It was back in ’79, he said, I was sent to Alaska, such is the life of the diplomatic aide, don’t you know, I had to attend the official opening of the new Fairbanks Public Library, quite a big deal in that neck of the woods. So I’m introduced to the Chief Librarian, and he says, Geoghegan, you wouldn’t be anything to the famous Richard Henry? He was quite a figure here, you know. Harry Geoghegan, secretary to Judge James Wickersham back in the Noughties. Judge James ‘The Terrible’, they called him, ruled the territory with a rod of iron, says the Chief Librarian. We’ve got all Geoghegan’s journals here, says he, written in Esperanto, we had an Esperanto chap here a couple of months ago to translate them.
And Tommy Geoghegan proceeded to give me an account of his distant relative’s life — quite a tall story, it seemed to me at the time, but I have since found it to be more or less true. Father a doctor, lived in Rathmines, he said. Funny, I used to live there myself, then went to Liverpool, Harry was born there, fell down the stairs at the age of three, broke his leg, seems the doctor father set it wrong, cripple ever since. Then he goes to Oxford, studies Chinese, wants to join the Foreign Service, must run in the family, the diplomatic Geoghegans, don’t you know, but then he finds out they won’t take him on because of his bad leg, then his father dies, he’s got his mother and six siblings to support, so they hear there’s great opportunities in Canada, and they move there lock, stock and barrel, steamer across the Atlantic, train across to Vancouver, must have taken them months, then another steamer to Orcas Island, have you heard of it? I hadn’t. They get themselves a homestead there, do some farming, but Harry Geoghegan’s not cut out for that kind of thing, so he moves to Seattle, various clerical jobs, stenography mostly, they say he knew all the various shorthand systems, could transcribe two at a time, one with each hand, incredible, like he’s got two brains. And all this time he’s learning languages — Russian, Sanskrit, Tibetan, Korean, Swahili, Arabic, Khmer, Lepcha — Lepcha, for Christ’s sake, I don’t even know what Lepcha is — they say he knew two hundred languages, seems he had a photographic memory, had only to look at a word and he’d remember it, and of course all the time he’s working away at the old Esperanto connection, corresponding with Zamenhof. Gives him the idea for the green star. 1904, he goes to Alaska, meets up with The Terrible Judge, the circuit takes them all over Alaska, husky dogs, sleds, real Jack London story, said Tommy Geoghegan. As for the journals in the Fairbanks Library, he went on, seems there were quite a lot of fairly graphic bits in there, Harry was quite a ladies’ man, stuff about his relationships with the Fairbanks line girls, as they called them, gammy leg doesn’t seem to have affected him much in that department, sort of Toulouse-Lautrec figure, you might say. Seems he taught them a little Esperanto, made up words for specialities of the house, that kind of thing. So I thought I’d have a bash at the old Esperanto myself, being a Geoghegan and all, said Geoghegan. Not that I got that far with it. But listen, must dash, chap over there I’ve been trying to talk to all night, great to see you, and he wandered off into the crowd.
Quite the diplomat, Tommy Geoghegan, I said drily to you, Nina. Oh, he’s not so bad if you get to know him, you said, that clumsy manner of his, it’s part of his charm, people tell him things because they think he’s guileless. Whether what they tell him is true, that doesn’t really matter. It’s all information, people reveal as much about themselves by their lies as they do the truth. Anything we know, at any given time, it’s as much disinformation, or misinformation, as it is information. More, sometimes. The edges are always fuzzy. Bluff and fuzz. Tommy Geoghegan fits very well into that picture. That’s why he’s one of us. One of you? I said. Yes, you said in a mock conspiratorial whisper, we have our people everywhere.
And then there’s Declan Tierney, you said, the time you told me about Tony Lambe’s tie emporium. He’s one. Declan Tierney? I said, the art dealer? Well, he’s the only Declan Tierney I know, you said. And, when I thought about it, I wasn’t entirely surprised. Declan Tierney had arrived on the art scene in Belfast seemingly from nowhere. Began dealing in those terrible Markey Robinson rip-offs, stylised Connemara landscapes, whitewashed cottages, doe-eyed Madonnas in shawls, that sort of thing, not that Markey himself was that much better than his rip-offs, but then Tierney moved on, got in with Gerry Byrne, went to all the graduate shows, began putting together a stable of young artists, cutting-edge stuff. Though there was always something dodgy about him, he tried to sell me what he called a Gerard Dillon once, claimed he picked it up from one of the Friday Market dealers who’d just made a house clearance in West Belfast. Maybe he did. But the painting wasn’t right. There’s a faux-naïf thing about Dillon’s brushwork, but this was just plain amateurish. Declan Tierney? I said, well, I suppose that figures.
And then there’s Archie Chambers, you said. Archie Chambers the ventriloquist? I said. Archie’s dummy was called Bernie Buttons, he was one of those Champagne Charlie dummies, with a rather predictable line in double entendres. You know the routine, Bernie says to Archie, May I have a goodbye kiss? And Archie says, Well, I can’t see any harm in that, and Bernie comes back with, Oh, I wish you would, a harmless kiss doesn’t sound very thrilling. Yes, Archie and Bernie both, you said, you’d be surprised how many of us there are. For instance, for all you know, you might be one too. Without my knowing it? I said. Yes, you said, without your full knowledge. Or consent, for that matter, you said. You’d learned to twin those words from me, it’s a Catholic concept, a mortal sin can only be committed with full knowledge and complete consent. Does anybody really know who they are? or what they are? you said. Billie Holiday was playing in the background, I can’t remember what song, but it occurs to me now, as I write, that ‘Wherever You Are’ is the title of a Billie Holiday song, recorded in 1942. Not her best song: the lyrics are trite, the music slightly incongruous, but, given what I presume to be their purpose — to offer comfort to American troops in Europe — perhaps the song is redeemed by that very banality, that all-inclusive ‘you’ which is both singular and pluraclass="underline"
Everywhere in every homeHope is burning brightWhile millions of heartsAre kneeling, saying, TonightWherever you areOur hearts are with you.
Wherever you areOur prayers are with you tooAll through the darknessOur faith is your guiding starMay God bless you allWherever you are.
So, wherever you are, Nina, I know that this wartime song must have been in your mind when you wrote those words to me. And wartime must have been in your mind when you booked us into the Hôtel Scribe in Paris, for in 1944 it was the HQ of the Allied press corps, which included Lee Miller, erstwhile model, photographer, a war correspondent for Vogue magazine, and one of your great heroines. And with all that in mind, I’ve been writing this letter with two pens, alternating them according to whatever voice I have in mind. One is a French pen, which came in a box bearing the inscription Porte-Plume Réservoir, which I take to be an elaborate synonym for the more usual word for fountain pen, stylo. The pen itself has no name stamped on the barrel, as is customary with good pens, but the classy 18 carat gold nib has ‘Paris’ engraved on it, and, in a diagonal cartouche, the initials D & D. Whatever they might stand for, I like their doubleness. It is a very elegant pen, and again, like the Swan, it is done in a mottled red and black wood-grain pattern, le rouge et le noir, that bears a striking resemblance to the Dinkie you wore when first we met. The other is an English pen, a Conway Stewart Scribe in Green and Black Candle-flame. Both were made in wartime. That first night in the Hôtel Scribe, before we went out for dinner, you dabbed a little perfume on your breast and wrists. The casement windows of our room on the fourth floor were open and the voile curtains billowed gently in that breeze that comes on at dusk, you’d ordered a great bunch of Easter lilies to be placed on the windowsill, and their scent mingled with yours, a bittersweet tang of aniseed and musk followed by jasmine, rose and bergamot, and, as I write this in blue ink, the colour of eternity, the nib of my French pen whispers across the page till it falls silent after these words, L’Heure Bleue.