The Heart's Invisible Furies

“A gay fella.”

“Oh right,” I said. “Yes, well, I always assumed that he was despite his constant references to the legendary Mrs. Denby-Denby and all the little Denby-Denbys. Was he making them up?”

“Oh no, they existed all right,” she said. “But then the country was littered with Mrs. Denby-Denbys back in those days who had no idea what their husbands were getting up to behind their backs. Well, you know that better than anyone, I suppose. Would I be right in thinking that you’re one of them too?”

“I am,” I admitted.

“I always thought so. I remember when we worked together you never seemed at all interested in me and one day I said to Miss Joyce that I thought you must be one of them but she said, no, you were far too nice to be one of them.”

“I’m sure there’s a compliment in there somewhere,” I said.

“It’s very popular now, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“Being one of them.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Is it?”

“Oh it is,” she said. “There’s Boy George and David Norris. And half of this place, of course, although they keep it to themselves. The woman who lives next door to me, her youngest son is one of them.” She shrugged and sniffed the air. “It’s a shame for her, of course, but I don’t say anything. I’ve never been judgmental in that way. And there are two women who run a flower shop near where I live and they share the upstairs flat and Peadar says they’re one of them—”

“Two of them, surely?”

“Yes, two of them. I never even knew that a woman could be one of them. You don’t mind it so much in a man but in a woman it’s just peculiar, don’t you think?”

“I’ve never really given it much thought,” I said. “But I imagine there’s not a lot of difference.”

“Oh you’ve gone very modern, Cyril. That’s what living abroad will do for you, I suppose. My second-to-eldest girl, Louise, she wants to go to America on a J-1 visa with her friends and I’m doing everything I can to stop her because they’re fierce modern over there. I just know that if she goes to America she’ll end up being raped by a black man and having an abortion.”

“Jesus Christ,” I said, spitting out my tea. “For God’s sake, Anna, you can’t say things like that.”

“Why not? It’s true.”

“It’s not true at all. And you sound very small-minded saying it.”

“I’m not racist if that’s what you’re implying. Remember, my husband is Jewish.”

“Still and all,” I said, wondering whether I could just leave before she opened her mouth again.

“Louise says she’s going, no matter what her father or I say. On your own head be it, I’ve told her but will she listen? She will not. Do you think we were like that when we were that age? Did you give your parents that level of grief?”

“Well, I had a rather unconventional upbringing,” I said.

“Oh that’s right. I remember you telling me something about that back then. Who’s your mother, Edna O’Brien or someone, isn’t it?”

“Maude Avery,” I said. “Adoptive mother.”

“That’s right, Maude Avery. You’d think she was bloody Tolstoy the way people carry on about her—”

“Mr. Denby-Denby,” I said, interrupting her before she could get lost on this road. “You were telling me about how he was murdered.”

“It was a terrible business,” she said, leaning in and lowering her voice. “So it turned out that Mr. Denby-Denby rented some cheap flat on Gardiner Street that his wife knew nothing about and every so often he’d go down to the canals to pick up some young lad and bring him back there for a bit of you-know-what. This had been going on for years apparently. Well, it all must have got out of hand on one of those nights because the neighbors reported a terrible smell coming from his apartment and he was discovered there, two weeks later, one hand chained to a radiator, half an orange in his mouth and his trousers wrapped around his ankles.”

“Jesus,” I said, shuddering at the image. “And did they ever catch the boy?”

“They did. Eventually. He got life.”

“Poor Mr. Denby-Denby,” I said. “That’s a terrible way to go.”

“I suppose you knew all about it back then, did you?”

“About what?” I asked.

“About Mr. Denby-Denby. Did you and him ever…?”

“Of course not,” I said, appalled by the notion. “He was old enough to be my father.”

Anna looked at me as if she wasn’t entirely convinced. “You have to be very careful of those boys, Cyril,” she said. “The rent boys down the canals, I mean. Think of the diseases they carry for one thing. They all have AIDS. And they’d kill you as quick as look at you. I hope you don’t go in for anything like that.”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or be offended. The truth was that I hadn’t so much as kissed another man in seven years and had no interest in ever doing so again. The last thing I was going to do was cruise along the Grand Canal in the middle of the night looking for cheap trade.

“Would you like another pot of tea?” asked the waitress, Jacinta, approaching us now, and before I could reply Anna shook her head.

“I can’t,” she said. “I need to get back to the office. Those windows won’t stare out themselves all afternoon. But it was good to see you, Cyril,” she added, standing up. “I’ll probably run into you again in the library downstairs, will I? Are you there every day?”

“Every day except Friday,” I said. “And only when the Dáil is in session.”

“Grand,” she said. “Sure we’ll catch up again another time. Don’t forget what I’ve said now and stay away from trouble. I don’t want another Mr. Denby-Denby on my conscience.”

I nodded and as she left I turned to the waitress and said that I’d have another pot of tea, and when it arrived a few minutes later it was Mrs. Goggin who was carrying it.

“Do you mind if I join you for a moment?” she asked. “It’s Mr. Avery, isn’t it?”

“That’s right,” I said. “Cyril. Please, sit down.”

“I’m Catherine Goggin. I don’t know if you remember me but—”

“I do, of course. It’s nice to see you again.”

“And you’re back working in the Dáil again?”

“I am, for my sins. In the library. It’s only been a couple of weeks but I’m enjoying it.”

“This place sucks you in, doesn’t it?” she asked, smiling. “You can never get out of it. But I’m glad to see you back again anyway. Did I hear that you were in the States in the meantime?”

“For a time, yes. And in Europe.”

“And your leg,” she asked, nodding toward my crutch. “Did you hurt it recently?”

“No, that goes back seven years,” I told her. “From when I was living in New York. My friend and I were walking through Central Park one night and were assaulted.”

“Oh dear God,” she said. “That’s terrible. And what about your friend, was he all right?”

“No, he died,” I said. “Very quickly. Before the ambulance even arrived.”

“Well, I’m very sorry to hear it,” she said. “I suppose I shouldn’t even have asked. It’s none of my business.”

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