Gave me a cool, slow, languid look. The scotch had already hit her, giving her sensuality, always simmering, a blatant edge. She said,
“Whoa, down boy. You’re always reaching conclusions. Nothing is ever as it appears. My husband, my dear departed, had it pinned above the bathroom mirror. I guess it stuck.”
“YMCA” began, to delighted shrieks from the crowd. Kirsten pushed the empty glass into my hand, said,
“I warned you.”
And was gone.
Went after her. My arm grabbed in the corridor. Terry, now seriously dehydrated, shouted,
“What’s your game, Taylor?”
“A ploy... face to face with her accuser, she might confess.”
“You’re full of shit.”
“That, too.”
“And you remain, inviolate...”
Kirsten was heading fast towards the Augustinian. A very drunk businessman was swaying at the door of his BMW, singing “A Galway Girl”.
Last time I’d heard it, Steve Earle had been on stage in the Town Hall. This guy was beeping the locks of the car in time to the song, on, beep, off, beep, hiccup,
Like that.
He appeared deliriously happy.
Envy writ large, I swallowed, shouted,
“Kirsten... Jeez.”
Caught her at the top of Buttermilk Lane. She said,
“Terry shouted ‘whore’ at me before I left, then he spat.”
“Christ.”
“I told him to relax, unless he wanted a heart attack.”
She hailed a taxi, asked,
“You coming?”
“Sure.”
The cab driver told us why the people rejected the Nice Treaty, said,
“Can’t have Europe bullying us, am I right?”
No one answered him. Kirsten gave him directions, and undeterred he went on to discuss the Danes. At the house, she hopped out, said,
“Pay him.”
And disappeared inside
As I rummaged for money, the driver surveyed the house, said,
“You’re in there, pal.”
“I’m the hired help.”
He winked, then,
“Them FÁS courses are mighty.”
And burnt rubber down the drive. I went inside; no sign of her. A shout from upstairs,
“I’m in the shower, make yourself at home.”
I tried.
Found the bar, poured a scotch, plonked myself on the sofa.
A scatter of books on the table, including Jackie Collins, Alice Taylor, Maeve Binchy.
And lo and behold, a beautiful slim volume titled The Legend of the Holy Drinker by Joseph Roth. Translated by Michael Hofmann.
I was definitely caught.
I read the flap:
Published in 1939, the year the author died. Like Andreas, the hero of the story, Roth drank himself to death in Paris, but this is not an autobiographical confession.
I said aloud,
“Thank Christ.”
And lit up a cig. No sign of an ashtray. Read on:
It is a secular miracle tale, in which the vagrant Andreas, after living under bridges, has a series of lucky breaks that lift him briefly on to a different plane of existence. The novella is extraordinarily compressed, dry-eyed and witty, despite its melancholic subject matter.
Published by Granta. Am I old or what? I remember when Bill Buford began the magazine and the book he wrote, Among the Thugs.
Should be mandatory for guards dealing with football hooligans.
It crossed my mind to nick it. Just slip it into item 8234’s voluminous pocket, say nowt. I put it back on the table.
Kirsten walked in, towelling her hair. Barefoot, wearing a short silk kimono. That’s an image that’s always worked for me. It’s so casually intimate. I’ve only glimpsed it rarely, and that is the indictment of my isolation. I savoured it then. She glanced at the book, said,
“Cross your mind to steal it?”
“What?”
“I know you, Jack. That’s how I got it.”
She moved to the bar, began fixing a drink, humming softly. Jesus, I hate that; it’s a notch below musak. Still, I thought I recognised it, asked,
“What’s that?”
“I don’t know. I keep hearing it on a golden oldies station.”
Came to me. I said,
“Jeez, Kevin Johnson.”
“Who?”
“ ‘Rock and Roll I Gave You All the Best Years of My Life.’”
A bottle of Stoli held midair, she asked,
“That’s a confession?”
“The name of the song.”
“I like it.”
“There’s a line in there, sums up my years in the guards.”
“What’s this, Taylor, you’re getting all choked up on the past?”
I ignored that, said,
“I don’t remember the line exactly, but like this: ‘Trying to go it solo in someone else’s band’.”
She poured the drink, took a hefty belt, said,
“That’s you... the maverick.”
I rooted in my pocket, asked,
“Want to do GHB?”
“Oh, punishment, you pervert.”
Produced the liquid E, began,
“You have to be very careful with this.”
Her eyes alight, she went,
“Fuck that, let’s get it on.”
We did.
All the promised effects: inhibitions, clothes and self-control did disappear.
Stewart had guaranteed it gave euphoria and libido.
He wasn’t kidding.
Course he’d advised extreme caution with alcohol, but I figured care was an area I’d never given much time to. Too old to begin then.
“Fifty is a dangerous age — for all men. The man of fifty has most to say but no
one will listen. His fears sound incredible because they sound so new — he might
be making them up. His body alarms him; it starts playing tricks on him, his
teeth warn him, his stomach scolds, heys balding at last; a pimple might be cancer;
indigestion a heart attack. He’s feeling an unapparent fatigue; he wants to be
young but he knows he ought to be old. He’s neither one and he is terrified.”
Paul Theroux, Saint fack
Came to in broad daylight, sat up. Where was I? In a huge bed, white silk sheets. Two things hit me: I was naked and unhungover. No sign of Kirsten. A clock on the bedside table read 12.05.
Past noon, high or otherwise.
How long had I been out? No idea. I could recall magnificent gymnastic sex. Me! Boy, would my body pay when reality returned. But the lengthy sleep... An alcoholic skirts as close to insomnia as it gets. Enough booze to put down Young Munster, yet wakes after an hour, replete with hangover. The rest of the night consists of a befuddled series of fevered naps, nightmares, dread and sweats.
And waiting at daybreak, the whole sorry circus over again, Groundhog Day with the emphasis on hog. I didn’t leap out of bed but was nearly agile. No sign of my clothes. Went to a large wardrobe, opened it.
Jesus.
One of those walk-in jobs. Must have been fifty suits, as many sports jackets and, lined in military precision, shoes. Close to a hundred. Imelda Marcos would have sung. I pulled a heavy cotton shirt and a pair of Farah slacks. Fit pretty good. Went back to the bedroom, saw my cigs, lighter on the bureau. Fired up.
The door opened and Kirsten entered with a tray. Wearing the kimono, she’d a shit-eating grin, said,