. ‘Work for a better tomorrow, so forth. Though of course, I will see you. So it’s just, just something to bear in mind, give it the old college try —’ Overcome by emotion, I hurried out and closed the door.

The garden was cool and fresh. I leaned against the masonry and brushed my eyes. Frank was right: the sky was packed with stars. I stayed there a moment looking at them: candles in a grand celestial house, through which the gods bumped and argued, apologized and said goodbye.

I found MacGillycuddy behind an acacia tree, hands folded peacefully in his lap. Above him the video camera lay nestled in the fork of two branches, pointing at the dining-room window. I took it down and fiddled with the buttons until it rewound to the beginning, then brought the viewfinder to my eye. I fast-forwarded through dinner with Laura. Even at high speed it looked insufferably boring. Ignominious matchsticks wolfed food and wine, heads snapped back and forth like birds. Bel and Frank arrived. The matchsticks zipped about the room. Then the power cut: after a period of darkness, Laura came back with her candle. I saw Bel and Frank leaving and me returning, lighting the other candles; Laura’s and my brief moment of electricity by the cabinet, a split-second of insignificance.