Alva and Irva - Edward Carey [83]
And then one morning Father Hoppin came and knocked calmly. ‘I have a suggestion,’ he said, ‘Would you please let me come inside.’ He sounded reasonable so we let him in. Father Hoppin, as thin as he was serious, was one of the priests from the Renaissance church of Saint Onne’s, perhaps the third or fourth oldest building in Entralla. His mother happened to live on Pult Street, he had brought the candles when everybody else brought food and drink. Yes, we recognised him, what was his suggestion? He wondered whether it would be possible to move the plasticine city to his church, he would place it in the crypt, people could visit it there without disturbing us. The priest explained that there would always be someone present to watch over the city, that the prayer candles would always be kept at a suitable distance. What did we think?
No.
Under no circumstances.
Utterly impossible.
Quite unthinkable.
‘The city is ours,’ Irva protested, ‘we made it, for us, it belongs to us.’ ‘Yes,’ said Father Hoppin, ‘but consider please that you made the city in more peaceful days, when the laws of ownership were very clear, now everyone must help each other in whatever way they can. You,’ he continued, ‘have a chance to help, to provide comfort, and that is a great gift, surely you will not deny the good people that comfort?’ Irva yelled, ‘But it’s ours, it’s ours!’ He said, ‘Surely, my children, it is everyone’s; the city, after all, belongs to no one person.’ Irva said, ‘You’re ripping it from us!’ He said, ‘No, merely requesting that it be moved to a more public space where more people might marvel at your extraordinary achievement.’ I said, ‘But it’s so delicate, it would take so little for it to be ruined.’ He said, ‘I promise you every effort will be made to ensure its safety, but consider please that plasticine is not a substance that was made to last so very long, consider that in a short time it will have dried out and become brittle, it will be cracked and dirty, and then it will be too late for anyone to learn just what it is that you have created, please give your work the recognition it deserves.’
Irva didn’t speak then. She was beginning to wonder where she would live if the city were moved. Her head between her knees, she was trying to calm herself. At last, she looked up. She reached out, took hold of one of my hands and of one of Jonas’s and made the following slow and serious announcement, ‘The city shall be moved.’ She nodded. She smiled. She continued. ‘But wherever it goes … I go too.’ It was incomprehensible for her to spend any time away from it. The city could be moved anywhere, perhaps even out of our country, perhaps continents away, that was unimportant to her, what mattered was that she remained by it. She would live, next to the city, inside the crypt of Saint Onne’s Church. She announced her intention to the priest, and in those unhappy days when so many newly homeless people lived inside the undamaged churches of Entralla, he found no reason to argue with her. And I would come too? ‘Of course,’ she said, ‘obviously.’
And so Jonas Lutt lifted Irva up once more. And so the central portion of the plasticine city was moved to the crypt of Saint Onne’s Church. Seven hearses arrived the next day through the ruptured streets to fetch it. And later Jonas came in his lorry with the rest of the city, with all the boxes, which were piled up in a disused chapel in the corner of the crypt. Soon there were candles again, all around the city. Soon there were rows of kneelers and fifty or more people quietly fingering rosaries. On occasions a priest delivered his prayers over the city and sometimes