st. patrick’s day - university of notre dameundpress/excerpts/p03199-ex.pdf · · 2016-12-14st....

ST. PATRICK’S DAYanother day in Dublin

THOMAS McGONIGLE

University of Notre Dame PressNotre Dame, Indiana

Copyright 2016 University of Notre Dame

Come, hear something, read some things, I was saying.That spring I was staying at the Russell Hotel in the cheapest or, as I

have been taught to say, the most reasonable available room. I have satbefore the fire in the lobby, cold glass of Carlsberg in hand, realizing:traveling out the patrimony, a gift in my case, from all the years of myfather’s fear of doing anything which would endanger his retirement.

After forty-nine years of work at the American Can Company he sur-vived two years of doing, as he put it: nothing.

Died, he did, alone in a parking lot with strangers looking on at hisperformance.

Upstairs, built into the cabinet next to the bed was a radio which received only Radio Eireann—stories always seemed to begin: In 193 . . . In 189 . . . They, He, She, and . . . the words flowed into neverremembering a fact except the pause before the announcer saying abirthday greeting to someone’s Granny of County . . . who wanted tohear “Apples and Oranges” as performed by the Metropole Dance Bandand then the female announcer would say three or four words in Irish,allowing me to remember this announcer, Ruth Buchanan, who hadtaught English to foreign students in the same school where I wouldwork in Baggot Street when I had lived in this city with the Bulgarian,this Ruth who could also still be seen in cinema adverts plucking a littleshampoo bottle growing in the center of flowers then blooming downthere in Stephen’s Green; this Ruth who was now saying three or fourwords in Irish every hour, reminding people there are two languages inthis country—and for me, one of those languages drowned in the oceanacross which my grandfather at the age of twelve was shipped fromDonegal to New York where that Bulgarian lived BUT let’s not go intoall of that just yet.

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A fence of rocks piled one on top of the other, cementforced between, about an asphalt paved front yard. Will youcome in? The house set back from the drive. Will you comein?

Down there in the street, troops of high school bullies have beenformed up to strut and twirl and shake their behinds for all they’re worth:St. Patrick’s Day in Dublin, imported from New York and points west—them showing them how it’s done; bands and marching units in betweenflatbed trucks on which shivering girls stand throwing sample packetsof dried peas and frozen fish fingers. Looking down from my window Icouldn’t tell whether this was the end or the beginning of the parade.His watch on my wrist had stopped.

H. A.MCGONIGLE

1924-196945 YRS CANCO

SERVICE

In the corner a red plush straight-backed chair on which I had beenstacking the books bought in an effort to catch up for the years since inDublin. I put the books on the floor next to my suitcases. I thought tosit, watch them down there. The window sill is too high for my feet orthe chair too low and either way I couldn’t see with ease what was hap-pening in the street.

I couldn’t remember whether the pubs would be open so I calleddown for a couple of Carlsbergs to be sent up: three bottles and a glass.

Waiting in thirst I again twisted the problem, what was I doing inDublin, when as before coming in from the airport there was the sameidentical sinking feeling of why in whatever it is, had I come back, again,because I always had that feeling, back here again, never rememberedof course until after the rush to find the bus for Busárus, find the change,find a seat, get all the luggage into the bus because I wouldn’t trust themto put it into the luggage compartment.

St. Patrick’s Day ————


A SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT

To ensure a comfortable journey through this day an ITINERARY isprovided:

Starting (obviously) in the Russell HotelWalking to Grogan’s by way of Stephen’s Green and Neary’s PubIn Grogan’sOut on the Street to the Memorial by the Grand Canal and Baggot

Street BridgeTo Rathmines and RathgarStarting Out AgainTaken ApartMcDaidsEn RouteAgain, Grogan’sTo the PartyThe Corn Exchange

Back here again riding in the bus across land being packaged up intohousing estates and petrol stations, looking out at the old woman wash-ing down her step into the pub and the same people still sitting in all thesame places, maybe a little worse for wear, but who isn’t in this day andage (von Webern music) but knowing too, at least, they did have a placeand after all I had spent years here which had been more alive than allthe years spent in other places or was that another lie among otherswhich had brought me back here to Dublin, as before?

A knock at the door. The kid was here with the beer on a silver tray.He was twelve, fourteen, or fifteen years old, how should I know? Isigned the check and gave him 20p tip. He thanked me and backed outof the room. I skipped the glass. The beer wasn’t really cold. Back then,I would never complain about something like this, because Americanswere always complaining about warm beer, cold rooms, and people whodidn’t bathe. The Americans came dressed in white socks and LondonFog raincoats. I lost my white socks and kept the J. C. Penney raincoatwhich was soiled down the right front side with dried red paint afterbrushing against wet posters in the anarchist office in Glasgow where Ihad visited: Americans never wore soiled clothing being afraid of gettingrun over by a truck . . .

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Alone in this room, standing at the window, drapes pulled back, look-ing down at the rainy street now deserted.

Over there, at an angle across from the hotel: backroom of a chipshop where after the fashion I danced to Beatles records in 1964 with ashop girl who wouldn’t tell me her name because you’re just here look-ing for a good time of it and you ain’t never gonna come back here again,I know, so what do you want to go and know my name for, just for adance, anyway, is that okay, you know, if not I’ll go back to my friendswho’ll never talk to me ever again if I talk too long with you, just herefor the joke of it, you are . . . A certain deep breath, look to the ceiling,hope people don’t notice but—in all of this: living at the Russell andthinking of going off to a chip shop.

I wouldn’t have anyone in this room unless they . . . not to dare be-yond the beginning of thought—the fingers are long and tremble—neverdare to say, though hearing all too clearly, as before: chopped your ballsoff, right, even if you say you never get mixed up in a sort of conversa-tion of nounless feeling.

Beyond The Pale . . . a place never gone to because pints don’t growon trees and a man could die of thirst in the middle of all that damp greenscenery. Never wanted any part of the army who went tramping aboutIreland looking for cemeteries in which their relatives had been dumped.Childhood was ancestry enough together with the years previously spentin Dublin, history of sufficient complexity I didn’t have to go seekingmore muck to pile up in a closet with the dirty underwear.

The girl who took me across into sex reminded me rainheavy leaves when storm ended sun out slight wind gustingrain falls again on sidewalk standing close to the trunk of thetree avoiding the momentary wet smelling sweet mold comingas she did from Kinsale her father pensioned out from theBritish Army retired complaining, she, Barbara silhouetted bythe light of the exposed tubes in the gramophone, said nothing,I said nothing grateful the silence her fingers

Laughter in the hall. A thud against the door. I am not in. During the day no pissing in the sink. The bathroom was across the hall. Neverreally sure which word to use: toilet, bathroom, men’s room, the shithouse. Vance Packard was to blame for it because of The Status Seekers.



Words give away class. In the whatever, a bathtub the size of an Irishcoffin, wide at the top, narrow at the bottom, and next to it a chromeheated towel rack.

Another day when the hint of snow on the ground, now just a re-minder of exactly how long the winter holds on to Dublin, I had gottenoff the bus in Rathmines and was walking up the road toward the StellaCinema when seen stopped in the traffic a hearse carrying a polishedtan coffin. Six o’clock on a dark late afternoon, early night, a time rush-ing from/to, turned away from the hearse and, if I could have . . . to makethe impact stronger: thrown into a pub and ordered a whiskey. Had asecond and a bottle of Harp; finished, back on the street and just anothernight to get through. The sides of the coffin squeezing his shoulders—the large hands of the uncle just back from Korea grabbing my arms:he’s getting to be a big boy all right, yes, he is that.

Will you come in?Be done with it. This is all so dumb. The past is fucking with

the past in the grave and can only drag you down. Sounds inthe kitchen.

Would you like a cuppa tea?She is out of her shoes. She must be cold.Yes, no milk.The dishes rattle.Has the fire come on good?Yes. It’s warm.Over the fireplace is a picture of a girl standing on a flat slab

of stone wearing a wide floppy hat. To the right in the corner, abookcase of tattered school texts, magazines from Denmark—Barbara’s brother was engaged to a girl from Denmark—andEngland, books by Hemingway, orange Penguins, andFrançoise Sagan; across the room a sofa with a broken-downarmrest, across it a shiny black raincoat with blue denim collar.

Just like my father, or your Uncle Jimmy, my mother would say andI’ve forgotten what it was I had done to get her to say it. Those activitiesof men which women are always putting up with.

You okay in there?Sure.Can you hurry up, I’ve got to go.

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That’s what I’m doing.Footsteps go away, come back.Please.The person is small and wide. He doesn’t say thanks. Not expecting

or doing so myself, back in the room greeted now by sun. That’s all I need.

Barbara brings in the tea tray: two cups, a kettle with repaired handle, a sugar bowl, two tea spoons, a small cupof milk.

Sip at the tea. She sorts through the records. Dusts oneoff with the sweater she is wearing.

I’m tired of just hanging aroundI’m going to get married and settle downAnd this sporting life is going to be

the death of me.He whines so, I say.He doesn’t. He’s a good friend of my brother.That’s what you like about him?No.She changes the record. The Rolling Stones. “Under the

Boardwalk.”

The third bottle of beer is warm and glowing blonde in the sun. Nextto the typewriter is To Leave Before Dawn by Julian Green. I had startedto write a letter to Green on the blank back page of the book, sitting lastnight in a corner seat in the Bailey, gone there to get away from thecrowd in Grogan’s. Maybe I should write it out quickly, go over to Parisand hand it to him.

Now, with back to the Green, yes, I know the pun, looking at thescrawled writing: I told you, I’d only write when I had something im-portant to say. Importance has ambushed me in Dublin. You are an oldman and I am a young man.

We talked only one hour—the distortions and eccentricities of hurriedconversation. I write to you only because maybe you can detect in myignorance a certain innocence in hope, a desire to be happy. I write toyou, now to ask . . .

I met Green in Paris in January . . . we talked for one hour. How hadhe come to write The Dark Journey, a book I could only read a chapterat a sitting. Malcolm Lowry took it with him on his last journey to Mex-



ico. I do not have to read my books, Green said. Had he met Joyce inParis? I was twenty-seven. My first book had just been published. It wasbefore the war, the last war, a friend invited me to a party. James Joycewas there. He was what in French is called Le Grand Seigneur. He hadperfect manners and seemed from a different century. He told me hischildren had fallen upon my book. Sadly I have not read it, he said. Mydays for reading are over.

On Grafton Street, that Spring, I turned and walked away

In the mountains of northern Bulgaria, I told Green, I met my wife’sgrandmother, she is a large ball of black wool out of which dance twoblue eyes about a single tooth. Her son said she is only eighty-six. JulianGreen said she must be happy. She had seen much. It was good to haveseen much, happiness is a mystery like God.

Green is a convert to Catholicism so I told him I had been an altarboy when I was young. How I envy you, Green said, I did not have thechance, I converted too late.

He asks me to write out my name so he will not misspell it as he in-scribed The Other One. I had been reading it in Virginia, I tell him,knowing part of his family came from Virginia, reading it when I re-ceived the call that my father had died in Saugerties, in a parking lot.We are never prepared, Green says, never prepared but we try to be andwe try to be, forgive me for repeating that I was at the university in Vir-ginia after the war, mathematics defeated me so I came back to France,one never knows.

I took her hand and felt the veins against the bone. Felt thedry chill.

Barbara says nothing. She takes my cup and carries it tothe kitchen. I heard the sounds of it being washed. Met her inthe hall. The kitchen light was off. A black figure against thegray. Her lips high. She bent and met me on the tips of my toes,kissed. Walked back to the room. Sat on the floor. Her headlay in the crook of my arm. Traced the outline of her face.

So, I have left the room, my room, and walking down the flights ofstairs as the ceiling gets higher and the plasterwork more elaborate whilethe staircase gets wider, carpet thicker and the brass rods holding it inplace, brightly polished.

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It looks to be clearing, the girl said, taking the key at the front desk.It does.A pity about the parade, she said.Did anything happen?Thank God, no, wasn’t it awful.Yes. But you were saying.The weather. All that planning and all those people coming all that

way.That’s the way it goes.I suppose, but at least no one was killed, like a bit ago.

Embraced her with all the passion of the word embrace.Hands on her breasts. Against the boy chest—I think—for thelength of her body; against the pelvis, along the legs under thedenim skirt. She wouldn’t open her eyes. She grasped at me.The sticky warm flesh and then her face like a painting in a . . .

Walked toward Newman House but before getting there crossed thestreet and entered the Green. Antonioni had painted the trees of a parkin London to get the exact shade of brown and green he wanted forBlow-Up.

In the kitchen of Newman House, a dozen large fish had been lyingon the floor waiting to be hacked up for Friday lunch. The cooks andthe helpers moved about the room dressed in soiled white uniforms.Blue-jacketed waiters rushed in and out. The Green was filling up withpeople walking up a thirst. The head of Mangan on its pillar. Crossedover the bridge Ruth used in her search for that flower containing thebottle of shampoo. Back and forth in front of the pond walked the duckcounters.

A swan was out in the middle of the pond with an arrow in its neck.Kids must have done it. It was just a ratty-looking swan in the middleof the pond with an arrow through its neck. Cupid had missed a couplefucking in the bushes. Leaving the Green by way of the South Afri-can gate.

a drafty corridor.In time I lead her out to the hall; am led to the other room. I

push off my shoes. I watch as she rolls down her stockings.Let me help you. Undress her in the time she undresses me.



On the bed: chest to chest. Under the blanket, goose-bumped. Her long fingers guide me away from her belly button.

Guide me.Assertion ends in passage. Eyes shut closed. Joined lips.

Pull away drooling on her leg. Her fingers across my back. I amshaking. She guides me again. Retracted. Shaking. My handscold. My hand over the stiff curls of hair, there. My hands feelwaxy. Rub her breasts.

Jelly on the bone

Walked up Grafton Street . . . or down . . . or up. No matter, going inthe direction of Trinity but made a quick turn at the first lane, intoNeary’s by the back door.

Holding on in life is a matter of habit, sitting the wall to back, a bottleof cider at the table in front, the boy having poured before the chance to tell him, I’d pour it myself. They always dumped the cider into thebottle (a couple of cubes of ice, please) destroying the carbonation—but said to release the flavor though cider was drunk in the morning forthe bubbles.

A satisfying burp and the day was off to a good start. So! The lads were polishing the large brass lamps at either end of

the bar. Neary’s is a theatrical pub. Behan’s parents were in there yearsbefore drinking up the money that came to them as gift from . . .

Susan had liked Neary’s and when the downstairs got crowded wewould go upstairs and order Bloody Marys.

This is cheaper than going to New York, Dickie would say.The only way I’ll ever go, Susan would reply.Pessimistic as usual.No, for a change I’m being reasonable which is worse, I know.Dickie was in love with Susan and Susan was never in love with men

who were in love with her. I went to the Trinity Ball with Susan andDickie went with a woman who was in the Royal Shakespeare Com-pany. He was in love with her and she was not in love with Dickie sowhen she went back to England, Dickie was in love with Susan. I wasnever in love with Susan, not even for a moment because that wouldruin, as I thought, a more interesting, what I called, a relationship, to beconsciously ironic.

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Reading the salmon-colored pages of the Financial Times was a way of being elsewhere. Susan and Dickie were said to be back in En -gland. No goodbyes. Since it was a holiday, a second bottle of cider.

At the Trinity Ball, Ian Whitcomb sang “Nervous” in a tent erectednext to the library reading room, years before, he had gone to Trinityand sang in the beat clubs down by the river. A French writer is said tohave written with different colored pencils to mark the shifts of time,but the cost of such reproduction, and even knowing it.

Bring on the violins for the poor but honest, said the bartender back in Wisconsin when he found out I had heard Ian Whitcomb—thebartender with the green hair for St. Patrick’s Day—and breaking outthe Jamison instead of the peppermint schnapps but here I am in the rou-tine of a cider in Neary’s and soon enough over to Grogan’s for a bottleof Carlsberg followed by a pint of stout.

A cold one for Mr. T., Tommy said, and as he will say, sitting thatfirst week in Dublin . . . all of that comes later, though all of that, THATyear in Dublin . . .

An Englishman is ordering a whiskey, Scotch please. He has a largewhite moustache, yellowed at the corners. His eyes are blue and watery.He looks in my direction and I disappear. I look back at him. He doesnot turn away. He takes a sip of his whiskey, puts the glass back on topof the table in the exact spot where it had been placed. He picks up theDaily Mail. He takes another sip of whiskey. He does not look in my di-rection again.

She lived in Rathgar.We left and walked along the rain night sharpening streets.

Her hand was cold. The fingers long and bony under the skin;her blue-green eyes were set in the narrow face between twocurls of dark hair.

Along through the side streets to Rathmines Road. Modernfaces gashed into Georgian forms. The chips were too hot.Teeth stinging hot mush inside. We shared a bottle of Coke.Walked as if toward the mountains

And the photographs in the Irish Times of Anglo-Irish couples mar-rying to carry on the fair skin, frail bodies, and ignorant as shit, man,Joe (for Stalin) was telling me in McDaids. They are that. As stupid as



your political leaders in America who get described as simple but honestand straightforward. They always know who to put the knife in. I’m nothaving any of your American romanticism about a class of shit-smellinglumps who only know the difference between one end of the horse andthe other because they got stuck on one before they were born.

Joe could be right. But he was sitting in McDaids or in Grogan’s; had been to America and come back. There must have been some-thing wrong with him. Or me? This morning in Neary’s. Parents dead.Wife in New York. Sister in New York. Money in my pocket. Not a carein the world.

I have to be getting out of here. Nothing wrong with Neary’s, but themorning was over and it was time for the serious business of the day,not like all the others: St. Patrick’s Day in Grogan’s.

Are you cold? No really. I pushed her collar up against theback of her head. Squeezed her hand as if to extract the cold.She smiled. Said nothing. You are very shy, I said. Yes. Oneshouldn’t be. Why? You prove the worth of the wrong people,the loud ones. I can’t help it. It’s my way. Some things I can’talter. Do you believe in ghosts? No. I do. Why? Because theyexist. She pointed to the shadows between the houses.

Out of Neary’s, across the street into Balfe Street, knowing Balfe was the middle name of Donleavy’s Sebastian Dangerfield, some sortof composer, now just a length of street and cutting across a car park to enter by the front door Grogan’s The Castle Lounge, or The Castle.Closer to the meaning of, “To the Castle, get your Alien’s Book, regis-tered up with the police, photographed and established that you got tobe out of the country by 31 August.”

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st. patrick’s day - university of notre dameundpress/excerpts/p03199-ex.pdf · · 2016-12-14st....

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