“So I was right,” he said, sitting back and smiling. “He was a gay.”
“He wasn’t,” I insisted, thinking how furious Julian would be if he could overhear this conversation. “Anyone can get AIDS, regardless of their sexual persuasion. Not that it matters anymore anyway. He’s gone too.”
“There are two chaps in here with the HIV,” said Charles, looking around as he lowered his voice again. “They’re kept away in solitary confinement, of course, although once in a while they’re allowed out for a game of table tennis with each other while the rest of us are in lockdown. The guards wash down the bats with disinfectant afterward. Say nothing to no one.”
“I won’t breathe a word,” I said. “But we were talking about tax, remember? And your inability to pay it.”
“I do think it’s very unfair what they’ve done to me,” he said, frowning. “After all, this time it was an honest mistake.”
“I heard it was two million honest mistakes,” I said.
“Yes, something around that number. But correct me if I’m wrong, there’s a little thing called the Artists’ Exemption in this country. Writers are not required to pay tax on their earnings. Thank you, Mr. Haughey, you generous patron of the arts.”
“That’s true,” I said, for it was a law that had been of great benefit to Ignac since his novels had become successful. “But here’s the thing, Charles. You’re not actually a writer.”
“No, but most of my income comes from artistic earnings. Do you know how many books Maude has sold around the world now?”
“Last time I heard it was around twenty million.”
“Twenty-two million,” he said triumphantly. “No, don’t congratulate me! And she’s still shifting around a million every year, God bless her.”
“But just because her estate was left to you doesn’t mean that you can claim the tax exemption for yourself. That was explained to you at the trial, although I would have thought that it would have been obvious in the first place.”
“But that’s grossly unfair, don’t you think? The Man from the Revenue has always resented my success.”
“But it wasn’t your success,” I insisted. “It was Maude’s. And to be fair, you had an excellent income as it was without having to cheat the system.”
He shrugged. “Oh well,” he said. “It doesn’t matter too much, I suppose. I paid back what I owed and I still have a fortune in the bank and it just keeps flooding in. Maybe I’ll pay a little next year. I’ll see how I feel. Thank God for universities, am I right? Every single one of them seems to teach her books. Except the Canadians. What’s that about, do you think? Why don’t the Canadians like Maude’s work?”
“I couldn’t tell you,” I said.
“Funny people. Try to find out, would you? You still work at the Department of Education, don’t you? There must be some sort of cross-cultural group or…or…” He trailed off, apparently uncertain how to finish the sentence.
“Charles, I haven’t worked in the civil service in nearly thirty years,” I said, growing a little concerned for him now.
“Haven’t you? That’s a very good job, you know. Pensionable. I’m sure if you went back they’d give you a second chance. What did you do wrong anyway? Hand in the cookie jar? A little slap-and-tickle with your secretary when the office door was closed?”
I sighed and glanced out the window into the courtyard, where a group of men were playing football together while others stood around the perimeter, smoking and making small talk. I watched, expecting a fight to break out as it always did in films, but nothing untoward happened. Instead, everyone seemed to be just enjoying the good weather. Very disappointing.
“How long more have you got?” I asked eventually, turning back to him.
“Only six months,” he said. “It’s not so bad in here really, you know. The food is actually pretty good. And my cellmate, Denzel, is a decent fellow. Held up three different post offices around the country but you should hear some of his stories!” He laughed as he recalled them. “You could put them in one of your books only he’d probably sue you for stealing his intellectual property. You know what these cons are like. All taking law degrees in their spare time.”
“I don’t write books, Charles,” I said. “I work in the Dáil library.”
“Of course you write books. You write those children’s books about the time-traveling Croatian boy, don’t you?”
“He’s a Slovenian boy,” I said. “And no, that’s not me. That’s Ignac.”
“Who’s Ignac?”
“He’s…well, he’s sort of a son to me. Sort of.”
“I thought your son’s name was Colm?”
“No, that’s Liam.”
“And he writes the books?”
“No,” I said, sighing. “Ignac writes books, Liam’s a student.”
“Did he write that one about the woman who hated her husband so much that she visited his grave every day and pissed on the headstone?”
“No, that was Maude,” I said, recalling one of the more melodramatic scenes from Like to the Lark.
“Oh, yes, Maude.” He thought about this. “Good old Maude. She would have hated to see how popular she’s grown.”
“She would,” I said. “But she’s been gone a long time now. She never had to suffer the indignity.”
“What was it she called it?” he asked. “The vulgarity of popularity?”
“That’s right.”
“It’s a blessing then that she’s gone,” he said. “Although I still rather miss her sometimes. We never got along very well but, still, she wasn’t a bad sort. Smoked like a chimney, of course, and I never much cared for that in a woman. She wasn’t your real mother, you know. Oh wait, did you know that? Perhaps I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“No, I knew,” I said. “I never had any confusion on that score.”
“Oh good. Because you’re not a real Avery, don’t forget.”
“Yes, I knew that too,” I said, smiling.
“But I’m glad we adopted you,” he added. “You’re a good boy. A kind boy. You always were.”
I felt a curious sensation inside myself and was unable to identify it until, on further examination, I realized that I was a little moved. This was probably the nicest thing he had ever said to me in the forty-nine years that we’d known each other.
“And you weren’t a bad father,” I lied. “All things considered.”
“Oh I think we both know that’s not true,” he said, shaking his head. “I was terrible. I showed no interest in you at all. But that’s just who I was. I couldn’t help it. I put a roof over your head all the same, and that’s something. Some men don’t even do that for their children. Do you still live there, Colm?”
“It’s Cyril,” I said, correcting him. “And no, if you mean in the house on Dartmouth Square, then no. You lost that after you went to prison the first time, remember? Max bought it.”
“Oh yes, that’s right. I suppose that boy of his lives there now with his—” He made quotation marks in the air. “Partner.”
“No, Julian doesn’t live there,” I said. “I told you, Julian is dead.”