He could be lonely, looking for someone to have a chat to.
And she’ll be certain she’s there when the urge may strike him.
It could fail, fail utterly. Then it will fail. It will fail spectacularly and she longs that her husband might catch her in the midst of this Catherine wheel of failure.
*
This is Ballina.
Our Woman is reporting to you from Ballina, where she is walking boldly into the PJ section of Penneys with one thing in mind. I want to find The Syrian, if he is to be found. I want to make it clear today I am officially looking for him. If I should die crossing the road, it should be known I was searching for him. I am deliberate in this action. I am not seeking revenge. I am absolute in what I seek. I seek The Syrian. I seek The Syrian for my own purposes. I seek The Syrian to give me an answer.
It could be said Our Woman is attempting an overthrow on cartography. I will place Ballina and Syria on the same map. I will unite us west of the Tigris. West of Roscommon. A road map. We’ll come off a boreen onto a modern stretch of road and bump back onto the boreen at the end of it.
*
A random Wednesday, around noon, she returns to the library on the expectation that lunch breaks for security guards could extend all the way ’til two o’clock. She sits with a horse book, and scans it. Then worried he may not recognize her unless she’s reading the Syria book. She places it on the table, but reads the horse book. Curiously today no one male or female approaches and it’s a lonely two hours reading a book that doesn’t interest her. It’s raining, of course it’s raining, and a steady gang of people enter the library to keep warm and shake off their drops. The woman at the desk smiles and leans over to take library cards and Our Woman wonders has this woman a happy life and wonders what’s in her fridge and whether the woman is wearing tights. Does any woman still wear stockings these days or have we all gone the way of the gusset?
*
En route to the car, parked at Lidl and out of time, she had the brighter idea to walk through the shops with an eye on the rails and an eye for her man in a uniform. There’s only a few places he can work, since there’s but a few shops that would protect their giblets from thieving paws. That would be Dunnes, Penneys and Guineys.
*
He was not in Dunnes. No sign of anything in Guineys except GAA shirts and a banner advertising a raffle for the local boys’ Gaelic team.
*
The nightwear section, between an unfortunate lemon yellow set of slinky shorts and shirt with fuzzy trim was where she discovered him. He was happy. His face animated in recognition, first words, it’s you. They were barely into hello when his radio cackled.
— Come on, come on. He signalled she should walk with him across the shop, past men’s tee-shirts, boys’ shoes, baby blankets. He continued to talk into the radio and she kept pace, while people passed, grabbed a peek that wondered whether he was arresting her.
At the cash till, there was urgent discussion about whether a woman who left the changing room had or had not robbed a towel and a pack of six knickers. The knickers they’re prepared to let go, since if she has them on her they can’t be resold, but not the towel. The Syrian was trying to understand the colour of the towel but there was some misunderstanding in the pronunciation of the word peach. Petch he kept saying and peach the girl kept roaring at him. Peach, fucking peach, for Jesus sake.
He took off to confront the towel robber, who feigned confusion at the doorway and handed it over apologizing.
*
By the time Syria found her again, she was in the boys’ clothing section, attempting to give the impression she might have a grandchild to shop for, admiring football kits and wellington boots with frogs’ eyes on them.
— Sorry. He pressed his two hands together in apology.
— I thought I’d call in and say hello. She said brightly like it was entirely normal to track down security guards who don’t tell you where they work. How are you keeping?
— Good, he says.
*
— Have you been back to the library? he asked.
The conversation continued about the library and was interrupted twice by the walkie-talkie. Overhead announcement. The emphasis on the first syllable of his name. Halll im.
— That’s me, he pointed to the ceiling. That’s me. I looked for you at the library, he adds. There’s another book I want to show you.
She’s in quick, swift as he begins to step away.
— You must call down to the house and visit. I’d like you to meet my husband.
— Yes, he nodded, I want to come.
Another overhead announcement, Halim to the front counter. He ducked a bit below the rail. Squatted to his knees, ripped a page from his notebook and wrote a mobile number on it. Send me a text. Don’t exit by the front door, go out the side or they’ll know I’ve been chatting. Chatting said chutting in his accent. All the way to the door she repeated chutting, chutting. I’ve been chutting.
*
As they separate, he waves firmly at her. He possesses a face that could age him anywhere from late twenties to forty-five. She hopes he’s closer to forty-five. She considers that he’s gracious, soft and enthusiastic and on her return to the car she considers that he will not suspect what she has in mind for him. The windscreen greets her with a parking ticket. Worth it. Worth every penny. Each digit in that man’s mobile phone number has cost her husband several Euro.
*
It’s loud on the street, his phone breaking up. Is there a bus? She’ll come and grab him. I’ll pick you up in Foxford off the bus if you can get down this way. Sunday, Sunday is when he’ll come. Sunday, yes come Sunday. Her husband is going to Tubbercurry on Sunday to look at yet another trailer.
— I want to show you the horses, she says.
— You have horses?
— Not yet. Not yet. But soon we will have a horse. My husband will be very interested to meet you, she assures him.
*
— How’d she get a ticket at Lidl? Himself perplexed.
Met a fella,
knows a lot about horses,
invited him Sunday, he’ll come, see whether one might fit.
— I’m heading for Tubbercurry Sunday.
— I’ll cancel him. I’ll tell him come another day so. You need to be here.
— Not at all. Have him come and look sure. I won’t be home ’til late on account of the drive.
On account of the drive. Indeed not.
*
His name is Halim and by the time he arrived he looked entirely different without the insignia on his shoulders and a walkie-talkie mounted to his ear. Younger unfortunately — for she hoped civilian clothes and a bus journey might age him. She wants youth, but youth is fearful in its stretch backwards. He stood at the bus stop in Foxford, not uncomfortable, but curious-looking, like he’d never quite fit.
*
— Do you like it here? Tea tray down. Handed him plate of pie.
— I do.
— Are you sure?
— Irish people are very friendly, he said before a pause. But this is the first time I’ve visited someone apart from students in the college.
— How long have you been here?
— Two years. He bit the pie edge gently. Hesitant Halim, Our Woman thinks, while fussing over how he’d like his tea and do they drink tea in Syria? Lots of tea. Tea like this? Not quite like this, but tea. Every time she mentions his country, he lights up. Except she has to keep reminding herself the name of his country. A scrimper of a beard that cannot decide whether it should stay or go and a set of peaty brown eyes, overwhelmed by eyebrows. His eyes are brighter or bolder than those she is used to, so she cannot stare long at them because they stare back at her.