He’d timed his phone alarm to go off at seven.
— Back in a minute.
— Okay.
— You’re alrigh’ by yourself for a bit?
— Yeah.
— Good man.
He went out to the car park because the foyer was full of mad kids and their mas. The rain was back, so he tucked himself in against the wall of Burger King. There was a longer delay than usual, the signal heading to Bulgaria, he supposed, and the dial tone was different, foreign. He half expected Marvin not to answer.
— Hey.
— Marvin?
— Hey.
— How are yeh? It’s Dad.
— Yeah.
— Yeh havin’ a good time?
— Yeah.
— An’ is the weather good?
It was an oul’ lad’s question. No answer came back.
— So things are good, yeah?
— Grand, yeah.
— Great.
— Yeah, it’s good.
— Come here, said Jimmy. — Your gigs.
— Yeah?
— Moanin’ At Midnight.
Marvin laughed. Jimmy loved that sound.
— Great name, he said.
— Yeah, thanks, said Marvin. — It’s a Howlin’ Wolf song.
— I know.
— Cool.
— I saw the YouTube thing, said Jimmy.
— Yeah?
— The song.
— Did you see the number of hits it has?
— It’s supposed to be a fuckin’ secret, Marv.
Stop!
— But it’s brilliant, he said.
— Cool — thanks.
— But the secret.
— It kind of still is a secret, said Marvin.
— I know.
— People think the song is really old. Traditional, like.
— No, it’s great, said Jimmy. — And the record’s sellin’ really well. Probably because of you. I owe you a pint or somethin’.
— Cool. I’ve to go —.
— Okay, grand. But —
— We’ve to do a soundcheck.
— You’ve another gig?
— Yeah.
— Great, said Jimmy. — I’ll let yeh go. There’s another thing but.
— What?
— They think you’re Bulgarian.
— Who?
— Everyone.
— No.
— Far as I know, yeah.
He could hear Marvin laughing. He could hear him — he swore he could — waving his arm, getting his buddies to come over and hear the news.
— Marvin? Yeh there?
Marvin’s voice was deeper.
— Yesss.
Jimmy copped on: he was pretending to be Bulgarian.
— Good one.
He laughed.
— Listen, he said. — I’ll let yeh go. But my boss — my partner. Noeleen — do you remember her?
— Think so.
— The way the video is cut — your one, like. With no intro or anythin’, just the song. She thinks you’re Bulgarian. And she’s not the only one. So.
— D’you want us to pretend we’re really Bulgarian?
— No, said Jimmy. — Yeah. But no. Listen. Be a bit mysterious. Don’t say anythin’ between songs. Don’t say anythin’ at all. It’ll be more convincing than puttin’ on an accent.
— Okay.
— Can you follow the logic?
— Yeah. Think so.
— And listen. I’ll let yeh go now. But —
He was drenched, the side of him leaning against the Burger King window, right through to his skin. The water was running straight into his clothes. He hadn’t noticed and he didn’t care.
— Yeah? said Marvin.
— You’re Bulgarian, said Jimmy. — But you’re mysterious Bulgarians. You’re like guerrillas. You strike, an’ disappear.
Jimmy remembered Joey the Lips Fagan, the Commitments’ trumpet player, saying the same thing, back in the days when Jimmy was Jimmy.
— We hit an’ then we sink back into the night.
— We?
— You, said Jimmy. — I meant you. But listen. Final thing.
— Yeah?
— I’m supposed to be searchin’ for you, said Jimmy. — To get you to come over to Ireland for a few gigs.
Marvin’s laugh became a howl.
— The Electric Picnic, Marvin, said Jimmy.
The howl became something even madder.
— We can plan it when you get back, said Jimmy. — Properly, like.
— Cool.
— Good luck tonigh’.
— Thanks.
— Be mysterious.
— Yeah. Yeah.
— I love you.
— Yeah.
— Seeyeh.
— Yeah, seeyeh.
On his way back in to Brian and Anne, Jimmy’s phone buzzed in his pocket. It was Marvin.
Tanx. X
— A nice enough lad, he told Noeleen. — The manager. His English is excellent.
— What’s his name?
Oh fuck —
— Boris.
— Great, she said.
— He’s in the band as well, actually. The drummer.
— It’s fantastic, she said. — We’re doing business with a man called Boris.
— Yeah, said Jimmy. — Gas, isn’t it?
He googled Bulgarian Male Names, looked over his shoulder, scrolled down through them. Too fuckin’ late — he was stuck with the name. There was no Boris but there was a Borislav. Boris was definitely short for that. He was grand — safe.
He’d have to be careful. He’d have to keep ahead of Noeleen and, now that he thought of it, everyone else, including himself. He was making it up, and he’d have to keep reminding himself of that.
Fuckin’ hell though. It was brilliant.
— Phone me tomorrow at about midday, he told young Jimmy.
— Okay.
— I’ll be callin’ you Boris.
— Eh — why, like?
Jimmy told him.
— Cool.
— Don’t tell your mother, said Jimmy.
He was saying that a lot these days.
— And come here, he said. — I’ll text you first. Just to make sure Noeleen’s there and she can hear a bit of the conversation.
— Should I be a prick? said young Jimmy.
— I told her you were sound.
— Oh. Okay.
— We’ll keep it simple, said Jimmy.
Outspan phoned him.
— Me ma’s organisin’ a fundraiser for me.
— For an operation?
— No, said Outspan. — The Electric Picnic thing.
— Really?
— Yeah, said Outspan. — Upstairs in the Hiker’s.
— Brilliant, said Jimmy. — Or is it?
— Ah yeah, said Outspan. — It’s grand. A bit embarrassin’.
— What’ll it be? Jimmy asked.
— Wha’?
— The fundraiser.
— Race nigh’ or pole dancin’. She can’t make her mind up.
— You’re jestin’.
— Yeah, said Outspan. — There’s no pole in the Hiker’s.
— Do they do pole dancin’ for charity?
— They do annythin’ for fuckin’ charity.
He’d sent the text.
Phone.
And, fair enough, the phone rang.
— Hello?
— It’s, like, Boris.
— Boris! said Jimmy. — Hey!
— Fock thees hey.
— How did the gig go last night?
— Fock thees geeg.
— Great, said Jimmy. — Brilliant.
He stood up. He didn’t look at Noeleen. He strolled nice and slowly out to the stairs.
— Is this okay? said young Jimmy.
— So Boris, said Jimmy. — Have you spoken to the band?