The Heart's Invisible Furies

“Cyril,” he said. “It’s none of your business, all right? Just leave it. Come on, here’s the pub.”

I said nothing more, not wanting to incur his wrath, but I was hurt and disappointed that he wouldn’t let me into his secret. There were two doors at the entrance, set out into the street like two sides of an equilateral triangle, and Julian chose the left-hand one, holding it open just long enough for me to follow him inside. A narrow corridor faced a long and colorful bar where a half-dozen men were seated at stools, smoking and staring at their pints of Guinness as if within that dark liquid the meaning of life could be discovered. Past the bar were a couple of empty tables and beyond them, a snug. The barman, a tetchy-looking character with pumpkin-orange hair and eyebrows to match, slung a towel over his shoulder and eyed us warily as we made our way toward the nearest table.

“The snug is for women and kids,” whispered Julian to me. “Or for men hiding on their wives. We’ll stay out here. I’ve a terrible thirst on me!” he roared, making me jump as every head in the place turned in our direction. “But after a long day’s work at the docks there’s nothing I enjoy more than a pint. You’re the same, aren’t you, Cyril? Landlord, will you bring a couple of pints of the black stuff over here?” he shouted, smiling at the ginger behind the counter.

“I will on my nelly,” he said. “How old are you pair anyway? Yous look like children.”

“I’m nineteen,” said Julian. “And my friend here is eighteen.” He pulled all his money out of his pocket and nodded at me to do the same so the man could see that we could pay for what we ordered. “Why do you ask?”

“Just making conversation,” he said, reaching for one of the taps. “You realize that I might have to charge lads your age a little more than usual? I call it the Youth Tax.”

“Whatever you think is fair,” said Julian.

“Ah fuck off,” said the barman, but he said it more from amusement than annoyance. A few minutes later, he brought over the drinks, set them down before us and returned to his station.

“What time is it now?” asked Julian, and I nodded toward the clock on the wall.

“Almost six,” I said.

“Grand job. How do I look?”

“You look like a Greek god sent down by the immortal Zeus from Mount Olympus to taunt the rest of us inferior beings with your astonishing beauty,” I said, which somehow, in translation, came out as “You look fine, why?”

“No reason,” he said. “Just checking. You’re a good man, Cyril,” he added, reaching over and resting his hand on top of mine for a moment, and a current of electricity ran through me, as exhilarating as I imagined it would feel were he to lean forward and press his lips against my own. He looked into my eyes and held them briefly before frowning a little; perhaps he could sense an emotion that even he was not yet mature enough to understand.

“You are too, Julian,” I began, and perhaps in the heat of the moment I might have been ready to become more rapturous in my praise and give myself away entirely but before I could say another word the door to the pub swung open and I looked across as two girls entered, one of whom, to my surprise, seemed familiar to me. They glanced around nervously, for they were the only women in the place, before catching sight of me and Julian, at which point the girl in front smiled and strode toward us.

“Bridget,” said Julian, turning now, taking his hand from mine quickly and breaking into a wide smile. “There you are. I knew you’d come.”

“You knew nothing of the sort,” she said, winking at him. “I bet you probably said a few novenas to make your wishes come true, though.”

Of course, I realized then, it was the waitress from the Dáil tearoom, dressed to the nines in a tight-fitting red dress that drew attention to her breasts, her face a clown’s visage of makeup. Next to her was another girl, perhaps a year younger, shorter, no makeup, the very definition of mousey, with mud-brown hair, beer-bottle glasses and an expression that suggested she had recently eaten something that didn’t agree with her. The Cyril to Bridget’s Julian, so to speak. My heart sank as I realized that this was exactly why she was here and I turned to stare at Julian, who at least felt enough shame to avoid my eye.

“What’ll you have, ladies?” he asked, clapping his hands together as they sat down.

“Are these seats clean?” asked the second girl, taking a handkerchief from the sleeve of her blouse and wiping it against the fabric.

“The arses of some of the best men and women in Dublin have sat in them,” he told her. “Sit yourself down there, sweetheart, and if you catch any diseases I promise to pay the vet bill myself.”

“Charming,” she said. “You’re a real gentleman.”

“We’ll have two Snowballs,” said Bridget. “This is my pal Mary-Margaret.”

“You remember Cyril, don’t you?”

“How could I forget him? Cyril the Squirrel.”

“Cyril the Squirrel!” repeated Julian, bursting out laughing at her hilarious joke.

“You have an angelic look about you, did anyone ever tell you that?” she asked, leaning forward and examining my face. “He looks as if he’s never been kissed,” she added to Julian, and I felt like a specimen under a microscope that two doctors were studying closely.

“I’ll just have an orange juice,” said Mary-Margaret, raising her voice a little.

“Two Snowballs,” repeated Bridget.

“Two Snowballs!” shouted Julian to the barman, pointing at our glasses, which were perilously close to empty. “And two more pints of plain!”

“I’ll be on my ear,” said Mary-Margaret. “And I have to be up for six o’clock Mass in the morning. Father Dwyer is on tomorrow and he says a lovely Mass.”

“Sure you haven’t had a drop yet,” said Bridget. “One is hardly going to tip you over the edge into alcoholism.”

“One,” she insisted. “But one is all I’ll have. I’m not a drinker, Bridget, as you know.”

“Howaya, Mary-Margaret?” said Julian, winking at her and nodding toward me. “This is my pal Cyril.”

“You already said that. Do you think I have the memory of a goldfish?”

“What do you think?”

“What do I think of what?”

“Of Cyril? Cyril the Squirrel?”

“What am I supposed to think of him?” she asked, looking me up and down like I was the creature from the black lagoon and she’d had the bad luck of standing close to the water while I crawled onshore.

“A queer fella in a public toilet asked could he give him a blowie earlier.”

My mouth fell open in horror, Mary-Margaret’s in disbelief, and Bridget’s in delight.

“That never happened,” I said, and my vocal cords chose that unfortunate moment to crack a little. “He’s making it up.”

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