Dammerung

Next morning he got up at about two and went to get the paper. It didn't make such happy reading. Though it was far too early for any of them to have got wind of what he’d been up to the night before, there was plenty of sniping towards his party from all ends of the political spectrum. The inexorable, kinetic inevitability of a fragmented Irish left depressed him even more, knowing that those on that end of the political spectrum were doomed, as if by some curse a Shaman left on their ancestors millennia ago, to fight with each other, while the right engineered a cosy, mutual back-scratching arrangement between the union leaders and the private sector, a group which sounded like a group of aliens from Star Trek, which is what Seamus often suspected they were. In a better mood, Seamus would have rationalised that it takes a worried bird to sing a worried song, that his party wouldn’t be drawing such negative comments from all quarters if they weren't a genuine threat to the apple cart, and that all the negative publicity would only feed their image as outlaws in the political system. But Seamus wasn't in a better mood, he was in a worse mood than he’d been since days he wanted to forget forever.
He spent a couple of hours reading the paper, more to hasten the moment those dark clouds would start to depart than out of any humanistic desire for information about what was going on in the world. Then he started to cook dinner with the same desultory late-Beckett-play near-stasis that characterised the rest of this dark day in his life. The sort of grey half-light that characterised late summer evenings struggled to illuminate his house, yet it seemed profligate to put the light on, so he claudictated around in what our German friends call the dammerung, or so he’d been led to believe. He wasn't keeping that hawkish an eye on what quantities he was using, so he made far too much and struggled to eat it all, a fact compounded by the fact that he hadn't recovered from the dehydration of the night before and was drinking no end of fruit juice. Bloatedly, he staggered over to the bedroom and shambled around for some music to ease him into a gentle somnolence. Because it was a warm summers evening and the air was more dispersed... or something... he could hear kids playing in the distance and had to turn his stereo up almost to full blast, causing the sort of distortion in his woofers that almost sounded like a warning from the hi-fi gods that he was damaging his ears. I spent my first few days in an incubator, he would have told them if they weren't made-up. In a more sprightly mood he would have painted pictures in his head of what the hi-fi gods would look like if they did exist, but...
It wasn't long before he was back asleep, not being woken till a few hours later when a very loud group of Northsiders passed his house on the way into town. It seemed selfish of them to not all want a night in just like himself, regardless of how mellow the weather was outside. He lay in bed for a few minutes wondering what the hell to do, knowing that doing almost anything would make him feel worse. Leaving the house would make him more tired, watching TV or reading or listening to music would give him a headache, going back to sleep would make him even groggier the next morning. Nobody told him there’d be days like these, mainly because E wasn't commonly available when he was a teenager and anyway, his parents tended to lump all illegal narcotics into one all-embracing ‘drugs’ category and telling him what the negative effects of E were would have been a dangerous concession to the seditious notion that all illegal drugs weren't equally bad.
Seeing a spot of TV as being the lesser of the three or four evils I outlined, he searched around for his remote control, which he eventually found under his blankets. In the Kafka-world he’d gotten sucked into, the first thing he came across was a documentary about how IRA prisoners who’d been freed under the Good Friday agreement a few years back were moving across the border and into the burgeoning narcotics trade. This meant another set of accusations he’d have to deny, he’d say that this was a pretty miserable excuse for the government for their inept handling of law and order, that the drug dealers were just following the same laws of supply and demand that the government exalted, and, if he was allowed, he’d argue that legalising drugs would solve the whole problem. But secretly the logic behind the characteristically poorly-produced RTE programme had a platonic symmetry that seemed ineluctable to him, and that the drug which was now dragging him down into a pit of despair might indirectly be indirectly paying for his passage to the heights of Leinster House.
He slept well that night, free from any of the horrors that used to attend his alcohol hangovers, but he faced a Herculean struggle to get out of bed the next morning. He knew that, as the election drew nearer, Caomhin’s patience would wear thinner so this would be a good time to make an effort to get up earlier. But the despair was dragging him down like some umbilical lasso. Would anyone else think of the effort it took to get out of bed in such Homeric, CuChullian saga terms? Probably not, he suspected, even Leopold Bloom rose at an early hour. Beckett, maybe, but in today’s race-to-the-bottom culture “My battle with the bed-quilts” didn't seem to have the same tabloid sensation value as other people’s battle with drugs or booze.
When he did get to the office, Caomhin was angry, not because Seamus was so fucking late, but because he too had been watching that documentary the night before. Seamus noted, though, that Caomhin didn't seem to have that many issues with the facts, but with the timing.
“Three fucking weeks before the election. There’re going to call it either tomorrow or Wednesday, and they put that show on last night. This isn't a democracy, it’s a fucking single party dictatorship, everything’s so fucking sewn up...”
“Well, that’s what we’ll be telling them on the doorsteps, anyway.” Seamus was used to being the yin to Caomhin’s yang but the drug hangover had somewhat diminished his capacity to moderate his anger.
When Caomhin was finished pontificating, he asked Seamus how that rave went the other night.
“Pretty good. I’m still a bit wrecked, actually.” That was probably the understatement of the millennium, so far at least. “But where’re we off to, today”, he added, trying forlornly to sound enthusiastic.
“We’re not going anywhere ‘till we decide how to respond to that documentary.”
Seamus seemed a bit surprised that they weren't just going to spout whatever the party line was, but it turned out that Caomhin had been on the phones all of the night before and the morning, and on the internet, trying to find out what he was supposed to say. It reminded Seamus, for all the world, of his old, hyperkinetic religion teacher who’d changed her position on life support machines after she’d consulted her book of Christian doctrine. To Seamus’ own surprise, he was remarkably forthcoming on rationalisations, though he kept the drug-legalisation thing on the back burner.
“Hmmm, yeah... propaganda, shift the blame to them, scapegoating... that might work. D’you know, Seamus, I think you might be getting good at this.” Seamus made the titanic effort necessary to smile in response. Caomhin, who looked like he didn't fancy any more time on the phone or on the net thought some of the new middle-class areas in the Northside, Glanmire, Ballyvolane and Strawberry Hill would be good places to test out Seamus’ theories.
They got back in the car. He didn't say much as they meandered around the streets, just stared at pedestrians to see how the whole face-recognition thing was going. Funny how, once we got on the road, we started categorising people as motorists, cyclists and pedestrians, as if they made some evolutionary leap when they put some rubber and steel between themselves and the Earth, not to mention the concrete and the subterranean network of drains and power cables... when he looked in the dreaded rear-view mirror he realised what a pale shadow of the face in the posters he’d become, and hoped that the magnanimous denizens of the Northside would attribute his bleary-eyed somnolence to having stayed up late reading about history, politics and the like, and not consuming the same drugs he was going to have to condemn for the rest of the day.
While they were on the road, Caomhin’s mobile went off. He paranoically looked around to make sure there were no cops around, then answered. Seamus heard him say something like the following:
“The increase in drugs consumption has got nothing to do with freed IRA prisoners. It’s got everything to do with the rapid increase in disposable income, with poor education, with a lack of alternative sources of recreation, with a deeper malaise. It’s cynical, and if I may say so, politically opportunistic to blame Sinn Fein in any way, especially as we’ve done more than any other party to prevent the spread of hard drugs.” Pretty much what Seamus had said to him earlier. Seamus asked who he’d been saying this to.
“Oh, a radio station.”
“Which one?”
The look on Caomhin’s face indicated that it was that radio station.
“So why didn't you let me answer?”
“Well... why should I have?”, he replied, sounding a little puerile and evasive.
“Because you were repeating all my ideas, and they’re going to be credited to ‘a Sinn Fein source’ instead of to me, and it’s going to increase people’s perception that I’m just some pretty boy himbo who’s not really in the loop which is going to increase people’s alienation with the political process which is only going to benefit the existing parties.”
“Yeah well... after what happened on that radio show a few weeks ago, I’ve got to distance myself from you in public, especially on this station.”
Seamus realised that that was probably the pragmatic truth, and seethed quietly in the realisation of what a dirty business he’d gotten himself into.
He didn't say another word till they were in Glanmire, possibly the leafiest suburb in Cork. He should have been all wound up like a prizefighter, waiting to take all the little jabs about being a terrorist or a drug dealer and then land a knockout blow about how stitched up the political process was in response. Yet, whaddya know, folks, his lethargy actually worked to his advantage, accentuating the middle class-ness that was probably his principal asset. Another time in his life he’d worked on a building site and had kept his job by not laughing at his foreman’s weird speech defect, as his fellow summer-jobbing student had. Here, his depression was again mistaken for deference, his reticence for a willingness to listen. Which he did, though every word about how corrupt his party was struck him on the head like an economy-sized bag of peas that had been left in the freezer too long. Yet he’d just respond with dignity, giving them his theory about how undemocratically sewn up the media was, how the real criminals were all in the government, and people would draw back apologetically, almost guiltily. After doing a couple of terraces, Caomhin decided he needed a fag, which is what many people thought Seamus might have been, and as he took a deep inhalation of it’s poisonous, carcinogenic, death-dealing fumes, he asked Seamus how this latest tactic came about. Seamus genuinely didn't know what he was talking about.
“Y’know, this whole patient, mild-mannered thing.”
“I think it’s just the way I am”, Seamus replied, a bit Bemusedly.
“You weren't that way on the radio a few weeks back”, Caomhin offered in response.
“Yeah, well, that Fianna Fail scumbag brought out the worst in me. These are just decent people who’re naive enough to believe everything the media tells them.” As this was coming out Seamus was reflecting the irony of his condescension to these ‘decent’ people who earned a lot more than he did and who’s jobs he’d probably never be able to do. They were probably intelligent enough to realise that they were being lied to, but had made an accommodation with themselves to accept the prevailing social order. Seamus, who knew all about making accommodations, reflected as well that he’d probably perfected this meek, unfairly-harassed persona when dealing with people from the social welfare department, although, to be fair this version of himself wasn't all that far removed from the real Seamus, whatever that was. Caomhin looked a bit worried, though, suspecting that Seamus could come to the end of his tether at any point, and lose all the kudos he’d gained in this gossipy, community-spirited part of the world. But politics wasn't like consumerism, he couldn’t slap any label on himself that said he was 99% outburst-free and expect people to put him in their shopping baskets. So they went nervously back to the doors, Caomhin watching nervously to try to discern if Seamus’ tether remained intact. Yet, paradoxically, the jitteriness that ensued as a result only made Seamus look calmer. When they finally decided to call it a day, Caomhin told Seamus how impressed he was that Seamus was able to deal with all this abuse, especially as he had nothing to do with any of the things he was being accused of.
“I’m used to it. After my father died my mother projected all of her anger onto me, blamed me for all her troubles, like she used to do to him. At school my teachers used to take out their frustration at not having some sexy, well-paid job on me. My ex-girlfriend used to blame me because she’d pegged me as being her soul-mate and somehow figured that it was my fault that I wasn't all she expected me to be.”
Caomhin paused for a while, not quite sure how to respond to this piece of heart-opening. “Y’know, it’s probably not all that good to carry all that anger around with you.”, he eventually averred.
“Yeah, I know, but I’m working on it, moshing to loud music and watching violent movies, going to protests... it all helps to get the anger out of my system. If I get elected I can take out plenty of anger on Fianna Fail in the Dail, I hope.”
Caomhin felt he’d gotten to know Seamus a bit better, and he had, but there were a few layers of the onion to peel back yet, and he was lucky if he was ever going to get to the level of intimacy with Seamus that you, dear, fortunate, Olympian, omniscient, aloof, detached reader have thrown in your cosseted, pampered lap.
For example, Caomhin would at best get a second-hand, hearsay account of what happened when Seamus got back to Grainne’s place half an hour or so later, jaded, melancholy, having soaked up other people’s anger the way a piece of tissue paper soaks up the fat on a greasy frying pan. Though it struck him as misogyinstic, he sort of looked forward to coming home to her warm, maternal, in an idealised, platonic way, embrace. But this, as if you needed to be told, wasn't what he found.

She’d left the door open, not, he supposed, to let Diamuid in whenever his youthful peregrinations drew to a close, but to let Seamus himself in. This wasn't her usual practice, so he immediately became suspicious. Just as he was pushing the door open, it occurred to him that there might have been a robbery or something and she could be held at gunpoint... he convinced himself that his mind was running away with itself and that he had nothing to fear by going in. As he tentatively climbed the stairs, he started to hear whispering of that distinctive, surreptitious female type. He pushed the door open and saw Grainne lying there with Jenny.

He hadn't seen this coming. A blizzard of disparate, discordant thoughts ran through his head. Did Grainne knew what had gone on between Seamus and Jenny a few nights before? Did they want him to see him there? It had been set up pretty obviously that way. Were they announcing that she was really a lesbian or were they were inviting him to join some bisexual threesome? He tried, unconvincingly, to seem unfazed.
“Hey Grainne, hey Jenny, I didn't realised you’d become such good friends.”
They giggled like girls at a teenage slumber party.
“Do you mind if I come and join you?”
They looked at each other and, with that intra-female telepathy that always freaked him out so much, they decided to part like the Red Sea and make a space for him to lie down. In response he took his shoes off, in an awkward way that made them feel like they were in control of the situation, as if they hadn't been before. He climbed over Jenny, who was sitting on the outside, and turned, first, towards Grainne. He’d gotten into a habit of listening to what others had to say, and though he had just as much explaining to do as her, he let her make the first move.
“So have you recovered from that E yet? I heard it was strong stuff, a Mitsubishi.” Seamus looked over at Jenny, to see if there was any indication that she’d told her how it’d been administered. She grinned coyly, suggesting she had. He looked back over at Grainne who didn't seem all that angry. What had caused this new level of tolerance? The answer was pretty clear, though they’d have to go through some conversational formalities before he could get any sort of clarification.
“Well, I felt a little down yesterday, but I’m starting to recover.”
“I bet you wish you’d never swallowed that E now”, she averred, and Seamus noted that the verb wasn't ‘took’ or anything else that suggested intentionally.
“Well, maybe it’ll all work out for the best”, he replied, looking over at Jenny, as if trying to find out exactly what had gone on between them. Yet they both remained coy, even a little smug in the knowledge that he was so eager to find out what each of them had found out about him from the other. But he sensed also that Jenny had been holding something back, something she could possibly use as leverage against him if she needed to. But then, if you needed advice about dealing with the wiles of the fairer sex, then Seamus wouldn’t be the best person to turn to. He realised this himself, and decided to forget about who knew what about who and just take some pleasure in the fact that he was sharing a bed with two nubile young women. It hadn't happened to him before after all, and it might not happen again. But the wretched problem of who to make advances towards first raised it’s ugly head. Stoically, he took this challenge as a sort of practice run for when he was in the Dail, being forced to mediate between the desires of his constituency and the responsibilities of office that he’d heard all about, more in civics class in school than in the real world.
So he turned round and slithered down through the bedsheets, drew both of their bodies together in a sort of Pieta embrace, in which he seemed almost prostrate before their supple forms. He caressed their bodies symmetrically, touching the outsides of their bodies gently with his fingertips while rubbing his chin along the cleavage between their two bodies. He didn't know where he chanced upon this technique, a half-remembered porn movie, perhaps, or just an instinctive recognition that he had two arms and was with two women. Yet when he looked up and saw the looks in their faces, he knew it was working. He didn't think about the consequences of this being anything other than a one-evening stand, his life being complicated enough already. In the back of his mind he knew that these two women had more issues between them than the London Times, but right now the only issue was who he should kiss first. Diplomatically, he put his fingertips in Jenny’s mouth, but then pressed his lips to Grainne’s, but then reversed this process almost instantaneously. He did this with every other piece of adduction in his amorous vocabulary, which by now was quite extensive, yet, though he could sense them both deriving equal pleasure from this, it actually became tedious after a while to have to repeat every single gesture over and over again, just for the sake of being diplomatic. After a while, he stopped, sat up, and made the following stammering, diffident, rationalisation.
“Y’know, I don't know what either of you have told each other about me, but I really love Grainne. She’s the one that really matters to me. If she want’s to have a lesbian affair with you, then, if that’s what makes her happy, then that’s cool, and if you want to have a threesome with me, that’s... even cooler, as long as you both realise that Grainne is the special woman in my life.”
Seamus took a deep breath, they both looked over at each other for about two seconds, and then started laughing uproariously. Seamus felt a bit offended by this reaction, and asked what it was all about.
“It’s about you being so serious, Seamus”, replied Grainne. “You’re in bed with two hot chicks - you do think we’re both hot, dontcha?” Seamus looked at her flirtatious smile and wondered what sort of Pandora’s box he’d opened up when he reawakened her dormant sexuality, if that was indeed what happened. The thought flashed across his mind that she was doing all this just because she knew that he was keeping so much from her and she wanted to look as though she had other, hidden, dimensions to her self as well, in which case Jenny would just be an unwitting pawn in their head-fucking game. But he only replied that he thought they were, indeed, both hot.
“Then just let yourself enjoy being with both of us.”
“Were you enjoying being with each other before I came in?”
Again, they looked at each other before saying that they were.
“And are you going to enjoy each other’s company in the same way again?”
They silently sought out each other’s opinion before they nodded and then said yeah, probably.
Without wanting to think too much about the repercussions of this statement, he asked if either of them would get jealous if he gave more attention to the other. They both looked at him a bit askance, Jenny suspecting, probably, that he was like this because he coming down from E, while Grainne had known him long enough to know he was always like this, never able to really enjoy himself, even in the sort of situation he had fantasised about quite a few times. Again it was Grainne that replied, that he should just do whatever made him happy himself, but, though the answer was platitudinous, it was Jenny’s continued silence that troubled him more; signalling as it did that Grainne was positioning herself in the centre of their nascent bisexual menage-a-trois. She was in a position to do this, of course, as Seamus was extremely busy and Jenny was still living at home with her parents. Seamus, of course, also had his own pad, but he knew that he’d have to bring Jenny there clandestinely, and he had enough secrecy in his life already. So he decided that these would be the only occasions on which he’d get to see Jenny in future, while he’d often get to see Grainne on her own. So if he was going to penetrate anyone tonight, it would be Jenny. He wasn't going to say why, not until he was with Grainne on her own.
He started to caress them both again, and in spite of the neurosis that this new, complex set of entanglements entailed, he soon became throbbingly, pulsatingly tumescent again. When it was time to share the benefits of this development with one of these two fine young women, he thought in his selfless, altruistic, non-narcissistic way, he gave Grainne a look that suggested that he knew what he was doing and that he’d explain some time in private. Then he turned over to Jenny and asked if she’d brought any condoms with her. She shook her head in a way that suggested that she hadn't, but that she was flattered to be the one to be asked. Grainne leant into the press by her drawer and nonchalantly took one out and handed it to him. Before they did anything, Seamus climbed over Grainne so that she was in the centre, and they both kissed and caressed her, each trying to replicate the other’s movements. Grainne gave a look that suggested that she was enjoying this so much that she was happy to pass on the baton, as it were, to Jenny. So Seamus clambered back over her and fucked Jenny.
In the early, tentative stages of intercourse, he kept caressing Grainne with one hand, but as it grew in intensity he concentrated all his energy on Jenny. Yet even as she was starting to moan, he kept looking at her as if to thank her for letting him fuck another woman in her bed, while she was watching; after all, not all girlfriends would allow that. After he came, he lie, aspiring, spread-eagled between both of them, one arm lying over one of each of their bodies. Then he kissed them both. When he recovered his composure, a really awkward moment came, even by the standards of this evening. He was hoping that Jenny would go home so that he and Grainne could discuss what happened. Yet the sense he got from both of them was that they wanted to discuss what happened between themselves before Seamus would be allowed to voice his opinion. He wasn't in much of a position to challenge this, so he meekly got up and told them he was going. They both waved goodbye in a way that suggested they were either eager to get rid of him, whether to talk about what they’d just done or to get back to the sapphic bliss they were enjoying before he came he was Heisenbergingly uncertain. For a brief moment he entertained the notion of making some going-down-the-stairs noises and then sneaking back up silently and putting his ear to the door in a way he did more than once in a student place he’d rather forget about, thank you very much, but he thought of how embarrassing it would be if Diarmuid came home or if one of his ostensibly bisexual belles needed to go up and go to the bathroom, and thought better of it.
As he cycled home he decided to adopt a stoical attitude; that he was really only using Grainne as a sort of reality principle in his increasingly weird life, that neither of them really knew each other, that if she left him for Jenny then he’d easily find someone else if he got elected, if not, he’d be right back where he started, man thou art dust and to dust thou wilt return. But what if he’d had that attitude when the cops let the Cunt go free? He’d be living in a dark, Stygian world where the Cunt still existed. Yet he still reasoned that this was the best course of action. What happened those original Greek Stoics, by the way? Did they all have steel-clad Roman soldiers burst into their homes and brand the word pedagogue on their foreheads with a scalding hot iron and take them back to Rome and force them to teach spoilt Roman rich kids who could get them beheaded if they wanted and live on bits of unleavened bread while their masters had seven-course feasts and say ‘Oh well, shit happens’? He could google, but, as with many things, he preferred his own speculations to the truth. He must have cycled through a few red lights while he was thinking all this stuff, but he just sort of glided home as if on some Turkish carpet or guided by some personal cycling god.
He slept well that night, ‘well’ in the sense of ‘for a long time’ rather than free from oneiric torment. He dreamt of rats, if you must know, fucking hundreds of them, running around like in that unsubtle Nazi propaganda film Jud Suss. But these weren't like normal rats. They didn't have the same eyes as normal rats, furtive and alert. They were piercing and penetrative, they seemed motivated by a genuine hatred of humans rather than by a visceral survival instinct. Their faces, too were human, he noticed as they crawled through the holes in his walls, up onto his bed, like another humanoid invader that had once invaded his house...
He woke with a start from this Stygian hellhole of the mind, looked up and saw that his clock would thrice have done salutation to the morn, if it was a talking clock. He pieced together his dream in his usual Sherlock way, and then with his unquenchable spirit of philosophical inquiry, he tried to figure out what it meant. It made sense in a sort of Manichean way, at least in the way Robert Mitchum would have understood the concept in Night of the Hunter. The Cunt was dead, his blood fertilising the Earth, but the spirit of his evil remained in the universe, it would always be there, necessary for good to have something to define itself against. But Seamus didn't believe in any of this shit, did he? Certainly he didn't really believe in the notion of evil before he encountered the Cunt and the Nazi, but could they have changed his perception of human behaviour that radically? Or was this belief always there, in his subconscious, a Jungian folk Catholicism that would fester there like the stuff in the bottom of his freezer that he’d never be able to get rid of? If it was, how would it affect him as a politician? He might find it easy to muster some genuine moral indignation towards the government, some of whose actions could only be understood in Manichean terms, but how would if affect his own ability to defend some of the actions of his own party to some people?
And why was his mind picking on rats? They’d never done anything to hurt him. They weren't evil, they were morally neutral, like any other non-human animals, or at least Seamus believed in his conscious mind. Yet when this was switched off, as it was more than it was for a lot of people, the dark fears grew again, like mould on bread that had been left too long, fears of other races, other species, fear of the violent part of himself that he’d allowed free rein a while back. Then he had another one of his epiphanies, which he seemed to get more frequently than headaches these days. People who hated Sinn Fein, like his mother, really hated a part of themselves, and projected this hatred, not onto a racial other, as many people did, but onto a dissident element in their own society. It was no coincidence that the P.D.s, the party that wanted us all to work endlessly and live lives of quiet desperation smothered by endless consumer goods, were the party that were most visceral in their condemnation of Sinn Fein’s alleged hypocrisy, duplicity, etc. He lay in bed thinking about this for about three hours, as he’d once thought about Ginsberg’s line “Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb”, the night before an exam. He was eager to discuss this theory with Caomhin, and only a little afraid that he’d already figured that out twenty or thirty years before, that he’d laugh at him condescendingly as if at a naive young poet in a Thomas Mann kunstleroman. But he’d be able to deal with this, he’d been through much worse, he wasn't some hypersensitive, preening, fin-de-siecle bourgeois German merchants son trying to express eternal verities in a way that none of his elders had done, he was someone who lived in the real world, who knew that life itself was more precious than his own aspirations to immortality. But he knew he’d have to get back to sleep if he was ever to communicate any of these things to Caomhin. It did, eventually, though, once again, it was really late before he got there.
It was a bright, mild summer’s day with the sort of sharp, salient sunshine that Seamus had only ever seen in Ireland. Though he had almost recovered from his E hangover, he had a whole new set of preoccupation’s as they journeyed through Blackpool, an area which was fast becoming the Harlem of Cork, much to the disdain of the Fianna Fail man that had been on the receiving end of Seamus’ outburst. He had plenty of supporters, to whom Seamus would have to say deeply dishonest, disingenuous things if he was going to compete for their votes or their transfers. But he was being deeply dishonest to himself just by being there when politics were the furthest thing from his mind, so that shouldn’t be too much of a problem. Trouble was, they just had a dated electoral register to go on, and inevitably they’d find African immigrants answering the door. It would have been his instinct to talk to them, listen to their concerns, and encourage them to try and get on the register if and when they became citizens. But he knew how like a village Blackpool was and that if he was seen talking to any of them the word would get round among some of Sinn Fein’s more traditional, little Irelander supporters. So when he and Caomhin did come across African families, they told them they’d support them and left it at that. Many of them, he noticed, were living in houses built in the immediate post-famine years, and he wondered how many of them knew that this affluent utopia they were making a new life for themselves in was too, once ravaged by famine, that these houses were once inhabited by starving waifs, forced to flee from their stone huts to these hastily built brick urban terraces, deracinated, starving and white? If he’d stopped to talk to them, he’d probably be pleasantly surprised, but like I said, this wasn't an option. If they did bring in US or Australian style citizenship tests, it would be long before the average Afro-Irishman knew more about the country’s history than the natives.
By now the main parties had followed Sinn Fein’s lead in postering, though they had much bigger budgets and glossier, more colourful signs. Fianna Fail seemed to have bought up all the billboards in the Northside and plastered their esteemed leaders face to them. Seamus was tempted to draw Hitler moustaches or something of that general ilk, but, once again, didn't want to be seen, getting a taste of what the responsibilities of office might be like, but he hoped some culture jammers from the Cork peace Alliance, some of whom were erstwhile friends of his, might fulfil this role for him.
Sadly for Seamus, it felt like he was in that old British TV play Vote, vote vote for Nigel Barton, with householder after householder asking him what they were going to do about the darkies, except they weren't called ‘darkies’, they were ‘refugees’, ‘foreign nationals’, or just immigrants, or something equally politically correct, which must have made them feel so much better, Seamus reflected sardonically. Before Ireland had taken her place among the rich nations of the world, Seamus was one of those people who took comfort in the delusion that there was no racism in the country, but it was for the same reason that the Ulster Protestant in the Nestor chapter of Ulysses argued there was no anti-Semitism; “we never let them in.” He hadn't really thought out his approach all that well, if he was a bit younger, and his faith in human nature was a bit more intact, he might have gone for a Do the Right Thing approach, pointing out that all their children were listening to MOBO, that there were players of African origin in their favourite soccer teams, or if he was really confident of their humanity, that we were all of African origin. And who knows, they might have respected his bravery in confronting them, maybe even listened to his ideas. But instead he played it safe, said he understood their concerns, etc., etc., before going into an anti-British spiel that he knew would play well with them. He was almost waiting for a cock to crow for the immigrants he felt he betrayed, but they never got more than a few caws from the crows that made the phone lines their homes, these victims of religion and history, people who events happened to rather than the other way around. But then there are those of us who believe that even Jesus was just a product of historical forces, and Seamus himself wouldn’t be doing this if Thatcherism hadn't shat those two English scumbags onto his native isle. He never liked the idea of historical determinism, contrary as it was to all the beliefs he cherished, but like evolutionary biology, it’s inexorable logic held him in awe like a deer before headlights.
By the end of the day he’d told so many lies to so many people that he was going to have to tell some truths to make some effort at karmic balance. As they were getting back into the car, and Caomhin asked if he wanted to be dropped of at Grainne’s place. He told her he’d have to ring her first and then added, hesitantly, “I think she’s bisexual.”
Caomhin stopped what he was doing and stared at Seamus for a few seconds, whether in shock or wondering why Seamus had chosen such a spectacularly inappropriate time and place to share this with him, Seamus didn't really know. He suspected it may be the latter, and tried to compensate by telling him he’d only found out the night before and had been with him all day and really needed to get it off his chest, which elicited a slightly more sympathetic look from Caomhin.
“You did seem a little preoccupied all day. But, y’know, Seamus, there’s people in politics who’re gay, who’re into all sorts of weird fetishes and stuff, but when they’re at work they just get on with the job. Do you think you can do the same?”
“I’ll try”, replied Seamus, as they got into the car, tentatively, trying not to wonder whose weird fetishes to which he might be referring.
As they drove, Seamus got his mobile from his pocket and rang Grainne, exchanging the usual pleasantries before asking if Jenny was there. It turned out that she wasn't and that Seamus was welcome to come up to her place for a chat and whatever. In a loaded reference to Red River, Seamus asked Caomhin to take him to Grainne’s place in his idea of a Texan accent. Caomhin didn't say much for the rest of the journey, Seamus kind of admired him for not offering any advice about how to deal with her, as most older people would have felt compelled to do. The conviction that this was something he would just have to work out for himself was something he would have clung tenaciously to in any case.
When they finally got to Grainne’s place Caomhin just told Seamus to try and get up a bit earlier the following morning. Seamus just smiled, noncommittally as he walked tentatively up to her door. She took a while to reply, suggesting that she, too was nervous about meeting him. She greeted him, not with the passionate embraces that characterised the early stages of their relationship, but with a coy, slightly embarrassed smile.
“So”, began Seamus, as he was led into the living room, where Grainne reached for the remote control to turn down the TV, “How’d it go after I left last night?”
“Oh, uh, pretty well, I guess”, she replied in a tone that was equally nervous, but in a way that seemed a little contrived, as if she was just acting nervously to make Seamus feel more at ease with himself. She sat silently on the couch for a couple of seconds, then told Seamus that she’d feel better if they went up to the bedroom. Hastily, she picked up the remote and switched the TV off, beckoned Seamus upstairs.
“Are you afraid...”
“That Diarmuid might come in? Yeah, that’s it”, she replied as she rushed upstairs. It was funny, but Diarmuid, who’d been such a catalyst in the early part of their relationship, had become an invisible, almost spectral presence, Seamus’ image of him being reduced to a composite of increasingly distant memories and the photos that were sprinkled round the house. Of course it was for his own benefit that he was allowed to roam free, cut loose from parental responsibility. But was it always thus? Were all the hundreds of kids he saw hanging round in street corners there because their parents wanted to be free to conduct illicit affairs? He doubted it, most of them lived in small houses and just wanted to watch Coronation Street in peace. It was probably his bourgeois prejudices guiding him here, but no amount of watching British working class soap operas could convince him that most proles led lives of anything other than quiet desperation, and if it wasn't quiet enough they could always get some valium or SSRIs.
When they got to the bedroom Grainne didn't lie down seductively like she used to, just sat on the side of the bed and invited Seamus to join her. He did, but neither of them seemed to know what to say to each other.
“So it went OK with Jenny last night, then?”, began Seamus in an attempt to end the uncomfortable silence, though he cursed himself when he realised he’d already asked that question.
“Yeah, pretty well, I s’pose”, she replied, looking briefly over towards him.
“So you’ll be seeing her again, then?”
“Yeah, and... she wants to see you again as well.”
“Um, that’s good, I s’pose”, he said, diffidently, and then added “as long as it’s alright with you, that is.”
“Well, I guess what’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander.”
Seamus giggled a little, knowing he’d often have to fall back on clichés like this if he ever got elected, and, feeling the tension had been eased a little, asked her if she thought she was bisexual. She took a deep breath and replied,
“I should really know whether I am or not by now, I s’pose, but then I was scared of my sexuality for so long, I may as well be a twenty-one year old. I guess it could be a phase I’m going through, maybe on some sort of deep level I might not be reconciled with being with a man.”
Feeling that this was a ball he could run with, Seamus started to go into one of his spiels, one that could keep the wolf of silence from the door, at least for a while.
“Y’know, you might have heard this line before, but I think I might be a lesbian trapped inside a man’s body. I really admire the way you can all admire each other’s beauty, without anyone thinking you might be gay. We can’t do that, we’re all so insecure and afraid of what we think of each other, we just need to sublimate by talking about guy stuff like politics and football. And women, of course. That’s why part of me would rather be a woman, you can talk about the things that really matter to you.”
“So... do you find men attractive yourself, in any way?” she edged a little closer, beginning to stroke his face, as she asked this. Seamus feeling that they were bonding in a way that they hadn't before, decided to share something with her that he’d done with no other woman.
“Well, generally I only find chicks attractive, but... sometimes when I see a really toned, muscular, guy I...”
He broke for a few seconds, then she impatiently asked “You What?”
“I... get a hard-on, BUT... I think that’s more because when you get to a certain stage of muscularity your body actually becomes feminised, your pectorals start to resemble breasts, apparently your testicles shrink and you’re voice becomes more high-pitched as well.”
Grainne looked at him in a mixture of pleasant surprise and horror, while he thought his own recent flirtation with weights might be as much to do with auto-eroticism as a desire to look ‘alpha’.
“So you’re bisexual too? I don't believe it.” She lay back on the bed, as if needing some space to figure out how to respond to this new development. Wanting to set matters right, Seamus turned around and leant over her, saying,
“I don't think I’m bisexual. I find the idea of sticking my dick in a man’s hairy ass really repugnant. And even if I didn't, I don't think I’d want to act on right now anyway. My life is way too complicated already at the moment.”
“Yeah...”, she responded, “this has all come at an awkward time for you, hasn’t it?”
“Yeah, but I’ve only got myself to blame. I was the one who made you come to that rave. But... tell me... did you tell Jenny what I do?, ‘cause I don't think I did myself.”
“No, she didn't seem too bothered, but, I guess it might be an issue, ‘cause if you get elected you’ll want to move to Dublin and...”
“Bring you and Diarmuid? Yeah, that’s still what I want. Have you discussed this with Diarmuid, by the way?”
She took a deep breath and rubbed her temples, which Seamus took as a ‘no’, or at best as an ‘I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. Then she shook her head in confirmation, and asked, thinking aloud, if, if and when he got elected, he could employ Jenny as a maid or something.
Seamus almost choked in shock, but he saw a look on Grainne’s face that suggested that she knew she’d said something stupid as he told her what a creepy power dynamic that might create. But he felt a responsibility towards Jenny, and started to think he might be able to swing something for her, if the time came. Then he added,
“I’ll probably know in the next few days what my future’ll be. There’ll be an opinion poll in the Echo in the next few days, and after that we can start making plans.” Seamus reflected on the irony of this statement, that the voters of Cork’s Northside had such leverage over the lives of at least four people, and, by extension, all the people around them. But he detected a tense look on her face that suggested that she was at least as eager for him to do well in the poll as he was. But then, he reflected sanguinely, that if the poll proved his hopes of getting elected to be a delusional fantasy, then Jenny might prove to be the gel that held them together. He wasn't really sure what he’d do with the rest of his life in those circumstances, perhaps write a book about his crazy experiences over the last few months, and hope some publisher would be kind enough to consider it for publication. In that case, he’d need at least one muse. But he felt he needed to lighten the mood, and asked, How d’you think I’ll do?”
“Well, nobody polled me for my opinion, so I don't really know.”
(Awkward silence)
“So when are you going to see Jenny again?”
“Well, I could invite her around now, if you want.”
Seamus shuddered a little and asked, “Really?”
“Yeah, I told her I’d ring her some time tonight, but that I needed to talk to you first. So should I ring her?”
Seamus just thought he’d go with the flow and say yes.
“She’ll be over in half an hour.” His reverie was broken, and he took a few seconds to ask what they were going to do while they were waiting. The first thing he’d have to do, she told him peremptorily, would be to leave the latch open on the door. Dutifully, he went downstairs to do just that. Then he went back upstairs, and having dispensed with the talking-bit of the movie, they started to make love. It had reached such a pitch of intensity half an hour later that they didn't hear Jenny coming and found the positions from the night before altered, though Jenny didn't look nearly as embarrassed as Seamus did last night.
She looked sexier than ever, at least to Seamus, who’d never been clear about what it was that lesbians looked for in other women, wearing a short denim skirt and a pair of osteoporogenic high heels. Her midriff was bare, exposing her firm waist and a navel-ring that Seamus had never noticed before. She looked down at Seamus and Grainne, only in a physical sense of course, and asked them if they’d gotten everything ironed out. Grainne, eager to maintain her dominant position in the menage, said “Yeah, yeah, well, almost, anyway, come on, join us”, and raised the blankets to let her in, which, again, placed her in the centre. She faced Jenny and asked whether at any stage Seamus had told her what he did with himself.
Jenny looked over Grainne at Seamus and then told her that she recalled something about his face being well known or something. Grainne laughed, looking over her shoulder at Seamus and said that he’d had some troubles with non-recognition lately, which sent him into a not-entirely-ironic sulk.
“He’s a politician”, she clarified. He’s standing for the election in three weeks time. If he gets elected he’s going to have to move to Dublin. If he does then I’m probably going to move with him.”
Jenny took a couple of seconds to assimilate this, then asked, “What if he doesn’t?”
Grainne took a deep breath, and said that he was so focused on winning that he hadn't considered the possibility of failure. It might have worked if Seamus had played along, but he hadn't been prepared for it and looked shocked at her faux-pomposity, which gave the game away.
“So, you don't really have any other plans then?”, Jenny asked, diffidently.
“No, we don’t really. But y’know, we’re getting on OK as it is, I have my job, he can probably get some job, if he did the dip he could probably teach...”
It didn't convince her, but she sort of preferred it that way, realising that like herself, Seamus and Grainne were leaves being blown in the wind by an arbitrary, aleatory fate. Then she asked why Seamus wasn't out there campaigning.
Seamus was about to answer but Grainne interrupted by saying that he’d been hard at work all day, as he had been for the last month, that he needed them just to maintain his sanity. Seamus couldn't really argue with that, though he would preffer to have been able to express it himself.
“So d’you think he’s got a good chance?”
Grainne peremptorily let Seamus field this one. He took a deep breath and said he was getting a good reception on the doorsteps, that there was one unfortunate incident but it seemed to work out for the best.
“What unfortunate incident was that, then?”
“I think you may have heard about it, actually. I told someone to go fuck himself on the radio.” Seamus looked over at her for some sign of recognition, but she only replied that she wasn't very political and didn't listen to the news that much.
“You must be a Fianna Failer then”, quipped Seamus. Grainne laughed politely, Jenny said that her parents were but she’d never registered to vote herself. Seamus cursed this piece of bad news like a Victorian cad in an old movie played by James Mason. Jenny just said sorry, politely, but that some of her friends were registered to vote. Then, almost as an afterthought, she asked what party he was standing for. Grainne, who was concerned about being sidelined, said it was Sinn Fein and asked Jenny what she thought of that.
“Like I say, I’m not really political”, she replied, diplomatically. In a different, more energetic mood Seamus would have told her that going to a rave and taking E was, in it’s way, a much bigger ‘Political’ statement than voting for most of the parties in this country, whose support had more to do with tribal allegiances than ideology. But he was in no such mood, so he just thanked her for her proxy support. Then Grainne leaned over towards Seamus and started stroking him as if to let him know that it was time to stop talking and begin the process of concupiscence. Uncharacteristically drawing back, he said that, actually, if it was OK with both of them, he was kind of tired and would prefer just to watch. The girls looked at each other, laughed nervously but then said, yeah, OK and tried to figure out a position in which they could do this comfortably. Eventually Seamus sat up against the bedstead while the other two put on a show for him. Without telling either of them, he’d made a pact with himself not to ejaculate until after the election was over, though he’d included an emergency clause which stated that if he couldn't get any sleep he’d make an exception. He wondered how different they would be if he wasn't watching, if some of their moves were calculated for his benefit. A lesbian he knew told him that many men just thought lesbians existed to embody their own kinky fantasies of girl-on-girl action. Of course Seamus didn't think that way, though as he watched Grainne and Jenny’s firm bodies press up against each other, watched them clench each other’s buttocks, rub each other’s bosom’s against each other, he got a frisson of a type that was totally different from that he got from being an active participant; he had no-one’s pleasure to think of but his own. Yet eventually they got tired, or became too self conscious, and asked Seamus to join. He told them of the promise he’d made himself, and they just looked at each other and laughed, and then Grainne realised he was serious and asked why he was doing this.
“Are you testing your ability to keep promises?”, she asked.
Seamus, who hadn't considered this angle, laughed and said he felt he needed to channel all his energy into campaigning .
“So what are you doing watching us, here, then?”
“I need inspiration. I need something to keep me going when I’m getting abuse when I go door-to-door.”
“Do you get a lot of abuse?”, interjected Jenny, a bit surprised. Seamus and Grainne laughed at her naiveté, then Seamus’ tone became more serious when he told her that his mother had completely cut him off since she found out about his candidacy. Jenny looked shocked, as if nothing like this had ever happened her, Grainne gave her wizened, been-there look, Jenny asked “how can you say that with such...?”
“Equanimity? I’ve been through a lot in my life, stuff you might not believe. I’ve always had a difficult relationship with my family...” Seamus looked in Grainne’s direction, but stopped short of telling Jenny that Grainne had too, leaving that matter to her. Jenny looked disillusioned, as if realising that she’d gotten a lot more baggage than she bargained for when she got into this threesome. But she felt compelled to keep the conversation going, and asked. “What other sort of abuse do you get?”
“Depends on what area I’m in. Some people treat me like a hero, to others I’m the sperm of Satan. I try to deal with it, to tell myself that this is the price you pay for representing something bigger than yourself. But sometimes I just get worn down. If I didn't have Grainne and now you, I probably would’ve given up a while ago.”
At first Grainne seemed gratified, but then seemed to start scanning her mind to see if he’d ever told her this by herself, then seemed to dismiss it as being unimportant. Then Seamus, who’d revealed so much of himself to Jenny, felt he deserved some sort of quid pro quo.
“So, tell us about yourself, Jenny. You seem like a tabula rasa.”
Jenny looked puzzled. “Blank slate”, said Seamus. Jenny didn't know whether to be insulted by this or not, just breathed deep and said,
“There’s not that much to tell, really. I finished school a year and a bit ago, I never liked it there. I got a job in a shop, I’m trying to save up money so I can go travelling somewhere.”
Seamus made a note of the fact that she wanted to leave the country, whereas Grainne had never placed much stock in travelling, but still felt a bit short-changed.
“C’mon Jenny, I really opened my heart to you there, I think I deserve something more in return. You must have some skeletons in your cupboard.”
She gave Seamus a strange look in response, and he realised the horrible truth, that she didn't know this was a metaphor. In a better mood, this would have been evidence to Seamus that she was a force of pure sexuality, uninhibited by any superfluous knowledge, as if she’d stepped out of a Thomas Hardy Novel. Right now it seemed like evidence for how shitty the Irish educational system was. He took a deep breath and asked, speaking slowly, if there were any secrets in her life that she only shared with people she was really close to.
She thought for a few seconds, then came out with “I do E”, which just made Seamus and Grainne laugh.
“Tell us something we don't know”, responded Seamus, after which Jenny became tetchy.
“Look, I’m only nineteen. I’ve had a really ordinary upbringing. I’ve never been anywhere, except on a few miserable fucking school tours. I still get on OK with my family, who never expected that much of me. I’m sorry I don't have any stories to entertain you with.”
This made Seamus feel a little guilty but he also suspected that she had something to hide, something that he wasn't going to get out of her that easily.
“I’m sorry, we just wanted to get to know you a bit better is all, right, Grainne?”
Grainne nodded, unenthusiastically. Seamus reflected that the dynamic of their relationship might look a little different to Jenny, who seemed to be acting like a petulant child, casting Seamus and Grainne in the role of parents. This made her assertion that she still got on OK with her real parents even more suspect in Seamus’ view. But if she was seeking father- and mother- figures, she could probably have done better than Seamus and Grainne, and she was probably realising that now, that the face that looked so aloof on all those posters hid the mind of a tortured, unfocussed, man-child.
By now Seamus’ erection had so comprehensively disappeared that his promise to himself would be kept for at least one more night. He decided it was time to home, and wasn't even all that bothered about what Grainne might tell Jenny about him in his absence. If she decided to leave them, that wouldn’t be so bad, his life was complicated enough already. His issues with his family, which he’d repressed quite well lately were coming back to the fore like some of the mice in his old flat. Though he had difficulty sleeping that night, he was too mentally fatigued to break his promise to himself.
Was it only tortured, anguished people who cared, he asked himself in a Socratic way and hoped for some answers back, but all he got was more questions. And could it have been any different? It was a brain he had behind his eyes, not a search engine. His guess, though, was that the answer was yes, that the people who had enough focus would concentrate their energies on spreading their seed, continuing their line, ensuring that their offspring would grow up to be rich and ambitious as well. But who was it said that an unexamined life was not worth living? What would that person make of the countless people who judged their lives purely in terms of their material worth, and not their values, their environmental impact, everything that Seamus considered important? Examining them from the outside, as he believed he was doing, Seamus saw them as agents of entropy, filling the world up with greedy, lazy, obese profligate children and hastening our doom. There were of course, compelling evolutionary reasons for the fact that only people who really wanted children would procreate, and yet, did anyone want children more than his parents had, and was anyone less convinced of the merits of having children than Seamus? It was this conviction that the world was overpopulated that led to his endless difficulties with women, and not the other way around.
So the questions remained unanswered, but in asking them repeatedly, he brought sleep’s gentle embrace gradually upon himself. In the morning he couldn't remember any of his dreams, and he figured that his subconscious was unable to come up with anything more outlandish than the experiences he’d had during the last days. It was strange, but he’d been through so much trauma that he’d almost come to the point where nothing could shock or surprise him anymore and he seemed to exude a sort of Zen-like calm as a result. Though they’d broached the subject before, Caomhin wasn't quite convinced that Seamus’ uncharacteristic calm was entirely philosophical in origin. On the campaign trail the next, balmily warm day, Seamus shared his theories, to the slight surprise of Caomhin, who’d expected a more straightforward and mundane answer like ‘beta-blockers’
“Naw, I think they might kill the passion.”
“So you’re still passionate?”
“I hope so. I think people know I have the passion, I just want to show them that I’ve got reason as well. I think when they yell at me they realise they’re really just venting anger at their own frustrations, and I come out seeming like the more reasonable one.”
Caomhin took a few seconds to reflect upon it, but when he did he felt compelled to remind him that their loyal supporters could do with the odd emotional display to keep them on board.
“I’ll try to remember that. Could you supply them all with stickers so that I’ll know which are which?” Caomhin thought for half a second that he was serious, when he realised that it was just his little joke, he laughed politely. Seamus quietly reflected that there probably was a gene for conformity and rebellion, which, if discovered could probably make his job a lot easier, but would more likely be used to engineer a sort of nightmarish, Brave New World society. That was another good reason for he and Grainne not to have babies; by the time they got to eighteen they’d probably be sterilised, neutered, or sent to a reservation where the Amazon Rainforest used to be. That wasn't a very pleasant image of the future, but it was probably better than not existing at all, he reflected as the smoke from Caomhin’s cigarette blew into his face and dissipated into the summer breeze. Then Caomhin took a look at his watch, and realised the Echo was probably just about to come out. It was a neat, ironic indication of the space between the two of them. But it was also like being shunted back into his adolescence, when his father saw Seamus’ tortured, anguished mind as a machine for studying to become a doctor or who knows, maybe a politician. As far as he knew, Caomhin didn't have any children, though even after all this time together, they were still mysteries to one another.
Seamus had time to reflect more while Caomhin went to go and get the paper. They were around St. Luke’s, which afforded one of the best views of the city, the mouth of the river where the ships used to come in, the ones that were herding immigrants from the old world to the new, the ships that were carrying grain to feed England’s cows while Ireland’s people starved. He could see all the landmarks, the four-faced liar, the dreaming, gothic spires of Finbarr’s, all through a hazy, summer heat that never seemed at home in Cork. He watched the people go by, the young mothers pushing buggies, the old women dragging their shopping up the hill, the immigrants haunched nervously as if afraid they could be attacked any moment. Then Caomhin came back, the Echo folded under his arm, an apparent indication that the poll hadn't been published yet, which he seemed to reaffirm by shaking his head and generally seeming a lot more bothered than Seamus who didn't see himself in the same, one-dimensional way that Caomhin did, was. He just laughed and suggested that Caomhin give the Echo journos a lend of his calculator next time. Caomhin made an effort to smile.
It was a strange day’s campaigning, with a lot of houses vacant, with people having probably gone to the beach, or at least to the park. Those who had gardens were sitting out in them, sweaty and beetroot-coloured. Sadly, none of them would ever be as dark as the immigrants who were being treated with increasing hostility, some of which was surely motivated by envy. Seamus would be out there on the grass as well, if he didn't have work to do, baring his scrawny body to the world, but he didn't have any trouble admitting that he’d prefer to have a bigger penis and the sort of laid-back, stoical attitude that he imagined Africans had. And why wouldn’t they, when up to 150 years ago, they didn't need any work ethic, nature gave them all things they needed, leaving them with only rational fears instead of the gloomy existential angst that they’d all pick up within a generation in these cloudy shores? What motivated us to take away the primitive simplicity, the primordial equity of their lives, and bring our diseases and our corrupt values to Africa? Was it the same envy that saw all these norries becoming purple? Probably, thought Seamus.
At least nobody was in the mood to abuse him today, which would only have compounded his frustration at not being on the beach himself. He consoled himself by reminding himself that, if everything worked out, he would end up on an even warmer beach some time. People were generally polite, telling him that they wanted to enjoy the few days of sunshine the Irish summer would produce in peace, which he found it hard to argue against. After a while he looked at his watch, saw that he could still make it to the beach, thought of asking Caomhin to call it a day, but, knowing what the answer would be, and how absurd the question would sound, he decided against it. He looked at Caomhin, who was still covered up in his old but respectable looking suit, while Seamus had stripped down to his shirt, and realised how seriously he took all this, electioneering in a country that most people didn't know of the existence of. This was Caomhin’s metier, For Seamus, it was probably going to be just another experience in the vast patchwork of his life, another thing to keep the wolf of insignificance from the door. (© Saul Bellow, 1948) But he ploughed patiently on, with only the thought of getting back to Grainne and Jenny to keep him going.
When he got back to Grainne’s place, it was still pleasantly warm and he found the two of them sitting in deck chairs, dressed in bikinis, eating some salad. He asked if they were worried that Diarmuid might see them, Grainne told him that he’d already been home and that he’d been told that Jenny was a friend from work. Seamus wondered how long all these facades could continue. Then Grainne asked if they’d be able to go to the beach this weekend. He grimaced and said that he considered it highly unlikely, but that they should go by themselves if they could arrange it. He promised they’d go for a really nice beach holiday after he got elected
Then he gave his spiel about how going to the beach was such a new phenomenon in human history, how for hundreds and hundreds of years people were afraid of the sea and how it took the modern work-and-leisure based society, as well as the development of automated transport and portable drinks containers to create the beach industry, which was basically a desire to get back to nature temporarily while enjoying all the comforts of civilisation at the same time.
When he was finished, Jenny asked Grainne if he was always like that.
“Yup. He’s an endless source of useless information. But we love him, don't we?”
Jenny nodded and beckoned Seamus over to her. Seamus was a bit uneasy about any display of affection, so he just kissed them both on the cheeks and asked if there was any dinner left inside. He was told to help himself, so he did. It seemed that Grainne had had a chance to whip up some excellent salad dressing with some fruity olive oil, which was what summer always tasted like to Seamus. He brought it outside and they chatted for a while in the summer Sun. He wished life could always be like that, that those moments when the future didn't seem to matter could go on forever, or at least be prolonged for a while, like in a magical realist story he’d read years ago by Primo Levi. But he new that even the most spoiled rich kids got tired of sitting on the beach after a while, that life without challenge was, in the end, pointless. Or at least that’s what he, who had to face no end of challenges in his life thought. This is what salvation must be like after a while. Strange, but the weather was just like this in the weeks after his father died, he had to sit foetally in his bedroom with the curtains drawn to create some appropriate sense of pathetic fallacy. June, for him was the cruellest month, he didn't need a Chinese astrologer under a banyan tree to tell him that that was his kismet. At least by staying out here he’d help to keep his promise to himself. Perhaps he should take off his shirt and let himself get sunburnt, so every caress he got from Jenny and Grainne would only bring more pain. No pain, no gain, as those masochistic ants across the Atlantic liked to say.
When it started to get dark, he got on his bike and started to cycle home, blowing throwing kisses behind him. He noticed Jenny and Grainne smiling indulgently, as if they were the only ones in on the secret that this often pugnacious, sometimes aloof politician was really just a naive little boy.
On the way home he thought a little more of the dynamics of his relationship with the two. If Caomhin was the reasonably level-headed father he never had, then he was casting Grainne in the role of mother. This would make Jenny his sister, but then where would Diarmuid come into the equation? He could have resolved the situation easily enough if he was writing a soap opera or even one of those middlebrow novels of manners that were becoming depressingly popular, but this was real life, however unreal it seemed at the moment. It was almost enough to make him nostalgic for the days of nuclear families, of hi honey I’m home and gays having kids and suppressing their homosexuality with little yellow pills and young women having coat hangers stuck up their vaginas in backstreets. Things were much better back then, as his grandfather liked to tell him.
He never heard such nostalgia from Caomhin, who the next day would have been far too tense in any case to reminisce about an idealised past. Having slept uncharacteristically well the night before, untroubled by the kids knacker-drinking in the distance, he got to the office only a short while after Caomhin, who was scouring the Examiner as if in some forlorn hope that the results of the poll might have been hidden in the classified ads by mistake. Sadly, he’d have to wait at least until the echo was published that afternoon. Seamus took a look at some of the other papers, but in a way that was so jittery that Caomhin could only guess that he was itching to go campaigning.
“You seem to have a lot of energy today”, he commented.
“Yeah well, it’s a lovely day outside, no point in staying in bed or in this dusty office, is there?”
Caomhin looked around the office and seemed to decide that it wasn't all that dusty. Then he looked suspiciously at Seamus, who he knew well enough to know that the fine weather couldn't be the only reason for his early start. By now they’d reached a sort of implicit understanding that one of them would always take the lead in campaigning, while the other would just sort of hang around and offer moral support. Seamus hoped that he’d reach some sort of similar modus vivendi with the two women, but for now, this was one of his days. With a sense of the way the wind was blowing that Caomhin seemed to lack, he’d shrewdly decided to dress casually. He was aware that some women found ties attractive, resembling, as they did, on some deep, subliminal level, male genitals, the tragic irony being that ties actually diminished blood supply around the body. Knowing that on some profound level, he avoided them as much as could, from an early age. Today he chose a casual but sober short-sleeved shirt which was calculated to show off the results of his recent flirtation with weights. Though he’d never admit it to anyone he spent a few minutes looking at his mirror that morning to try to picture how impressively toned he might seem. Yet another part of him was disgusted at how the 21st century 24/7 porn culture was trivialising politics and turning it into a beauty contest. He tried to reconcile both sides of the internal argument by remembering the words of Krishna in the Gita: “Go with the flow, my child.”
He might have been paraphrasing somewhat.
In the van on the way to one of their target areas, Seamus asked if Caomhin had a bicycle. He took a few seconds to assimilate this and then said no, why?
“I thought we could both cycle round tomorrow, or any other day it was fine.”
“Why would we want to do that?”
“It would create an image of youth and vigour. It would make us look like underdogs. It would make us look like we cared about the environment.”
It looked as if, on some level, Caomhin agreed with this, but didn't really like the idea of cycling round so much. He just said that he didn't have a bike, in a tone that suggested that he thought that should be the end of the matter.
“Well, you could buy one, pick one up second-hand.”
“Naw, too expensive.”
Struggling to keep the subject alive, Seamus asked if it would be Okay for him to campaign by bike by himself. Caomhin dismissed the idea contemptuously and paternalistically. Seamus asked what his problem was, he muttered something about carrying all the leaflets and stuff around, tetchilly. Seamus knew that the real issue was that Caomhin didn't trust him to campaign by himself, being so afraid that he might say the wrong thing. But he reasoned that this wasn't the time to start asserting his independence, so he just kept quiet for the rest of the journey. Once again they stopped the van on one of the hills on the Northside which overlooked the city, and once again they found many people sitting in their minuscule front gardens, which nonetheless gave them some sort of connection to the Earth. Now and again, people would invite him to sit on the grass with him and talk about politics, though more often the sort of power dynamic created by approaching people who were in a seated position only accentuated the fears they had in their mind about Seamus’ party and caused them to repel them pugnaciously and often coprolalicaly, with more than one threat to call the guards being uttered before they took one of their breaks, Caomhin to have a fag, Seamus to nibble some of his home-made falafel and hummus, sitting themselves down on one of the shabby, littered green patches that were the northside’s excuse for a park. Such was the intensity of their postering campaign that it was only a matter of time before someone would recognise them and approach them.
As usual, it was kids, and they were asking the usual question, though being kids, they were titillated rather than frightened at the prospect of speaking to terrorists. He knew, as Caomhin probably did, that it was probably better to be non-committal, and asked them if he looked like a terrorist to them. They took a look at his clothes, his hair, which was starting to curl again, and what he was eating and then looked at each other and seemed to decide implicitly that he wasn't, but then looked at Caomhin and had doubts and turned their attention to him. Sensing this, Caomhin took a deep puff of his cigarette, as if inhaling some transcendent Amerindian wisdom, and just said his party wanted everyone to live in peace, and that the time they could achieve this by the use of violence was hopefully over. Perhaps Caomhin too was, underneath the shabby, sober suit, was inspired by the bright, life-giving orb that shone as unobstructed as it ever did on his cold little island. They spoke for a while before Caomhin took a look at his watch and realised the Echo was probably on sale, stood up, looked around like a primeval hunter for a shop where he might find it, and when one came into his sights, reluctantly let the kids in the care of Seamus. While he was gone, Seamus decided to share some of the truth with the kids, that he was a recent convert to Sinn Fein, that he genuinely didn't know if Caomhin was a terrorist or not. He didn't really know why he did this, he could rationalise that this display of honesty would go down well with any voting age relatives that it would be passed on to. But really he was probably just glad to be able to tell part of the truth to anyone.
Before the whole truth could be told, he was interrupted by the sight of Caomhin making an effort to run towards them, brandishing a copy of the Echo. Sensing what may be causing such excitement, he got up himself and jogged toward Caomhin.
When they met, he hugged Seamus and pointed at the paper and shouted out the words ‘sixteen percent’ and hugged him again and clenched his fist and shouted the words ‘sixteen percent’ again. Seamus, who hadn't quite assimilated what he’d said, looked over to see how the kids were reacting. Caomhin didn't seem to care, as he hugged Seamus once more and told him that sixteen percent of those people who the Echo journalists asked said they’d vote for him in a couple of weeks time. It may not seem like that much, but there were five seats to be one in the constituency and this would give him more than a good chance of taking the last. He took a look at the typically tacky bar charts that the Echo had pasted onto their front page and saw that, indeed, his picture, one that they’d copied from a poster, was under the fifth biggest bar. As they’d claimed to have interviewed a thousand people, that meant that 160 people effectively promised him their vote. He scanned his mind to think of whom all these people might be, wondering if they were all people he’d personally called round to or not. He looked down over the roofs of the buildings of Cork and wondered which of them these people were all working in, if they were working at all. He felt like climbing up to the highest point he could see and shout gratitude at them all personally Then, in an effort to sound mature and responsible, even a little statesmanlike, he told Caomhin that there was a long time to go and that these polls weren't always accurate, but that it was indeed good news. Caomhin, who wasn't going to have his moment dampened, kept up his proud-parent act by telling Seamus that he wasn't no fucking journalist and that he could share his joy with him. Seamus wasn't sure he’d ever heard Caomhin talk like that before and realised that this was the culmination of years of work for Caomhin, while for himself it was more of a serendipitous, aleatory whim. If Seamus ever betrayed him the way he was planning to do that he might be chased to the ends of the Earth and brutally killed the way he himself had done to the Nazi and the Cunt. He looked up into the bright azure sky as if to ask what malign, Lear-Universe gods had mapped out such a fate for him.
To Caomhin’s surprise, he tried to take his mind off the complex ethical entanglements that he’d wrapped around it, Caomhin took this for enthusiasm and agreed. They’d only gone round to a few doors, Caomhin holding the Echo under his arm in a way that exposed the opinion poll bar chart, when Seamus tried to take advantage of his elation for another reason.
“Y’know, Caomhin, since I’m doing so well and everything”, he began, in a tone that reminded him of the first time he’d asked his mum to let him go to a disco, “I wouldn’t mind having a day or two off this weekend.”
Caomhin thought about it for a few seconds and then decided that Seamus had probably earned it, reasoning that if the good weather held up then most people would leave the city anyway, some pouring out of busses, some going to the small seaside town where Seamus had grown up. Seamus would have to take Jenny and Grainne somewhere else. And Diarmuid, he suddenly realised, with a shudder, though hopefully he’d want to go somewhere with his mates. Looking forward to a weekend, and possibly a lifetime on the beach, his optimism was infectious to everyone he met later on that day, as if his belief in the possibility of a better life for everyone was genuine. He hadn't known this sort of bliss without the use of some sort of narcotic since he was a child, that sort of unconditional, no-strings-attached hangover-free ecstasy that he thought was the sole preserve of children and madmen.
It was still gyring around him the way electrons do around the nucleus, at least if those pointy-headed guys with the microscopes are telling the truth. Once again Jenny and Grainne were sitting outside in the garden when Caomhin dropped him off, the latter still having no inclination that Jenny might be the cause of Seamus’ recently expressed fears that Grainne was bisexual. He greeted them with the words, “I’ve got some good news and some good news. Which do you want to hear first?”
“We already saw the Echo... deputy.”
“Way to burst my bubble”, he replied, ironically, and gave them both a big hug.
“We’re going to have to start making some plans, y’know, and fill Diarmuid in...”
“All in good time”, he interjected, evasively. “This weekend, we’re all going to be able to go down to the beach, assuming that Jenny isn't working.” Seamus looked over in the direction of the latter, who assured him that she never worked weekends.
“How are we going to get down there?”, asked Grainne.
“Caomhin is going to lend me his van. You know how to drive, dontcha?”
“Well, I haven’t in a while, but...”
“Well, that’s settled then”, he cut in, peremptorily. Grainne noticed the authority that his new position seemed to confer upon, like a giant’s robe on a merely obese thief, and worried about how this may affect the dynamic of their relationship. Seamus noticed this, but didn't seem to mind, having a more important concern.
“D’you think Diarmuid will want to come with us?”
“Fuck, no”, replied Grainne, saliently. “He’d much rather go down with his mates.”
Purely as a matter of curiosity, Seamus asked if Diarmuid had met Jenny.
“Yeah, he thinks we’re just friends. Women can have really close friends without...”
“Fucking each other?”
The two girls laughed, Grainne replied, “Not to put too fine a point on it, yeah.”
As if in some Nineteenth-Century bourgeois realist novel, the sun shone for the next few days, and continued for the weekend, matching and enhancing Seamus’ mood at once. Everyone seemed too relaxed to give him any abuse, even the most dyed-in-the-wool blueshirts, of whom there were still a few, even in the Northside of Cork. Every time he passed older people in the street, he wondered if there was once a time in their life when it seemed everything was going to go right, or if their ambitions were so small that it actually had, or if they were trying to make them come true vicariously through their kids. If they’d made some other choices, maybe the positions would have been reversed.