I held my breath and listened. In French was it? For moments the noise of my heart got in the way of hearing but then I heard. Yes, in French, two sweet voices. I remembered it and what happened the very first time she played it in French.
Sous le dôme épais où le blanc jasmine
A la rose s'assemble
Sur la rive en fleurs riant au matin.
Oh Jesus. I leaned on the banister light with the enchantment. I took the stairs in a rush then and stopped to hear again at the closed door, pictured her lying on the big wide bed listening to the music and thinking back to us together and in the middle of it remembering me yesterday just feet away, heart going out to me and wanting to come to me but afraid of the rebuff, lying now remembering us together. The door fell open at my touch and I saw WORKERS UNITE AND FIGHT on a placard up against the sofa and smelt the incense and saw the candle burning on the low table by the unlit lamp. The flame bowed as I came in and then withdrew for a moment before righting itself. A girl’s voice said Yes, yes, do it, please do it again! and I heard the dull thwack and a cry of pain and Aisling saying There, that’s enough. I’ll put it away now. Are you all right? Here, let me look at you. Oh my poor love. Let me put this on you.
Put what on you? I stood at the locked street door. Discordant notes wavered in the wet air, lugubrious notes longdrawnout from the wide-open cathedral doors. They’re asleep in each other’s arms up there or in Belfast, sleeping off a night of love. Here or in Belfast, what does it matter? I hurried home under a lowering sky and bent my head against the rain. Outside the chemist’s I slipped on something and fell hard on one knee, rose, turned into Marlborough Terrace, limped, smelt the shit, limped and felt no pain. They were singing another hymn to Mary now and their voices followed me from the cathedral to the house and they didn’t stop till I slammed the front door.
O Mother I could weep for mirth
Joy fills my heart so fast.
My soul today is heaven on earth —
O would this transport last.
“Would you look at you, you’re wringing,” Mammy said. “What were you doing out there anyway without a coat? And what are you looking at me like that for? What did I do?”
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The Wake - Table of contents
HumorTHE YEAR is 1968 and the Swinging Sixties are still swinging - though not in Ireland. But wait! An old woman dies in a northern Irish town and her wake becomes a rendezvous for lesbians, bisexuals and political revolutionaries. And in there among t...
