“All the artists have them now.”
“In their studios?”
“In their studios. You can receive communiqués.”
“Communiqués?”
“Contracts and the like. It’ll be less intrusive than a computer.”
And that’s how it started with her. Week after week she would visit; we would talk. One thing would lead to another. “Tell me about Tangier,” she would say and we would fall onto the mattress at the back of the studio, and it had continued like that, haphazardly and foolishly, until now.
“I can’t.”
“Harry…” I thought she was going to say I owed her. Her hand moved farther up my thigh, slow and insistent. I felt the steady pressure of it tugging at me, drawing me to her, not taking no for an answer.
“I saw Dillon.”
Her hand stopped.
“I saw him. He was there, at the march. Some woman had him by the hand.”
She held my gaze for a moment; then her eyes flickered over my face. She sighed and looked away. “Not this again, Harry.”
“
Not this again
? What are you talking about?”
Her hand, withdrawn from my thigh, was now raised in a calming gesture.
“You know what I’m talking about, Harry.”
“This is ridiculous. What am I even doing, sitting here with you? I have to get going. I have to find him.”
“Harry, sit down and relax.”
“Relax? Don’t tell me to relax, Diane.”
“Harry, come on. We’ve been through all this before. Dillon is dead. He was killed by an earthquake in Tangier.” She enunciated each word slowly and carefully, as if talking to a child.
“They never found a body.”
“Well, there were lots of people in that earthquake whose remains were never found. That doesn’t mean they all survived and were spirited away to different countries, given new identities, and began living different lives.”
I heard the mocking tone in her voice as I crossed the floor.
“I saw him.”
“Have you ever asked yourself, if by some miracle your son did manage to survive an earthquake, how on earth he could have made his way to Dublin, of all places?” Her question lingered in the air. “It’s just not possible, Harry, is it? You’re stressed, under pressure.… It’s not the first time. When you were in the hospital, in St. James’s, didn’t I visit you?”
I turned and gave her one last look, and in a voice that I struggled to keep calm and firm, I said, “Diane, I saw him.”
She didn’t even look up. She just shook her head and drained her glass. But I had had enough. I needed to get out of there. I was late and wanted desperately to see Robin. I stood, walked away, and without a backward glance, I let the door slam behind me.
* * *
I
drove to Slattery’s too fast. The van slid on one corner, but I held it together and drove more slowly until I found a parking space outside the pub. I knew Robin would be there. I was full of nerves. I wasn’t sure what I would tell her, but as soon as I saw her I could see that Robin had something to tell me.
She looked up at me expectantly as I approached the corner booth. She said nothing about me being late, just raised her face to accept my kiss. As I drew away, she smiled and handed me a menu and began to talk. I took the seat opposite her, eased my coat from my shoulders, and felt the hammering of my heart as I considered what I was about to say.
“I’ve ordered champagne,” she said. “You don’t mind, do you? I know it’s extravagant, but still.”
“What’s the occasion?” I asked.
She shrugged. “A girl doesn’t always need an excuse to order champagne.”
“True.”
She must have heard the doubt in my voice. She leaned across and took my hand and said, “I’m just happy. Isn’t that worth celebrating?”
I looked at her then, and I don’t know if it was the strangeness of the day or the renewed guilt I felt over Diane, but it was as if I were seeing my wife with fresh eyes. In the shadowy dimness of the pub, she seemed to radiate a warmth. I felt the turmoil inside me grow calm. I loved how she had eased into her thirties, growing into herself, becoming the woman I loved and not just the girl I had fancied. Dillon’s loss had aged us both; there was no doubt about that. When I looked at photographs of the two us in Tangier, we seemed to be kids. We were students when first we met. Bright-eyed and all that. Now, well, yes, there were lines of age on her face, lines of sadness. In the dark blue-gray of her eyes, I saw an extra depth of melancholy, but not despair; instead, there was a depthless sympathy, a forgiving and timeless patience. The difference between us was, whereas I looked ragged and rough around the edges, Robin had aged gracefully.
“I’ll drink to that,” I said.
We raised our glasses to each other and I drank and felt the bubbles fizz on the back of my tongue. For a brief instant, the room seemed to swirl. I closed my eyes. When I opened them, I noticed that Robin’s drink was untouched.
“So, what’s your news? You sounded frantic.”
I didn’t know what to say. The expectant look in her eyes, the champagne—it unnerved me momentarily.
She was staring at me. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Tired, that’s all.”
“Are you sure? You look flushed.”
“Do I? It’s probably just the heat in here after the cold outside.”
The look of concern lingered on her face.
“I’m fine, really. It’s the champagne.” And I reached across for her hand, felt the answering squeeze, and she smiled.
But I wasn’t fine. I was overrun by a strange mixture of emotions. One moment I felt elated: I had seen Dillon, after all. The next I sank into the depths of something I couldn’t quite climb out of. I knew that I had to tell her, but I couldn’t find the right words. I wanted to reveal the news carefully, so that she would trust the news I gave her and believe me. But part of me dreaded her reaction. A big part of me. While she was talking, I waited for the right moment to tell her, the pause in conversation when I could reveal what was on my mind. That our son was alive. That he was close by. That he was, after all these years, finally within our reach. But after one drink and then another, it was she who told me what she had wanted to tell me all day.
“Harry,” she said. Whenever she uses my name directly, I know it is something important. Usually, it’s something serious. She wants to, as gently as she can, suggest that I drink less, or spend more time at home, or consider going away with her for the weekend, or have dinner with her parents. Oh fuck, I thought, not Christmas; she wants us to have Christmas with her folks. She’s going to pay the bill and plead.
Please, Harry,
she’ll say.
Do this for me.
But she did not ask me. Instead, she said, quite matter-of-factly, “Harry, I’m pregnant.”
I stared at her. Not in surprise, really. Shock, more like.
She gave me a nervous smile, then bit down on her lip. “Did you hear what I said?” she asked softly.
I had heard. It was crystal clear. But somehow I couldn’t respond. My mind filled and surged; it opened like a dam, a dam spilling out doubt and quandary. Finally I managed, “I don’t know what to say.”
I felt a strange mixture of emotions. Something rose in me, a wild excitement. I was to be a father again. Seeing Robin look so happy, radiating new possibilities for the future, made me doubt myself. It dispelled the thoughts that suggested that I did not want her to be pregnant. She reached out her hand, and the gesture brushed away my doubts, dismissed the afternoon, my visions, because that is what they must have been. The trickle of doubt I had felt over my sighting of the boy now strengthened. It became a rushing river. All my certainty was washed away, and with it my fury at the Guard’s inaction, my guilt over Diane, my own frustrated urge to comb the streets of Dublin to find my missing boy. The image dwindled and faded.
“You’re going to have to say something, you know,” Robin said.
I knew in that moment that I would not tell her about Dillon. About what I thought I had seen that day,
who
I had seen. I would have to keep that from her, because what she had told me made it so much more unlikely.
I said, “I can’t believe it.”
“Believe it,” Robin said. “It’s true. It’s going to happen. Harry, I’m so—”
I thought she was going to say “happy,” but she didn’t. She said something that surprised and puzzled me. She said, “—relieved. I’m so relieved.”
She was close to tears. Her hands were shaking. I got out of my seat and rounded the table. I slipped in beside her and took her in my arms, felt the warmth of her there, the brush of her hair against my face. I whispered to her that it was wonderful news, that I couldn’t believe it. I tried to say all the right things, to use all the right words. I felt her hands on my back, the pressure of her fingertips against my spine, and all my hopes seemed to anchor themselves to her.
For the rest of the night, we talked about the baby. We talked about dates, night feedings and nappies, yet all the time, the ghosting image of Dillon wavered in and out of my consciousness. I could see, at different points in the night, his gaze, unsure but still and fixed.
* * *
Later
, I stood in the bedroom and the world spiraled about me as I tried to make sense of everything in and outside my head.
Robin got into bed. In her hands was a book, a book on pregnancy. I had never seen it before. Or had I? Was it an old one? Was it the one she had found in Cozimo’s secondhand bookstore in Tangier?
“Are you coming to bed?” she asked, putting down the book. She smiled. Her hands beckoned me to her, and I found myself reaching for her and pulling my clothes off within her embrace. Our bodies knew each other’s pulse, and we moved this way and that and found the groove and spell our love had known for so long. Her hands held me firm against her, her fingertips sinking into my back. Spent, we lay side by side, breathing heavily and sweating. Robin turned over and gradually fell into a deep sleep. After some time, I got out of bed and went to the bathroom.
On the way back to bed, I found a bottle of water on the floor, knelt, and drank every last drop. I lifted myself onto the bed. Robin stirred. Her arm reached for me. I could see the book about pregnancy on her side of the bed. The spine of the book wavered in my tired mind until it became any number of book spines, and before I knew it, I was falling surely and fitfully asleep, with the image of Cozimo and his dusty bookstore spinning and swirling in my already dizzy head.
CHAPTER FOUR
ROBIN
When
I woke on that snowy Sunday morning, I was immediately aware of what had gone between us the night before—my revelation and all that followed. In the quiet of the early morning bedroom, I lay there and thought about it, about what it would mean for us, about how things would be different now. It was as if the house itself felt changed. It seemed enveloped in a new calm. This house, with its ancient walls, its creaky floors, its shifts and moans, had always seemed to be a living, breathing thing. Sentient, almost. The life force of the previous inhabitants had seeped into the raw materials of the house, the sheen of their spirits adding another layer to the multiple layers of paint and varnish and the stains of generations. But on that early Sunday morning as I silently pulled back the covers and put my feet to the floor, I listened to the silence around me, and it was as if the breathing of the house had slowed, had grown easy. There were no creaks or moans as I got out of bed and padded across the floor, closing the door softly behind myself, leaving the room and Harry sleeping peacefully together.
Downstairs, I put the kettle on and looked about. I was taken with a new energy, a sense of urgency about my need to tackle the house. This restlessness rumbled about inside me as I walked from room to room, assessing the varying degrees of dilapidation and making a mental list of what needed to be done. I looked through the doorway that led into the garage, and in the half-light I could see the cold, quiet space that would soon become Harry’s studio. It seemed to be waiting for him to begin, and I thought of how this room would soon be transformed into a place of creativity, of art, and I pictured Harry working away in here, deep in concentration, a quiet contentment possessing him and seeping out to every corner of our home. I thought of this and felt a tingle of excitement pass through me: things were about to change.
The kettle whistled; I turned away, back toward the kitchen. I put a mug on the counter, and it was as I was pouring water over the tea bag that it came for me—that old memory, swooping down out of nowhere—and all at once I was standing once again in that tiny bathroom in Tangier.
* * *
It
had been hot. Even in that room, the one cool spot in the apartment, the air had felt heavy and dull with heat. Outside, in the hallway, I could hear Harry pacing up and down. Every couple of minutes, his footsteps stopped and I knew that he was right there, right on the other side of the door, and that he was listening for me, for some clue as to what was going on. I had locked him out, had told him to wait, but his impatience and his barely contained excitement seemed to push up against the closed door. I could feel the insistence of it. Inside, I held myself very still, sweat gathering on my forehead and upper lip as I stared down at the white stick in my hand.
“Well?” he asked through the door. “Have you done it yet?”
His voice hit a nerve. Something inside me seemed to plummet.
“Just a minute,” I said, my voice thin and stretched.
I needed to compose myself.
I put the stick down and leaned against the sink. It felt cold to the touch. I would have liked, then, to lie down on the tiled floor and press my face and body to the cool ceramic. I was so tired I could have fallen asleep right there, right then, and maybe, when I woke, I would have found that everything was all right, everything was as it should have been. I could have been myself again.
“The instructions said you’d know within two minutes.”
That insistence again, the weight of it pressed against the door.
“Come on,” he said, tapping softly but impatiently. “You’re killing me here.”