Maybe there was an artshow on somewhere. But what if he had been an artist himself! Being an actual painter! Or sculptor! What age was Meurier when he kicked the bucket? What a fucking stupit expression! And why worry about folk’s ages. That is the problem with being lonely, dwelling on the advantages and disadvantages of living on into a ripe old age. And most of these painters lived forfuckingever — never mind Goya, look at auld Pablo and Renoir. There again but, it is perfectly laudable that such as the elder Rossi should retain his overriding interest in the affairs of the family business, that, okay, such as Goya should remain so interested in the fate of humanity, Picasso spending all his latter years on sex and female beauty in general, and the old Eubie Blake still tickling the ivories at a fucking hundred odd years and telling everybody if he knew he was gonni live so long he’d have taken better fucking care of himself.
They were all dead now right enough — apart from auld Rossi. Maybe Pat could murder him and get in the good books of the rest of the family.
He picked a book down from the shelves to the side of the mantelpiece. When he opened it at his mark he was aware of the cold in his fingers and he saw himself as Ebenezer Scrooge with death impending, the icicles spreading up the joints of his old bones. Christ that was a horrible way of seeing at yourself at the relatively young age of twenty-nine. Twenty-nine! Christ almightly he’s a boy, a boy — what’s this talk of death all the time! Just turn up the fire full blast and if you really are cold then switch on the oven and leave the door open. The place’ll be hot in seconds. There isnt any point in being economical in these matters. Hypothermia isnt the property of the elderly. Other people can have it too. Normally he wasnt a skinflint by any means but lately, lately it could seem to be the case if other folk had chanced to witness his actions in particular monetary situations. Take for example the manner whereby he allowed the temporary English teacher to buy him drink after drink and then be content to have Alison buy him the next yin, without getting a further round in on his own behalf. But there again mind you, he never ever charged petrol money for all these trips in the motor. It was aye him having to drive everybody else about, a chauffeur without the uniform. On ye go James and dont spare the fucking horses. And nobody thinking to say O here ye are Paddy my boy, a couple of bob towards the price of a gallon or three — plus the wear and tear on the engine and bodywork for christ sake because all that running about costs dough. And then the time involved.
A bang on the landing outside. The neighbours’ door.
Patrick was in the lobby and listening at the keyhole. With a wee spyhole affixed things would be even more interesting. He could have witnessed the actual intruder! All so fucking fascinating! Was it a murderer out there? less than four yards from where your man was now crouching … sshhh … hear that muffled breathing … ssshhh … a beautiful and enigmatic woman … a door-to-door seller of evangelical merchandise.
That creak on the lobby floor! It was another oddjob he might undertake; two or three nails in the floorboards and that would be that. But this kind of task was doomed to be ever beyond him. Especially after these past few days. In fact, when it comes down to it, last week was a bastard, and worse was to come — the future!
And yet the temperature had to be rising surely. March for fuck sake I mean things like sleet are a joke, a joke. March is the basic spring according to many, the month wherein that season begins, that month which blows away the last of wintry chills and coughs and sneezes. There was of course something he could do right at this moment in time, he could turn the fire on fullblast like he said he would and also the oven fullblast with the door open and in general be turning this place into a fucking hothouse cum sauna, a really cosy place to be. He did have it in his power to make of this kitchen a warm and very pleasantly habitable abode. Not even bothering to go out the entire weekend but just remaining here at home, nice and comfortable, going about in the semmits and the swimming trunks, the summer sandals, beating nature at its own game. What was it Schiller said in reference to that? Or was it Heine? To do with defeating it, nature, overcoming it, developing your own aesthetic. And the irony of it was of course
He aye seemed to be thinking in terms of irony nowadays. Was this ironic or was that ironic or was he fucking ironic, in relation to himself, or what.
In fact, if he did transform the house into something really warm and snug he could don the summer casuals and start playing the pipes properly. He was about getting beyond the self-conscious stage and there was no question that a genuine well-being resulted from it. No question, that it calmed him down; a bit like how masturbation could be, at its best, as a retrospective appreciation. Yes. Just sitting there and playing the pipes, with the room at its most comfortable i.e. nice and warm; it would be good, and conducive to it. What he had fancied doing, back when he found them — and now he could bring it right out into the front of the brain — what he had fancied doing, or even just as a sort of mild consideration, just as a consideration, a way of maybe looking
what he had half, deeply down had, occurring to him, was the notion of doing something on the pipes that warranted performance. There you have it. He had fancied the idea of reaching such a pitch/level that he could put on a sort of performance, just of him and the pipes. A type of arty crafty avant-garde affair but so what, fuck off with your fucking inverted snobbery. What he could do was hire a large room somewhere and send out invitations to folk. It wouldni be too difficult. It sounded mad and vainglorious; as if he thought he had something unique to offer. But he didnt at all — although there again, it might be said quite easily that just being an individual human being was a uniqueness, that individual human beings were as unique as each other; a race of specifics in non-specific terms — in which case
And also another thing
what the fuck was it? the other thing, it was to do with a relation, the expression of a relationship; it was to do with this and it was very important, crucially so, and for that reason best left alone, not spoken about too much.
And now, there, that was it, and getting away, getting right away from that terrible stance, that irony; it was good, it was good. Because that was always the fault, that was always the way of it with him, everyfuckingwhere, with the family and all the rest of it this continually seeing the mirror image, casting doubt upon your motives. It was hopeless. Perhaps; perhaps, it was an idea just to go over a great many things and see what and why, what had happened and why it had happened, and what was to be done. Even on a big issue such as post-university existence I mean for fuck sake surely the parents could not be happy with that? Never mind Gavin! A huffy bastard at the best of times. But had he been expecting something? What would a brother expect? Something especially outstanding? Or just another cop-out, somebody else selling themself to the system. All these sentimental questions. The all-important fucking fundamental ones.
There is no time for sitting about. On the other hand of course it is essential to realise you have all the time it takes. So, then,
And as well something not good even about that, that fucking So, then, like that, really not good, not good at all, best just.
He had to curtail it. He really did have to curtail it. He had to stop himself at all costs. It was that important. Because it was no good thing, it was no good thing. A very very bad habit, a very very bad habit and it was fucking what was it like it was like fucking whatever it was it had to stop it had to stop. He had to stop himself from doing it, it was something that was not good, just not good, and he was up from the chair and into the lobby, where the telephone in repose, nestling away, the telephone, its own tiny existence, awaiting its next though not unenforced, its not unwelcome