Long Lankin: Stories Read online

  —O, it’s you.

  He lay down in the warm grass at her side, panting. Bees hummed about him.

  —Did they catch you? she asked.

  —No.

  —That’s a wonder. I thought you were going to stand there all day.

  The boy said nothing, and she went on:

  —Jimmy was here a minute ago. He said I was a right little bitch getting him into trouble. He’s worried as anything. That fellow’s not a bit mad. Anyway, he’s gone now. I don’t care.

  She looked down at him. He was chewing a blade of grass and staring into thorns above him. She poked him with her toe.

  —Are you listening to me?

  —No.

  He stood up, and said:

  —We’ll have to go home. Tantey will be worried.

  —Ah, sugar on Tantey.

  They found their bicycles and started home through the glimmering evening. Clouds of midges rode with them. The tiny flies found a way into their hair and under their clothes. The girl cursed them and waved her hands about her head. The boy rode on without a word, his head bent.

  The old woman was indeed angry with them.

  —I warned you before you went, she said, and glared at them from her chair beside the stove. I warned you. Well now you can just hop it off to bed for yourselves. Go on.

  —But what about our supper, Tantey?

  —You’ll have no supper tonight. Get on now.

  —I’m tired, anyway, the girl said carelessly when they were climbing the stairs.

  By the window on the first landing the boy stopped and looked out over the countryside down to the sea. The sun was setting blood-red over the bay. He stood and watched it until it fell into the sea. When it was long gone he heard the girl’s voice calling plaintively from above.

  —Where are you? Where are you?

  He climbed to her room and stood at the end of the bed, looking down at her.

  —I have a pain, she said, as she twisted fitfully among the rumpled sheets, her legs thrown wide, her hand clutching her stomach. He leaned his hands on the metal bedpost and watched her. As she twisted and turned she glanced at him now and then through half-closed eyes. After a moment he looked away from her, and with his lips pursed he considered the ceiling.

  —Do you want to know something? he asked.

  —What? O my stomach.

  —You know that fellow today? The one that shouted at us on the hill? Do you know who he was?

  She was quiet now. She lay on her back and stared at him, her eyes glittering.

  —No. Who was he?

  —He was the other fellow. The one that got drowned. That was him.

  He turned to go and she leaped forward and clutched his hand.

  —Don’t leave me, she begged, her eyes wide. I’m frightened. You can sleep here. Look, here, you can sleep here with me. Please.

  He took his hand from hers and went to the door.

  —All right, the girl cried. Go on, then. I don’t want you. You didn’t need to be coaxed last night. Did you, mister? Ha ha. Mister.

  He left the room and closed the door quietly behind him. Strange shapes before him in the shadows of the stairs. For a while he walked about the house, treading carefully on the ancient boards. All was quiet but for the small sounds of his sister’s weeping. On the top landing a black, square thing lay precariously balanced on the banister. Tantey’s missal. As he passed he casually pushed it over the edge. The heavy book tumbled down the stairs, its pages fluttering.

  He went into the bathroom and locked the door. On the handbasin he knelt and pushed open the small window of frosted glass set high in the wall. Darkness was approaching. Black clouds, their edges touched with red, were gathering out over the sea, and shadows were lowering on the ugly waters. A cold damp breath touched his face. In the distance a long peal of thunder rumbled. He closed the window and climbed down from the basin. He scrubbed his hands and dried them carefully, finger by finger. For a moment he was still, listening. No sounds. Then he went and stood before the mirror and gazed into it at his face for a long time.

  Island

  He sat in the garden under the olive tree, looking past the headland toward Delos, the holy island, where it trembled on the mist. In the night the fierce wind had died, and today the sea was calm. He lit a cigarette, and the blue threads of smoke curled away into the burnished leaves above him. Cicadas sang about the scorched fields, and now and then there came the plop of a pomegranate bursting in the sun. The day would be hot.

  Anna came from the cottage, a wooden tray in her hands. He watched her idly as she laid the table of rough olive wood before him, two cups, bread and white butter, grapes. She would not look at him, and her mouth was set in a tight line. From the taverna below the hill came faintly the gobbling of the turkeys. With his eyes on the road he said:

  —Ever think that those birds can talk? Listen to them. You haven’t you haven’t you haven’t. That’s what they say.

  She did not answer, and he glanced at her.

  —Are you still angry? he asked.

  —I’m not angry. Who said I was angry?

  She hacked a lump of bread from the loaf and slapped it down on the plate. He laughed, and grinding the cigarette under his heel he said:

  —You were angry last night.

  —Well, that was last night.

  —Don’t shout.

  —I’m not shouting.

  She stood with her hands on her hips and glared at him, and with a shrug he turned away and looked again down the road. She said:

  —Why do you sit here every morning staring like that?

  —No reason.

  —You’re waiting for someone to come with a message or something, aren’t you, so you’ll have an excuse to go away and leave me.

  He sighed, and rubbed his eyes. Patiently he said:

  —No, Anna, I’m not waiting for anything. I just like to sit here in the morning. It’s pleasant.

  —While you sit here your life is going away and my life too. Why don’t you write? Wasting your time like that. You’re bored. You want to leave me.

  —For the love of Christ, Anna.

  He took her hands and pulled her down to sit in his lap. For a moment he gazed at her, watching the sun through the leaves set fire in her hair. She bit her lip, and he kissed her, pressing his mouth roughly on hers.

  —Now, he said. I love you and I’m not going to leave you. Do you believe me?

  She held him tightly and murmured in his ear:

  —I believe you.

  —Good. So let’s eat.

  While she poured his coffee he fingered absently the bread on his plate, tearing the soft white flesh. She watched him from the corner of her eye and said:

  —We could always go on, you know.

  —What?

  —We could go on somewhere else. I mean if you’re bored we could go, say, to Alexandria. You’re always saying you’d like to go to Alexandria.

  With his lips pursed he looked at her a moment, his face empty, then he turned his eyes to the road that led down to the beach and the still sea. The light was changing now as the climbing sun burned away the morning’s mist, Delos was advancing and the farther islands were faintly visible. A small breeze came up from the bay and stirred the leaves of the olive tree.

  —Why should I want to leave here? he murmured. It’s peaceful.

  She nodded sadly and took one of his cigarettes. She said:

  —Why did you change so much?

  —Change? Did I change?

  —When we left Ireland you were full of plans and things. The first few months you were happy.

  —And now?

  —I don’t know. You just sit around all day. You haven’t worked on your book in weeks. You don’t even talk any more. Sometimes I get frightened and I think that you don’t see the point of anything any longer.

  She broke off and gave a small high-pitched laugh.

  —Isn’t that ridiculous? she said, and sat ve
ry still, watching the smoke from her cigarette, waiting. He pushed the hair away from her forehead, and she looked at him, smiling awkwardly.

  —It’s ridiculous, he said. I enjoy this life. You know it.

  —Yes. But I mean all I meant was that maybe you’re bored here and maybe we could move on somewhere else. We haven’t even started to use the money from your award yet so there’s no problem there. I mean I … Ben, I don’t want to lose you, she finished weakly.

  His patience at an end, he sighed and turned away from her. She looked down at the table where the shadows from the tree stirred on the wood. Soft sunlight touched the cups and plates, the bread and the small green grapes, extracting from each thing it touched a sense of the thing itself, a sense of the fragility of its existence. Then the leaves stirred, and the shadows changed, a new pattern formed, one that seemed held in place by a force from within the wood itself. Something came back to her of their life together, and she smiled. She turned to him to speak, beginning to laugh, when from behind them on the road came a voice:

  —Good morning.

  They turned. On the broken pillar of the gate a woman leaned, smiling at them. Neither answered her, and the woman said:

  —Can you help me? I am looking for someone.

  She was dressed in a black faded shirt and black trousers. Her hair, long and straight, hung down about a narrow, bony face. Her mouth was small, and painted an ugly red. The flesh of her face was burned and dry from long years under this southern sun. On the bridge of her nose a pale spot glowed where the skin was stretched tight over the bone. Her eyes were large and black.

  Ben stood up uncertainly and took a step toward her, halted. He said:

  —Who is it you’re looking for?

  The woman pushed a lank strand of hair away from her face with long, delicate fingers.

  —A man, she said. He must have passed this way.

  —We’ve seen no one. Anna spoke abruptly, and her eyes widened as though she had surprised herself. The woman glanced at her without interest and went on:

  —They said in the village he came this way. Is there another road to the beach down there?

  —No, Ben said. This is the only way and no one passed this morning.

  The woman gazed at him, shading her eyes against the light.

  —You could not miss him, she said. He is a dark man. A negro. Very tall with a red shirt open so at the neck.

  Ben said nothing, and the woman’s eyes grew troubled and wandered over the road down to the bay.

  —I must find him, she murmured. He is … how would you say? His mind is gone. This morning in the village he attacked a man and almost killed him with a wine bottle. I am worried.

  Ben was staring at her intently, his mouth moving. Anna stood up and went to his side. In the silence there was the sharp, clicking sound of lizards scrabbling over the rocks. From below the hill the turkeys sent up their derisive accusations. Anna’s fists were clenched, and she said loudly:

  —We’ve seen no one.

  The woman turned back to them.

  —You have seen no one?

  —No, Anna answered her.

  The woman nodded.

  —Yes, she said vaguely, and then abruptly turned and started down the hill. Ben watched her go, his forehead wrinkled, and Anna pulled at his sleeve.

  —Come and finish your breakfast, she said.

  He did not move, and she turned away from him. On the table the wreckage of their meal lay like the dismembered parts of a complex toy.

  —Will we go down for a swim? she asked, and not waiting for a reply she went into the cottage and brought out her swimsuit.

  The beach was deserted. With his eyes closed he lay on the sand while she threw her awkward body about in the clear green waters. Then she came out and stood by him, tossing the water from her hair.

  —I’m going to dress, she said, and went away.

  After a little time he stood up and followed her into the pine grove. Here the air was cool and dim, and fragrant with the perfume of the trees. In the clearing behind the taverna he found her, standing naked with a red towel in her hands. Silver flecks of water glistened on her sun-browned skin. He stood behind a tree and watched her, pulling at his lip with a thumb and forefinger. When he stepped into the clearing she looked up quickly, and then smiled and held the towel before her.

  —Go away, she said, laughing.

  But without a word he caught the towel and pulled it away from her, and taking her in his arms he drew her roughly against him. She struggled, not laughing now.

  —Ben, leave me alone. Ben!

  She pushed him away and stepped back a pace, and he stumbled on the exposed root of a tree and fell.

  —Leave me alone, Ben.

  She stood there against the trees, breathing heavily, her eyes flashing. With her mouth open to speak she suddenly stiffened, and stared past him. He turned quickly, lifting himself on his hands, in time to glimpse something flitting through the trees, a dark figure moving swiftly, silently away. He slowly turned his head and grinned at her. From far off in the trees came the sound of someone calling once, and then silence. Anna stood very still, watching him, then she quickly pulled on her clothes and went past him where he lay watching her with cold amusement.

  He followed her at a distance up the hill. When he reached the garden he stopped to look back down to the beach, the flashing sea. Then he went into the cottage.

  The shutters were drawn against the fierce light, and she sat on the bed among shadows, her head bent, gazing into her cupped hands as if she held there some small part of a great desolation. He sat beside her, and she fell against him, her arms about his neck.

  —There now, he said, and patted her shoulder.

  They lay now together on the bed, and he lit a cigarette. She said:

  —Why does everything have to end?

  —What are you talking about?

  —You’re going to leave me. I know it.

  She lifted her head to look at him, but he said nothing, and would not meet her eyes. She lay down again, sighing.

  —What will I do? she asked helplessly. What will I do? I used to be happy. Being happy is all I’m good for.

  Suddenly she punched his shoulder hard, and buried her face in the pillow.

  —Why are you doing this to me? she cried. Why?

  —I don’t know.

  He looked up into the shadows, at the smoke from his cigarette twisting in blue wreaths. Through a chink in the shutters a gold sword of light pierced the shadows and embedded itself in the floor beside him.

  —You can only dance as long as the music lasts, he said.

  —You and your music. I’ll never forgive you, Ben. Not ever. You have ruined me.

  —No I haven’t. One tune is ended. Something stopped it.

  —Which is a fancy way of saying you’re fed up. You always call a spade a shovel. I hate you.

  For a time they were quiet, then she raised herself on her elbows and said:

  —I should have known before we started. I should have known. Because I’m too … too …

  She paused, searching for the word.

  —I’m too innocent for you. Too easy to understand. I’ve never killed anyone.

  He turned his head and stared at her, and she looked away from him and bit her knuckles. Shadows stirred about them, strange shapes moved silently around the bed. After a long time she whispered:

  —I’m afraid, Ben.

  —Yes.

  The cicadas sang about the scorched fields, through the shutters they could hear the brittle music. Outside the day trembled with white heat, but the sun had fallen past its highest point, and the afternoon was beginning its slow descent.

  De Rerum Natura

  The old man was hosing the garden when the acrobats appeared. They were unexpected, to say the least. Elves, now, would not have surprised him, or goblins. But acrobats! Still, he got used to them, and in the last weeks came to value them above all else the wor
ld could offer. Glorious weeks, the best of the year, sweltering dog days drenched with sun and the singing of skylarks. He spent them in the garden, thrashing about in the waist-high grass, delirious with the heat and a suffocating sense of the countless lives throbbing all around him, the swarming ants, the birds in the trees, glittering bright blue flies, the lizards and spiders, his beloved bees, not to mention the things called inanimate, the earth itself, all these, breeding and bursting and killing. Sometimes it all became too much, and then he would take the hose and saturate the garden, howling in a rapture of mad glee and disgust. It was at the end of one of these galas that he first saw the acrobats.

  George and Lucy hardly recognised him. If they had met him in the garden they might have taken him for a tree, burned mahogany as he was, with that long beard like grizzled ivy. He had stopped using the cutthroat for fear that it would live up to its name some morning, and he had no intention of giving them by accident an excuse for an orgy of mourning. Anyway, at that time it looked as if he would soon starve to death. Then he discovered that the garden was rich with food, cabbages and rhubarb, potatoes, raspberries, all manner of things flourishing under the weeds. There were even roses, heavy bloodred blooms, unsettling. His fits of fury with the hose helped all this growth. What a silence there was after the deluge, and in the silence the stealthy drip of water slipping from leaf to limb to root, into the parched earth.

  The acrobats appeared through a mist of sparkling light, a troupe of short stout fellows in black striped leotards, with furred bandy legs and leather straps on their arms and incongruously dainty black dancing pumps. An hallucination, he said, sure that in a moment they would vanish, leaving nothing behind but a faintly reverberating ping! But he was wrong. They set up their trampoline and parallel bars in the clearing at the bottom of the orchard and began to leap and prance about, clapping their hands and urging each other on with enthusiastic squeaks and cries. Allez up! There was one woman only, fat, with hot dark eyes, who managed to be the undisputed centre of the show even though she did nothing more than pose, and toss her hair, and flash those brimming eyes. The first performance was brief, and they went away puffing and sweating.