At Swim, Two Boys - Jamie O'Neill [75]
It was a pleasing fancy, but MacMurrough shook his head. I doubt I could rise to hypocrisy any more. Don’t you see, old man, I can’t persuade myself. I can’t pretend with the sniff of oakum in my nostrils. This is what I’ve come to. It is true. I am this.
—What is this that you are?
—I can tell you what I wanted to be. I wanted to be the queer bugger who lives in that house. See that man? That’s the man we don’t talk about. I thought I’d come here to Ireland and somehow I’d stop here, literally stop. See that man? He isn’t there. But she’s not going to let me, is she. She must have it all begin again, this time with fanfares and fêtes. She thinks I have no pride. But I have.
—I wonder, said Scrotes.
—Indeed, said MacMurrough.
—Is it pride you have, or fear?
—Let us say it is a certain reluctance to give delight to these people. An Oscar Wilde in Ireland—whatever next? It’s true I hold myself proud. Even my aunt admitted me that.
—Your aunt, a benevolent and admirable lady—Here MacMurrough raised his finger in interruption. Two pounds a week she allows me, Scrotes. That is not benevolent nor admirable. That is four fucks and no fags.
—Your aunt, Scrotes persisted, after the merest sniff, has remarked what she calls your fanfaronade. An appellation not wholly ill-advised, for you are that strange beast who prides himself yet has no pride. You blush for your nature, yet will freely speak of chauffeur-mechanics, the efficient cause of its detection. You congratulate yourself on a capacity to prostitute impoverished youths, yet are ashamed of the desire that draws you to them. You fear discovery, yet will flippantly bring a boy into your aunt’s home.
—Yes, you’re right, of course, said MacMurrough. I’ll rape him on a rug down the meadow lawn in future.
—Listen to me, MacMurrough. You have survived an imprisonment of two years with hard labor, a sentence which is judged the maximum a man may suffer and still hope to live. You have survived it well, with every prospect of recovery. Are you proud of the fortitude, the determination, the character this proves? Not a bit of it. You warble a wish to stop, to cease to be. Even more remarkable, you commingle these sentiments to the one comprehension. You despise yourself, and are proud of the despisal, regarding it a virtue. It is an arrogance of disgust—Scrotes signed the papers before him—venerable as Augustine and as vain.
—After you have finished this tirade against me, Scrotes, my treasure, do you intend saying anything nice?
—As a matter of fact, I do. Solvitur ambulando. Come, fetch my coat, fetch my hat. We shall venture without where the sun yet shines.
—I rather think not, said MacMurrough. I’ve already beat the bounds once today.
But Scrotes was having none of it. While he trussed his neck with a muffler, his banter carried on.
—A remarkable aspect of this prison you have contrived is the circumambulance of its walls. Wherever you go, the walls go with you. It is a kindly improvement on the traditional practice, allowing for ample exercise and the variation of views. We shall visit to the celebrated Pavilion Gardens and take tea like gentlemen.
—The Pavilion? I’ll be the talk of the tea-room.
—Gammon, said Scrotes. I hesitate to disappoint my illustrious young friend, but between his incarceration and his release there has broken out the greatest war mankind has known. Only last year this country was on the brink of its own civil war. The people have other concerns. It is the Whitsun bank holiday. Society rejoices. August brings the Horse Show. Why, next month is the Regatta.
—Next month is Aunt bloody Eva’s fête.
Scrotes held the door. MacMurrough pressed his nib on the paper. The dull paper grey as the sea. Veni Dublinum. And seethed all about me the noisy stew of infamous loves. The pen pitched from his hold.
—Not the tradesmen’s gate, said Scrotes when they were outside. Let us walk with