The Heart's Invisible Furies

“That’s a pity,” said Ignac. “But maybe whoever lives there now would let you back in to see it? It’d be pretty cool to see your childhood home again, wouldn’t it? There must be so many memories there.”

“It would be if any of them were good,” I told him. “But so few of them actually were. Anyway, I don’t think I’d be particularly welcome in Dartmouth Square now.” Other than the basic facts of my brief marriage, I had never gotten around to telling Ignac the complete stories of Julian, Alice and I. The things that had taken place between us were all so long ago, after all, and they seemed quite irrelevant to my life now. Still, for the first time in years I wondered about that house and whether Alice, perhaps, might still live there with whoever she had married after me. I hoped that she had a houseful of children populating the rooms and a husband who lusted after her still. Or maybe Julian had taken it over. It was always possible, if unlikely, that Julian had settled down and started a family himself.

“How long has it been since you were in Dublin, Mr. Avery?” asked Emily.

“Fourteen years, Miss Mitchell. And I don’t have any plans to go back.”

“But why not? Don’t you miss it?”

“He never talks about it,” said Ignac. “I think he likes to keep it a secret. It’s all his old boyfriends, I guess. He doesn’t want them coming after him. He probably left a trail of broken hearts behind him when he moved to Amsterdam.”

“I was in a lot of places between Dublin and Amsterdam,” I pointed out. “And I don’t have any old boyfriends in Ireland anyway. Bastiaan is the only boyfriend I’ve ever had. You know that.”

“Yeah, so you say. But I don’t believe you.”

“Believe what you like,” I said.

“Well, perhaps when we’re over there we can go take a look at that house,” said Emily, turning to Ignac and reaching for his hand, playing with his fingers as if he was a child. “And then you can always send a picture to Mr. Avery to remind him of it.”

It took a few moments for her words to sink in. “When who is over where?” I asked. She stood up now and strode over to the counter to take an apple from a bowl and then stood with one foot against the wall behind her, chomping into it.

“When Ignac and I are in Dublin,” she said with a shrug of her shoulders.

“And why would you and Ignac be in Dublin?” I asked.

“Emily,” said Ignac quietly, and I turned to look at him, catching the expression on his face which was telling her that this was not the time to raise the subject.

“Ignac?” I asked. “What’s going on?”

He sighed and his face flushed a little as he looked at me.

“Oh I’m sorry,” said Emily, putting the half-eaten apple on the table and sitting down again. “Was I not supposed to say anything?”

“It’s nothing really,” said Ignac. “It might not even happen.”

“What might not happen?”

“There’s a Master’s degree at Trinity College,” he said, looking down and scratching at a mark on the table. “In Irish Literature. I’m thinking about applying for it for next year. I haven’t fully decided yet. I’d need a scholarship for one thing. It’s just something I’m thinking about, that’s all.”

“All right,” I said quietly, trying to process this unexpected piece of information. “Well, I suppose that would be an interesting thing to do. But you’re not thinking of going too, are you, Emily? What has Russian History got to do with Ireland?”

“They do have a History department,” she said with a sigh, as if she was trying to explain the theory of relativity to an imbecile. “I could apply for a job there.”

“I think they’d take a much dimmer view of faculty dating students back in Ireland,” I said. “You’d be fired for taking advantage of your position. Or arrested on suspicion of having an unhealthy interest in children.”

“I’m not worried about any of that. I can look after myself. Anyway, I’d be closer to Russia too if I was in Dublin, so perhaps I could finally visit. After all, as you pointed out, I really should go there.”

I said nothing. I didn’t particularly want Emily going anywhere with Ignac but for the moment I was more concerned with the idea of him leaving New York. On one hand it seemed like an idea that had come out of nowhere, but on the other it made a certain amount of sense. We were close, the two of us. The three of us, in fact, for it had been Bastiaan who had been the prime mover in instigating our unusual family seven years before in Amsterdam, but since then Ignac had shown a lot more interest in my heritage than in Bastiaan’s or even his own. Coupled with his passion for writing, it made some sense that Irish Literature should be a specialty to which he might be drawn.

“Have you talked to Bastiaan about this?” I asked Ignac, and he nodded.

“A little,” he said. “Not too much. It’s still a year away, after all.”

I frowned, feeling hurt that no one had thought to mention it to me before now and especially irritated that Emily knew before I did. It was obvious that she was happy to get one over on me.

“Well, we’ll talk about it again,” I said. “Another evening, when Bastiaan’s at home.”

“We’re pretty sure,” said Emily. “There’s nothing for you to worry about. I’ve done a little research into the university and—”

“I think it’s really something for Bastiaan, Ignac and I to talk about together,” I said, turning around and glaring at her. “As a family.”

“As a family?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, as a family. Which is what we are.”

“Of course,” she said with a half-smile. “Hey, it’s 1987, right? No judgments.” She stood up and made her way out of the kitchen, walking back in the direction of the bedroom but making sure to ruffle Ignac’s hair with her hand as she passed. She might as well have pissed on him to mark her territory.

“Jesus,” I said under my breath when she was gone.

“What?” asked Ignac.

“No judgments,” I repeated. “What do you think she meant by that?”

“She didn’t mean anything, Cyril,” he said.

“Of course she did,” I said. “You just don’t want to see it.”

“Why don’t you like her?” he asked, his eyes filled with unhappiness, for he couldn’t bear confrontation or negativity. He was a relentlessly kind person.

“Because she’s old enough to be your mother, that’s why.”

“She’s nowhere near old enough to be my mother.”

“Well, a much older sister then. Or a youthful aunt. Not to mention the fact that she’s your teacher.”

“She’s not my teacher! She works in a completely different department.”

“I don’t care. It’s unprofessional.”

“She makes me happy.”

“She mothers you.”

“So do you.”

“Well, I have a right to,” I said. “I’m in loco parentis.”

He smiled and shook his head. “There’s a side to her that you don’t see.”

“The side that doesn’t go around seducing her students?”

“I told you, I’m not one of her students,” he protested. “How many times?”

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