Paul Murray - An Evening of Long Goodbyes

‘I wouldn’t say acquainted ,’ MacGillycuddy interjected. ‘I’d seen him down the pub a few times, I suppose, maybe had a couple of games of darts with him…’

‘Not only were you acquainted with him,’ I persisted, ‘but you knew about all those people in my Folly, and you went ahead and let me set up my Frank trap even though you knew that they must have been behind it.’

‘I didn’t know ,’ MacGillycuddy said. ‘I had sort of a hunch, is all.’

‘Well, confound it man, didn’t you think of telling me any of this? I mean, what was the point of me paying you good money to snare Frank, if you knew all along it wasn’t Frank?’

‘Look,’ MacGillycuddy said with a hint of reproof, ‘I just did what you asked me. An All-Seeing Eye sees an awful lot of things. It’s important to ask it the right questions.’

I made a half-wheel of exasperation. ‘For an All-Seeing Eye you’re remarkably selective with your information, do you know that?’

‘Maybe you should have hired the All-Speaking Mouth,’ MacGillycuddy said expressionlessly.

‘Oh, hell,’ I said again, and turned away, propping myself against the bar with my elbows. Mirela had gathered around her a little circle by now, well-manicured theatre patrons and bluff old actors standing and grinning foolishly like moths that have found the perfect flame; in the centre, she gesticulated and argued her case and measured out her smiles democratically between them. Over in a corner, her bear-like brothers joked noisily in Bosnian, playing some game with coins laid on a tissue paper stretched over a glass of beer; Bel meanwhile was suffering from a coughing-fit which might or might not have been put on so the person with the plaits and the peasant jacket could massage her back. And then there were the others, the men and women of Society: the bank directors and their lovely wives, the noted philanthropists, the coterie artists, the entrepreneurs and government bigwigs, animated Names with foggy semblances of personalities and a permanent entourage of worshipful diarists: and as their conversation rose again, sheer and vertiginous, I felt a burning desire to grab one of them by the lapels and shout: What is happening here? Isn’t this my house? Isn’t that the Steinway in the corner on which, in happier times, I composed ‘I’m Sticking to You’ and ‘Gosh, His Galoshes’? Am I not, beneath these bandages, still Charles Hythloday?

But at that moment I spied Mother coming towards me with the alarmingly purposeful expression she’d acquired lately; and I realized that, whoever I was, it was time I made myself scarce.

I’d woken up with a start, like a commuter who’s dozed off on the train home; Bel was at my bedside poring over a book. I coughed politely.

‘Charles!’ She set the book down with a cry. ‘Oh my goodness!’ She jumped up and leaned over me, peering into my eyes. ‘Do you know who I am? How many fingers am I holding up? Can you understand what I’m saying? Blink if you understand.’

‘Of course I understand,’ I said. ‘Stop shouting, I’m all right.’

This was something of an exaggeration, as with every passing second some new part of my body seemed to awake and sing with pain. As delicately as I could I turned my head and took in my surroundings. We were in a poky room with pea-green walls and an ugly check curtain pulled over the window. Various apparatuses were arranged around me, mapping my condition with inscrutable dials and screens. A tube fed into my arm from a drip by the bed. Directly opposite me was a poster of sunlight glinting through trees, with the legend Today is the first day of the rest of your life . For some reason it gave me a chill.

‘How long have I been here?’ I asked.

‘Weeks,’ Bel said. ‘Weeks and weeks. The doctors said it’s normal when your body gets a shock like that, but we were really starting to get worried.’ She pulled her chair in closer. ‘You woke up a few times, can you remember? You were rambling on about Yeats, reciting poems at the top of your voice.’ She smiled. ‘All the really lyrical stuff. I think a couple of the nurses are in love with you.’

‘Well they’ve got a funny way of showing it,’ I said, recalling the unpleasant turn my dream had taken and gingerly adjusting my posterior. ‘Bel, why does my head feel funny? It feels sort of itchy.’

‘You got hit by a gargoyle. You’re still all bandaged up, you look like you’ve just stepped out of a pyramid.’ She hesitated, then bent down and rummaged in her bag. ‘Here —’ she opened her compact mirror.

‘Oh, lord…’

‘Don’t worry, it’s not going to be for ever.’

‘Do I still have a face under all this?’

‘Of course. It just needs time to heal. Nothing’s broken, it’s just badly bruised. You were very lucky. The doctor’s explained it all to us. I’m sure he’ll come in and see you now that you’re awake.’ She caught my eye then looked away, toying with her hair. Suddenly it seemed to me that she was acting rather strangely.

‘What is it?’ I said.

‘What’s what?’ she said innocently.

‘You’re sitting there positively about to explode , is what.’

‘I’m just glad to see you, that’s all.’

‘I wish I could believe that,’ I said. ‘Nothing’s happened, has it?’ A terrible thought occurred to me. ‘Oh hell, you haven’t got married to Frank or something, have you?’

‘Ugh, no,’ she said, flicking her hand disdainfully, then recomposing herself. ‘Let’s talk about you, though. How are you? How do you feel?’

I squinted at her suspiciously. She puckered her brow in a passable imitation of attentiveness. ‘I feel all right ,’ I began, ‘although —’

‘Oh Charles, I’ve so much to tell you, so much has happened since you’ve been in here, I hardly know where to begin —’

I knew it. ‘Well, begin somewhere ,’ I said, propping myself up on my lumpy pillow and starting to feel somewhat uneasy.

She took a deep breath. ‘It’s the house,’ she said. ‘We’re turning it into a theatre.’

‘A what?’ I said. ‘A theatre ?’

‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ Her eyes were lit up like Roman candles. ‘We’re going to do The Cherry Orchard, and —’

‘Wait — a theatre? What do you mean, a theatre? Like when Mother and Father were in that Amateur Dramatics thing? Is that what you mean?’

‘No, no, I mean like a proper theatre company, we’re going to build a little stage and — Charles I don’t like the noise that machine is making, maybe this ought to wait until you’re feeling better…’

‘Not at all,’ I said, through a miasma of little sparkling lights. ‘This is all very interesting.’

She went to the window and lifted the sash. ‘Well, I should probably start at the start,’ she said. ‘What happened after you — after the Folly…’ She turned her back to the glass. ‘Charles, what were you thinking ? Were you really going to disappear off to South America?’

I sat myself up again. ‘Look,’ I said, pressing my fingers to the outline of my nose. ‘As a matter of fact, I don’t really care to discuss it. All I want to say is that it seemed like a good idea at the time. And furthermore, it would have worked, if it hadn’t been for Mrs P and her wretched offspring —’ I stopped, remembering my brief encounter with Mrs P’s youngest. ‘How are they?’ I asked impetuously. ‘I mean — she wasn’t hurt, was she? The girl?’

‘Mirela,’ Bel said. ‘She’s fine, apparently you acted as a sort of human shield for everybody else.’

‘And what’s going to happen to them? Are they still there? Is the house still there? What happened with the bank?’