“Tell her she was mighty.”
A true Galway description, the highest accolade. Cathy’s dressing room was jammed with admirers, her face was flushed, her eyes alight. I said,
“You were sensational.”
“Thanks, Jack.”
“Listen, you’re busy, I just wanted to let you know.”
“Keep the beard.”
“You think?”
“Makes you look like you’ve got character.”
A snake had bitten so many people that few ventured out.
The Master was credited with taming the snake. As a result,
the people took to throwing stones and dragging it by its tail.
The snake complained to the Master, who said,
“You’ve stopped frightening people, that’s bad.”
A very pissed-off snake replied,
“You told me to practise non-violence.”
“No, I told you to stop hurting — not to stop hissing.”
Next morning, I actually made breakfast. Not being sick, hung over, was extraordinary. My face was healing and the beard hid the rest. Fixed a mess of eggs and cut a wedge of thick bread. I’d been to Griffin’s.
Full mug of tea and I was set. My door went and I said,
“Shit.”
It was Sutton. I said,
“Jeez, how early is this?”
“Man, I haven’t been to bed.”
“Come in, have some breakfast.”
He followed me in and I went to grab another plate. He said,
“I’ll drink mine, thanks.”
“All I’ve got is some cheap Scotch.”
“I’m a cheap guy. Gimme a coffee to colour it.”
My eggs had gone cold. After I got him the coffee and Scotch bottle, he indicated my plate, said,
“Tell me you’re not going to eat that.”
“Now I’m not. I’ve got this fetish, I like to eat my grub with some semblance of heat.”
“Whoo... testy.”
He looked round the flat, said,
“I could be happy here.”
“What?”
“I was round the other day, but you were off gallivanting. I got to chatting to your neighbour, Laura.”
“Linda.”
“Whatever. A thick country wan with all that low cunning. I, of course, charmed the pants off her. Not literally, of course. Once she knew I was an artist, she offered me your flat.”
“She offered what?”
“Is there an echo here? Yeah, said you were moving and she was looking for a suitable tenant.”
“The bad bitch.”
“The attraction of art, eh?”
“Are you serious, you’re going to move in?”
He stood up, slurped off the coffee, gave me a wide-eyed look, said,
“Hey big buddy. Would I shaft you? You’re my main man. We better go, art beckons.”
A beat up VW Golf was parked outside. A bright yellow colour. I said,
“Say it isn’t so.”
“Oh yeah. The Volvo is shagged. I had to borrow this.”
“They’ll literally see us coming.”
“Course they will.”
Planter lived in Oughterard. His house on the approach into the village. House is too tame a term. Obviously, he’d seen Dallas too often and decided to have an Irish Southfork. I said,
“Jeez.”
“But are we impressed?”
A lengthy tree-lined drive, then the main house. More garish close up. Sutton said,
“I’ll do the talking.”
“That should be a novelty.”
He rang the bell, and I noticed security cameras above the portals. The door opened, a young woman in a maid’s uniform asked,
“Que?”
Sutton gave his best smile, all demonic dazzle, said,
“Buenas dias, señorita, I am Señor Sutton, el artist.”
She gave a nervous giggle, waved us in. I looked at Sutton, asked,
“You speak Spanish?”
“I do spick.”
She led us into a lavish study, said,
“Momento, por favor.’”
Paintings lined every wall. Sutton gave them a close inspection, said,
“Some good stuff here.”
A voice said,
“Glad you approve.”
We turned.
Planter was standing at the door. I’m not sure what I expected, but with the house, the business, the reputation, I’d imagined a big man. He wasn’t. Came in at 5’5” or so, almost bald with a heavily lined face. His eyes were dark, revealing little. Dressed in a sweater with a polo logo and very shabby cords. You knew he’d have a worn-to-shit Barbour jacket for outdoors. Nobody offered handshakes. The atmosphere couldn’t hold it. Sutton said,
“I’m Sutton and Jack here is my assistant.”
Planter nodded, asked,
“Some refreshment?”
Then he clapped his hands and the maid returned. Sutton said,
“Dos cervezas.”
We stood in silence till she returned with the two beers on a tray. Sutton took both, said,
“Jack won’t be partaking. I don’t pay the help to drink.”
Planter gave a brief smile, said,
“Please be seated.”
He marched over to a leather armchair. I checked to see if his feet reached the floor. Sutton sat opposite and I remained standing. Planter said,
“I have been an admirer of your work for some time. The idea of a commission attracts me.”
Sutton had finished one beer, belched, said,
“How about a portrait?”
“You do portraits?”
“Not yet but a few more beers, I’d paint Timbuktu.”
Planter wasn’t bothered by Sutton’s manner. On the contrary, he seemed to find it amusing, said,
“No doubt. I think perhaps a landscape.”
I said,
“What about water?”
He was taken aback, had to turn to face me, asked,
“I beg your pardon?”
“Water, Bartholomew; you don’t mind if I call you that? How about Nimmo’s Pier, serve to jog your memory?”
He was up, said,
“I’d like you to leave now.”
Sutton said,
“I could go another beer.”
“Shall I call help?”
I said,
“No, we’ll see ourselves out. But we’ll be in touch, about Nimmo’s.”
I miss a lot of things
but most of all
I miss myself.
Outside Planter’s house, I said to Sutton,
“Gimme the car keys.”
“I can drive.”
“What if that prick calls the guards?”
I was never a great driver. With my left hand bandaged, I was close to dangerous. Still, a better option than the sodden Sutton. I ground the gears a few times and Sutton roared,
“You’ll burn out the clutch.”
“You said the car was borrowed.”
“Borrowed, not disposable.”
I took it slow, tried to ignore the impatience of other drivers. Sutton said,
“You fucked that good.”
“Come again?”
“Planter! I thought we agreed you’d keep your mouth shut.”
“I don’t do hired help good.”
“I wanted to play, fuck with his head more.”
“We fucked his head all right. Just a bit sooner is all.”
“What’s the plan now?”
“Let’s wait and see.”
“That’s the plan?”
“I didn’t say it was a good plan, just the only one.”
Back in Galway, eventually. Sutton had nodded off. I stirred him and he came to with a jump, saying,
“What the fuck!”
“Take it away, we’re in town.”
“Man, I’d a rough dream. Tobe Hopper would be proud of it. My mouth feels like a canary shit in it.”