[ireland]
by a. atiya
I am alone on the Isle of Inishmoor. I drink a coffee, black, and eat a tuna fish sandwich on a rickety wooden picnic table outside the island’s sole shop. In the bright August sun the sea shines, and a squat rainbow stretches out to Connemara.
I am reading a book, uninterrupted, until a man with blue Irish eyes comes to sit across from me. He asks me if it’s all right, and I agree. He wears a filthy pinstripe blazer and I can see the dirt under his fingernails. His clothes are all black, and he slides a white cigarette out from his pocket. He sets it between his rotted bluish teeth.
“It gets crowded around here this time of day,” he says. I look around and he’s right. There are only four tables, two are occupied by a large pack of Swedes, the other one by those gangly youthful Italians, and he and I are alone at the fourth. “It’s still the high part of tourist season,” he adds.
He lights his cigarette and pulls the Gaelic newspaper out from the inside of his blazer. He doesn’t unfold it, just flips it over and starts the crossword. He focuses on the paper, which grants me a moment to watch his eyes. The Irish eyes are not overrated. His are luminous, they seem to be several shades of blue at once, bordered by thick black eyelashes.
But I stare too long and he starts to notice. He asks me for help with a question in the crossword. I awkwardly reply that I don’t know Gaelic, so I won’t be of much use.
“What are you doing out here?” he asks. I tell him that I’m a student on vacation. He says, “We get all kinds out here.” He asks me if I am out here by myself, and I say that I am. I ask him if I can bum a cigarette, and he says sure. I apologize, especially since cigarettes are so expensive out here. He says that he higher the government makes the prices the more we should smoke, tell ‘em to go feck themselves. I finish the last sips of my coffee.
An old woman with cropped white hair hobbles over to us and flops down on the bench. “Johnnnnnny,” she cries, and kisses the man on the cheek. She wears an identical filthy pinstriped blazer. Both wear sullied black t-shirts as well. She turns toward me, and I can see the resemblance between the two, though she has the drastic underbite of old age.
“Beautiful morning, isn’t it,” she says. “No sign of rain!” Which is sad for me, I sort of idolize the Irish rain. Johnny sighs.
“Sometimes it’s like the feckin United Nations of Beautiful Women out here,” he says, and I watch him admiring the tallest of the Swedish women. She wears big round sunglasses. She is trying to untangle her legs from the picnic bench. His mother agrees. “This one too,” she adds, pointing to me. He nods, and we take a moment to appreciate the sea. The moment is almost peaceful. Then, she asks Johnny for a cigarette. He tells her no. She says just one and she’ll quit tomorrow. He says no. She says that she’s been so good. He says no never. She says just half of one and she’ll quit tomorrow. He slides another white cigarette out of his left pocket and hands it to her. She pulls his lighter out from his right pocket and lights it for herself.
She leans back for a second, exhaling, and shows me the hairy underside of her chin.
She readjusts her glasses. “What’re you reading?” she asks. I answer, The Virgin and the Gypsy, and lift the book so she can see the cover.
“Oh oh D.H. Lawrence! I know what that is! That’s pornography!” she exclaims.
“Only in your day, mother, did they call it pornography. In my day they call it literature,” the son replies.
“Well I don’t care what they call it. I know what that is! That’s pornography. She’ll tell you, it’s pornography, isn’t it?” She looks to me for a response.
I say that sadly, I haven’t found it to be pornographic at all. In fact, I am quite disappointed. I’m even contemplating getting my 1.50 Euro back from Charlie Byrne’s bookshop in Galway.
For a moment she is silent. A reddish rooster approaches our bench, pecking at some crumbs of tuna I have dropped. I am tempted to smile, but I am afraid that I have already offended her. Before I can utter a retraction, however, she explodes into enormous peals of laughter.
“Did you hear that Johnny! She’s disappointed that it isn’t pornographic! She is disappointed! Well isn’t that a good one!” Johnny sets another cigarette between his bluish teeth and lights it. The mother continues laughing, she laughs so hard she starts to cry a little, and she lifts her glasses up to pat her glistening eyes with the back of her hand.
Still laughing, she props herself up to climb out of the bench. “She’s disappointed,” she mutters under her breath. She kisses Johnny again on the cheek and then walks over to me and kisses me too. “Lovely to meet you,” she says. I can feel the hairs on her chin brushing up against my face. She asks Johnny for one more cigarette, he obliges, and she hobbles off again.
“Your mom seems like fun,” I say. “She is, a bit wild even for her age,” he replies. I wonder if she was drunk. We sit for a moment, reading again. “The Virgin and the Gypsy,” he says, after a minute. “Which one are you?” I laugh politely, but don’t reply. He starts the crossword again.
Half an hour or so later, I’ve finished the book. He’s now reading the paper, I guess that he’s finished the crossword too.
“Hey,” I ask, “Which beach do you prefer here?” He asks I am interested in swimming or contemplation. I say for swimming.
“I don’t really know. I’m not much of a swimmer. I’ve lived here my whole life and I don’t go swimming. But some travelers have enjoyed that beach near to the entrance of Dun Aengus.” He gestures towards the sea with his left hand.
I thank him for the advice, and for the cigarette. I climb out of the table. “Nice to meet you,” he says, and I say the same.
Tucking my book into my bag, I start on the path down to the sea.
posted by W. @ 12:52 PM
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