At Swim, Two Boys - Jamie O'Neill [200]
But he heard not the rustle of one sere page.
That evening, he took Scrotes’s papers from the drawers of his desk, bundled there any old how, months back, and forgotten since Christmas and before. The foxed corners and their yellowing hue recalled the nightmarish quality of those hours, his feverish lucubration, searching for their order, for their signification. Not theirs alone but his own too, his justification. Now pages slipped to the floor; he retrieved them: the crabbed hand on the cramped paper, in the scant light the thin moan . . .
Some things are by nature pleasant . . . Great Thou art, O Lord, of praise most worthy . . . others are not pleasant by nature . . . Whether the unnatural vice is the greatest sin among the species of lust? . . . To Carthage I came . . . I answer that . . . for these arise in some by nature . . . On the contrary, Augustine says . . . corrupting and perverting their nature . . . I answer that . . . and in addition to these, paederasty . . . which Thou hast made and ordained . . . Now those in whom nature is the cause of this state . . . in ways forbidden burning to that use . . . On the contrary, the Philosopher says . . . no one would call such intemperant . . . And therefore are shameless acts . . . I answer that . . . Nature does nothing . . . being against nature . . . without purpose . . . We speak of that as being natural . . . everywhere and always to be detested . . . which is in accord with nature . . . Nor is there a nature in anything . . . or uselessly . . . but Thou knowest it . . . I answer that . . . I came to Carthage . . . On the contrary . . . BEHOLD! YOU TOOK THAT MAN FROM THIS MY LIFE, WHEN NEVER A YEAR OUR LOVE HAD GROWN—AND HE SWEETER TO ME THAN ALL THINGS SWEET!
This suffices for the answers to the objections.
Fustian, so much foolosophy. And what in the end did it amount to, beyond an aged gent, bemused of his wits, exposing himself in a gents in Oxford—and who paid the price in Wandsworth Jail? MacMurrough gathered the papers and carried them to the kitchen, where old Moore kept the range, and he fed them, sheaf by sheaf, into the fire. The angels danced in the flickering flames. We shall now begin, over again, anew.
He slept that night thinking of loves and lighthouses. That one love might shine to bring all loves home. What more was the meaning of Easter?
Easter Sunday then and morning found him in the side rows at early Mass. He must never have caught a low Mass at Easter before, because the vapidity surprised him. No asperges, no waft of incense; couple of altar boys chirping alleluias, then the oddest of sermons. The words trumpeted resurrection and renewal, but the curate’s delivery was all to pot, jitters and stutters and losing his place. MacMurrough had a distinct impression of a complication in the night. Something with the door to the tomb, mechanism had jammed. Savior hasn’t quite risen yet, but we’re working on it. We’ll keep you informed. In the meantime, let us, um, pray.
It had all to do with the Casement business, he supposed, and the placards outside canceling the Volunteer parades. At least Jim was safe out of that. But Jim would never be safe. Nor could he wish safety on the boy. Again he sat at a café in Artois. On the table the letter stained, while the guns growled in the distance. I write to tell you, who had a wish for the boy, the sad news concerning my son . . . I must be released. I must yield decision to another. O Lord, grant not the Kaiser victory before I come to France.
The stale sniff of adulterated frankincense oppressed him. He left before the last Gospel, avoiding the spill of cooks and maids in the glory of their bonnets. He walked briskly to Bullock, where he had a boat