— Oh! Didn’t the little good-for-nothing fool me …
— Tricks of the trade …
— Caitríona herself said the other day it must be the War of the Territories. “The Island limestone is used up,” she said, “and it was in the prophecy that when the Island limestone was used up you’d be very close to the end of the world.”
— Ababúna! The Island limestone. The Island limestone. The Island limestone! I’ll explode! …
4
— … Patience, Cóilí. Patience …
— Allow me to finish my story, my good man:
“I laid an egg! I laid an egg! Red hot on the dunghill …”
— Yes, Cóilí. Even though there’s no artistry in it, I think it has some deep and obscure meaning. Stories of this type always do. You know what Frazer said in The Golden Bough … I beg your pardon, Cóilí. I forgot you weren’t able to read … Now Cóilí, allow me to speak … Cóilí, allow me to speak. I’m a writer …
— … Honest, Dotie. Máirín failed. If she had taken after me or after my daughter she wouldn’t have failed. But she took after the Páidín clan and the Loideáin. The nuns in the convent completely failed to drive anything into her head. Would you believe, Dotie, that she began to call her teachers “pussface” and “bitch”! … Honest Engine, Dotie. It was impossible to stop her using rude words. What would you expect, after listening to them since she was born, in the same house as Caitríona Pháidín …
— Ababúna! Nóirín …
— Let on you don’t hear her at all, Dotie dear. Don’t you see for yourself now that Máirín was “destined to be afflicted,” as Blinks says in The Red-Hot Kiss … You’re right, Dotie. He’s a cousin of Máirín’s. It’s no wonder he’s going to be a priest, Dotie. He was surrounded by a good deal of culture since he was born. The priest used to call to the house every time he came fowling. Fowlers and hunters from Brightcity and Dublin and from England came there regularly too. Of course, Nell is his grandmother and he’s still with her. Nell is a cultured woman …
— Oh! … Oh! …
— His mother, Big Brian’s daughter, was in America, and she met cultured people there. America is a great place for culture, Dotie. The grandfather, Big Brian, used to visit the house from time to time, and though you wouldn’t think it, Dotie, Big Brian is a cultured man in his own way … He is as you say he is, Dotie, but at least he had enough culture not to marry Caitríona Pháidín. Honest…
— Oh! … Oh! … You honeycomb of fleas …
— Let on you don’t hear her at all, Nóra …
— Yep, Dotie … Nevertheless, isn’t it amazing how different two families can be! … My grandson in Mangy Field is another first cousin of Máirín’s: the young man the Big Master talks about. He got to be a ship’s petty officer, Dotie. Lucky him! Marseilles, Port Said, Singapore, Batavia, Honolulu, San Francisco … Sun. Oranges. Blue seas …
— But it’s very dangerous at sea since the war began …
—“The valiant youth doesn’t measure the blind leap of danger,” as Frix said in Two Men and a Powder-puff. Happy, happy the life of the sailor, Dotie. Beautiful romantic clothes on him that are every woman’s heart’s desire.
— I told you before, Nóra, I’m an old-fashioned rustic myself …
— Romance, Dotie. Romance … I fell head-over-heels in love with him, Dotie. Honest! But don’t say a word about it. You know, Dotie dear, that you’re my friend. Caitríona Pháidín would love to have something to gossip about. Having no culture herself she’d have a very unsophisticated attitude to a matter like that …
— Let on you don’t hear her at all, Nóra …
— Yep, Dotie. I fell head-over-heels in love with him, Dotie. He was like a brand-new statue of bronze with life breathed into it. The pupil of his eye was like the sparkle of a star in a mountain lake on a frosty night. His hair was like black silk … But his lips, Dotie. His lips … They were on fire. On fire, Dotie. Burning from The Red-Hot Kiss itself …
And the stories he told me about foreign countries and ports. About turbulent seas and the driven storm blowing white foam to the topsails. About bright sandy estuaries in the recesses of wooded headlands. About snow-covered, windswept peaks. About sun-drenched pastures on the margins of gloomy forests … About foreign birds, strange fishes and wild animals. About tribes that have stones for money, and about other tribes that wage war to capture spouses …
— That’s cultured enough, Nóra …
— About tribes that worship the devil, and about gods that go courting milkmaids …
— That’s cultured too, Nóra …
— And about adventures he had himself in Marseilles, Port Said, Singapore …
— Cultural adventures, I suppose …
— Oh! I’d give him the last drop of my heart’s blood, Dotie! I’d go with him as bondmaid to Marseilles, to Port Said, to Singapore …
— You stabbed one another after all that …
— We had only known one another briefly at the time. An ordinary true-lovers’ tiff, Dotie. That was all. He was sitting by my side on the sofa. “You are beautiful, my Nóróg,” he said. “Your tresses are more luminous than the sunrise on the snow-capped peaks of Iceland.” Honest, he did, Dotie. “Your eyes are more sparkling, my Nóróg,” he said, “than the Northern Star appearing over the horizon to the mariner as he crosses the Equator.” Honest, he did, Dotie. “Your countenance is more beautiful, my Nóróg,” he said, “than white-crested waves on the smooth strands of Hawaii.” Honest, he did, Dotie. “Your slender body is more stately, my Nóróg,” he said, “than a palm-tree by the rampart of a seraglio in Java.” Honest, he did, Dotie. “Your snow-white body is more delicate,” he said, “than the lighthouse that guides the mariners to the port of Brightcity and that beckons me to the loving embrace of my fair Nóróg.” Honest, he did, Dotie. He embraced me, Dotie. His lips were aflame … Aflame …
“Your well-formed legs are more shapely, my Nóróg,” he said, “than the silver bridge of the moon over San Francisco Bay.”
He made a grab at the calf of my leg …
— He made a grab at the calf of your leg, Nóróg. Now for you! …
— Honest, he did, Dotie. “De grâce,” said I. “Don’t be grabbing my calves.” “The curves of your calves are prettier, my Nóróg,” he said, “than a whirl of seagulls in the wake of a ship.” He grabbed my calf again. “De grâce,” said I, “leave my calves alone.” “The calves of your legs are more beautiful, my Nóróg,” he said, “than the Milky Way, thrown on its back in the raging seas of the south.” “De grâce,” I said, “you’ll have to leave the calves of my legs alone.” I grabbed a book I’d been reading from the window ledge and I smacked him on the wrist with the edge of it …
— But you told me, Nóróg, that you took a pot-hook to him, like I did myself …
— Dotie! Dotie! …
— But that’s what you told me, Nóra …
— De grâce, Dotie …
— And that he drew a knife, Nóróg, and made a sudden lunge to stab you; and then he apologised and said it was the custom in his country to grab another person’s calves as a sign of friendship …
— De grâce, Dotie. De grâce …