• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

"In Ireland?"

"None that I've wanted to know."

"Me?"

"Silly. I wanted to know you. I knew I was going to meet you somehow. Well. I'm almost responsible for it Aren't I? I must admit I was dreadfully curious. So when I saw you on the bench with your baby. Brazen of me."

"It's a bold one you are."

"I'm glad."

"Good"

"And your bacon."

Chris in her long fingers. A white plate of browned bacon. I like your arm and sweater. My God, how are you underneath? Nipples soft pattern and green swell of breast. Quiet room in the city. Lovely dark girl. Out there is the largest brewery in the world beating up the foaming pints over on the Watling Street and Stephen's Lane and the lovely blue trucks bringing it around the city so that at any time, any place, I'm never more than twenty paces from a pint. I am certain that stout is good joy, reblooder of the veins, brain feeder, and a great faggot for when one is walking in the wet. These people wear chains around their heads. These Celts. But I have sneaked into the churches, saw them at the altar, music in their voices, gold in their hearts and there was the sound of frequent pennies down the brass chute to build them bigger, better and more. My dear Chris, my very precious Chris, how can I take out my heart and put it in your hand.

Poking the fried bread with her fork, breaking it. Putting it in her mouth and looking at him. His child had his hair and eyes. His child a lovely child. Nice not to be alone. And Saturday and Sunday to stay in bed.

Mr. Dangerfield took the crust of his bread and wiped up the grease. Into his mouth with it.

"Very good. I'll say this, Chris, it's a fine country for the bacon."

"Yes."

"And now, may I suggest something?"

"Yes."

"Shall we have some refreshment?"

"Yes."

"I know of a very fine house."

"I'm going to get out my nylons. Precious. Get out of these drab things."

"Sensible."

"Drab. But as drabness goes, the least drab."

She unfolds the diaphanous things. Facing me. O but fully fashioned.

"My dear Chris, you do have a lovely pair of legs. Strong. You hide them"

"My dear Sebastian, I do thank you. I'm not hiding them. Does that make men follow one ? "

"It's the hair that does that"

"Not the legs?"

The hair and the eyes."

"So you're the man out of that tattered little house."

"It's me."

"Do you mind if I say something?"

"Not at all."

"You look like a bank clerk or perhaps someone who works in a coal office. Except for that funny tie."

"I stole that from an American friend."

"I must say you're the most curious American I've ever met. I don't like them as a rule."

"They're a fine, fleshy race."

"And you live in that house with brown torn shades. You know, the walls and roof are in a terrible state."

"My landlord doesn't see it that way."

"None do. I'm ready. I'm glad you asked me to go and have a drink."

Chris suggested a bottle of gin. Mr. Dangerfield up importantly to deal with the transaction.

"Let's not stay here. It depresses me. Look how drunk they get and I always feel that one of them is going to lurch over here and start to talk to us. Let's go for a walk. I like that so much better."

"I like you, Chris."

"Do you mean that?"

"Yes."

"You know, I don't know quite where I stand with you."

And on the Saturday night street with the old women going in to look for them ones wasting the money and have a quick malt hidden in their hands and the frolic of high-skirted girls pecking the pavements on their way in this fantastic poverty. They walked along the canal. The moon came out and shadows leaping on the water. Tightly she held his hand. Thinking happiness. The windows low down beneath the grates. People collected in the cellars around red specks of fire, gray heads on gray chests. Most of Dublin dead. A fresh wet air from the West. Turning down Clanbrassil Street. That canal goes across Ireland to the Atlantic The Jewish shops. She pulled his arm against her breast A few freckles on her upper lip.

"I wonder if it's possible, Sebastian"

"What?"

"If