City of Bohane: A Novel by Kevin Barry

Author:Kevin Barry
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Literary, Fiction
ISBN: 9781555976453
Publisher: Macmillan
Published: 2012-03-13T04:00:00+00:00

20

Beauvista Interior

The entire structure of the old manse had been scooped out to leave a vast and sombre space. From the limestone flags to the wooded vault of the ceiling was maybe a forty-foot climb along the rendered walls. The leaded windows were thin and pointed, stern as church, and of a dark, opaque glass. A mezzanine platform circled the room entirely, two-thirds of the way up, and it was reached by a pair of spiral stairways, set opposed to each other across the room, and the entire platform was lined with clothes rails, hundreds of them in dizzying rows around the circumference of the room, his ’n’ hers, and the rails were hung with all the colours – some seasons gaudy, some muted – of capricious fashion. Peninsula symbols marked the hangings that were tied to the oak beams of the ceiling. A great length of chimney breast ascended from a central hearth to the high vault of the room. A blaze of Nothin’ turf lengths burned in the hearth space and the flickers danced on Macu, who sat by the hearth, on a low settle, with her legs crossed, her slenderness unchanged, and her age showing.

Macu wore:

A pair of suede capri pants dyed to a shade approaching the dull radiance of turmeric, a ribbed black top of sheer silk that hugged her lithe frame, a wrap of golden fur cut from an Iberian lynx, an expression of wry bemusement about the eyes, and about the mouth an expression unreadable.

The room was lit, at Gothical intervals, by candelabras mounted agin the buff render of the walls on cast-iron brackets.

Gant’s eye was drawn morbidly to the bed space. It was tucked away in a nook down back, and was heaped with furs and rugs, and there was a headboard cut from driftwood.

Nausea sent a spike to his throat.

A single, enormous photograph was framed above the hearth – it was as outsized as its subject: a great Irish wolfhound of doleful mien.

The Gant said:

‘Who’s the dog?’

Macu regarded him evenly.

‘Why’re you back, G?’

He took to a settle opposing her by the hearth – he took to it before his legs gave out. He could hold her glance for just a moment at a time. Every gesture, every piece of weather that passed across her face was pain to him. He saw clearly now the age that had crept on. He saw the faint crowlines and the puckering that would tighten and dry out as the dreck seasons passed.

‘I can’t answer you,’ he said.

She had opened the door as to one expected. She stood aside and let him enter the great vault of room. He felt conscious of his every movement. He felt nineteen again, and he tried not to carry himself like a Big Nothin’ gombeen.

‘Dog’s Alfie,’ she said. ‘Was Alfie. Got a slap of an El train.’

‘Logan’s?’

‘Ours.’

‘Handsome.’

‘An’ stupid.’

‘Often the way those’d go together, Macu.’

The flicker of his humour he could see was a reassurance to her. But careful, Gant, he told himself, don’t go tossing out the wiseacre lines now; you don’t need to impress.

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