“And? What would you say he’s like?”
The young man considered. He took the unlighted cigarette from his mouth. “Obsessed,” he said.
19
QUIRKE PICKED UP ISABEL AT THE CORNER OF PARNELL STREET, and they drove down to the quays and turned right for the park. The short-lived day had begun to wane already, and the sky above the river was clear and of a deep violet shade, and, lower down, the frost-laden air was tinged a delicate pink. She said again how much she hated this time of year, these awful winter days that seemed to be over before they had properly begun. He said he liked the winter, when it was frosty and the nights were long. She asked if it reminded him of his childhood, and after waiting in vain for an answer she turned away and looked out at the quayside passing by. He glanced at her sidelong; her expression in profile was somber; he supposed she was angry. But he did not want to talk to her about his childhood, not her. The past had poison in it. He asked if she was all right, and after a second or two she said yes, that the morning’s rehearsal had been long and she was tired, and besides she thought she might be starting a cold. “What a beautiful car this is,” she said, but it was plain she was thinking of something else.
He asked if she would like to stop at Ryan’s of Parkgate Street for a drink, but she said no, that it was too early, and that she would prefer they should go for their walk while the daylight lasted. He drove in at the gate onto Chesterfield Avenue.
“This is where I learned to drive,” he said.
“Oh? When was that?”
“Last week.”
She looked at him. “My God- you only learned to drive a week ago?”
“There’s nothing to it, just pressing pedals and turning the wheel.” He drew the car to the side of the road and stopped. “Which reminds me,” he said, “I must get a driving license.”
He sat for a moment looking blankly through the windscreen.
“How’s the hangover?” she asked.
“Oh,” he said, “weakening.”
“You mean it’s getting weak, or it’s weakening you?”
“It’s getting weaker, and I’m getting better. That’s the thing about a hangover; no matter how bad it is, it ends.”
“I suppose you must be dying for a drink now- did you want to stop at Ryan’s?”
“Not really.”
“Phoebe worries about your drinking, you know.”
He was still looking out at the winter afternoon. “Yes,” he said, “so do I.”
“What’ll we do, to keep you out of the pub?” She laid a hand lightly on his thigh. “We shall just have to think of something, shan’t we?”
They got out and set off walking through the misty air. Deer in a herd were grazing among the trees off to their left; an antlered stag watched them, chewing with that busy, sideways motion of its lower jaw. The animals’ pelts were the same color as the bark of the trees among which they stood.
“April’s mother called me,” Quirke said.
Isabel’s arm was linked in his, and as they walked she pressed up close against him for warmth. “What did she say?”
“She asked me to come out and see her.”
“Has she had word of April?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. I said I’d come out at five.”
“It’s nearly four now.”
“I know. Will you come with me?”
“Oh crikey,” she said in a quailing voice, “I don’t know. The widow Latimer is rather a daunting prospect, you know.”
A cyclist went past, crouched low over the dropped handlebars of his sports bike and shedding behind him comical puffs of breath, like the smoke of a train. An elderly couple sat on a bench, swathed in mufflers and wearing identical woolen hats with bobbles on them. Their dog, a snappish King Charles spaniel, ran over the grass in a complicated pattern of straight lines and angles, taking no notice of the deer.
“Do you know her, Mrs. Latimer?” Quirke asked.
“Only by reputation. Which is formidable.”
“Yes. She’s a bit of an ogress, all right. Though I feel sorry for her.”
“Because of April?”
“That, and the fact that it can’t be easy, being the widow of Conor Latimer.”
“What was he?”
“Heart surgeon and a national hero- fought in the War of Independence.”
She laughed. “All the more reason for me to steer clear of her.” She squeezed his arm and smiled up at him. “I am half-English, after all.”
“How could I forget it?”
“Why? Because you got me into bed so easily?” She grimaced. “Sorry, that just popped out.”
They walked on.
“Didn’t April ever mention her father?” Quirke asked.
“She tended not to talk about her family. A delicate subject.” She laughed, not quite steadily. “A bit like the subject we’re not talking about now, I suppose.”
After a dozen paces Quirke cleared his throat and said, “I’m sorry about this morning, walking in like that when you were in the bath.”
“I didn’t mind. Quite the opposite, in fact. I felt like- oh, I don’t know, Helen, or Leda, or somebody, being swooped down upon by a god disguised as a bull. You do look quite bullish, you know, in a confined space.”
“Yes,” he said, “and the world is my china shop.”
She squeezed his arm again, pressing it to her side, and through her coat he felt her warmth and the delicate curve of her ribs. They were silent again, and he could feel something gathering in her. Then in a tight, small voice she said, “Quirke, where are we going?”
“Where are we going? Well, we’ve passed the Wellington Monument, and the zoo is over there.”
“Do you think this is funny?”
“I think we’re both grown-up people, and we should behave accordingly.” He had not meant it to sound so harsh. She let go of his arm and strode on quickly, her hands thrust in the pockets of her coat and her head down. He quickened his pace and caught up with her and took her by the elbow, making her stop. She tried to pull her arm away from him, but his grip was too strong. “I told you before,” he said, “I’m no good at this kind of thing.”
She looked up into his face; tears stood on the lowers rims of her eyelids, quivering and shiny, like beads of quicksilver. “What kind of thing?”
“This kind. You, me, swans in the moonlight-”
“Swans in the-?”
“I mean I don’t know how to behave, that’s all. I never learned; there was no one to teach me. People, women”- he made a chopping motion with the side of his hand-”it’s impossible.”
She stood there, close in front of him, gazing up, and he had to force himself not to look away.
“Listen to me,” she said, in a new voice, rapid and sharp-edged. “I haven’t asked anything of you, no promises, no vows, no commitments. I thought you understood that; I thought you accepted that. Don’t start taking fright already, when there’s nothing to be frightened of. Do me that courtesy, will you?”
“I’m sor-”
“And please, no apologies. I told you, few things are as dispiriting as a man mumbling about how sorry he is.” Suddenly she lifted herself up on her toes and seized his face between her hands and kissed him hard on the mouth. “You idiot,” she said, drawing back. “You hopeless idiot- don’t you realize you could be happy?”
IT WAS DARK BY THE TIME THEY GOT TO DUN LAOGHAIRE, AND A three-quarters moon white as lightning had hoisted itself over the harbor. It was not so cold out here by the sea, and the road was blackly agleam with thawed frost. When they stopped at Albion Terrace they did not get out of the car at once but sat side by side listening to the engine ticking as it cooled. Quirke lit a cigarette and rolled down the window beside him an inch and flicked the spent match through the opening. “I shouldn’t have asked you to come,” he said. “I could bring you to the hotel back there, and you could wait for me, if you like.”