Beautiful World, Where Are You Read online

  Dearest Eileen—your email about what happened with Simon brought joy to my withered heart. You deserve romance! And so I feel does he. Can I tell you something about him that I promised I would never tell you but now I’m breaking the promise because the moment is opportune? A few years ago, just after you moved in with Aidan, Simon came over to see me one afternoon for coffee. We chatted about this and that, it was all very normal, and then when he was leaving, he stopped at the doorway of your old room to look inside. It was emptied out already, the bed was stripped, and I remember there was a pale rectangle on the wall where you used to have your Margaret Clarke poster. In a sort of fake-cheerful voice Simon said, ‘You’ll miss her.’ And without thinking about it, I answered, ‘So will you.’ It didn’t really make any sense, because you were actually moving closer to Simon’s neighbourhood, but he didn’t seem surprised that I had said it. He just replied like, ‘Yes, obviously.’ We stood there at the door of your room for a few more seconds and then he laughed and said: ‘Please don’t tell her I said that.’ Of course you were with Aidan at the time, so I never did tell you. And I can’t say I had always known, because I hadn’t. I knew you and Simon were very close, and I knew what had happened in Paris. But for some reason it had never occurred to me that he had been in love with you all along. I don’t think anyone knew. Anyway, we never talked about it again. Do you think it’s terrible of me to tell you all this? I hope not. It wasn’t very clear from your message whether you think you’re going to keep seeing each other or not … What do you feel?

  Yesterday afternoon—just after I got your email, in fact—Felix started to tell me about some things he had done in the past and later regretted. I suppose it was one of those ‘worst things I’ve ever done’ conversations—and actually, he has done some pretty bad things. I won’t go into the details, but I can say some of it involved his relationships with women. I feel it’s not my place to judge him, because I can’t think why it should be, and because I’m occasionally wracked with guilt over horrible things I’ve done too. My impulse was actually to forgive him, especially because he has apparently spent a long time feeling remorseful and blaming himself. But I had to recognise it wasn’t my place to do that either, since the actions he described may have impacted other people’s lives permanently and would never have any effect on me. I can’t step in as a disinterested third party and absolve him of his sins, just as he can’t absolve me of mine. So I suppose whatever I felt for him when he confessed these actions wasn’t really ‘forgiveness’, but something else. Maybe just that I trusted that his remorse was real and that he wouldn’t make the same mistakes over again. It made me think about people who have done bad things—what they are supposed to do with themselves, and what we as a society are supposed to do with them. At the moment, the cycle of insincere public apologies is probably making everyone suspicious of forgiveness. But what should people who have done terrible things in the past actually do? Spontaneously advertise their own sins in order to pre-empt public exposure? Just try never to accomplish anything that might bring them increased scrutiny of any kind? Maybe I’m wrong, but I believe the number of people who have done seriously bad things is not insignificant. I mean honestly, I think if every man who had ever behaved somewhat poorly in a sexual context dropped dead tomorrow, there would be like eleven men left alive. And it’s not only men! It’s women too, and children, everyone. I suppose what I mean is, what if it’s not only a small number of evil people who are out there, waiting for their bad deeds to be exposed? What if it’s all of us?

  You mentioned in your email that you heard a reading at Mass about a woman pouring oil on the feet of Jesus. I might be mistaken, because there are a few similar Gospel stories, but I think the one you mean is the passage in Luke where Jesus has his feet anointed by a sinful woman. I’ve just read over it again in the little Douay-Rheims translation I brought with me to the hospital. You’re right, the story is bizarre, and even (as you put it) freakish. But isn’t it also a little bit interesting? The woman in the story really only has one distinguishing characteristic: the fact that she’s led a sinful life. Who knows what she’s supposed to have done? Maybe she was just a social outcast, essentially a marginalised innocent. But on the other hand, maybe she had actually done some bad things, the kind of things you or I would think of as seriously wrong. It’s at least possible, isn’t it? She may have killed her husband, or abused her children, or something like that. And having heard that Jesus was staying with Simon the Pharisee, she came to the house, and at the sight of Jesus, she started crying so profusely that she wet his feet with her tears. After that, she dried his feet with her hair and anointed them with perfumed oil. As you point out, it all seems quite absurd, even vaguely erotic—and indeed, Simon the Pharisee seems shocked and uncomfortable that Jesus would allow a sinful woman to touch him in such an intimate way. But Jesus, characteristically puzzling, simply says that all her many sins are forgiven, because she loves him so much. Could it be that easy? We just have to weep and prostrate ourselves and God forgives everything? But maybe it’s not easy at all—maybe to weep and prostrate ourselves with genuine sincerity is the hardest thing we could ever learn how to do. I feel certain I don’t understand how to do it. I have that resistance in me, that hard little kernel of something, which I fear would not let me prostrate myself before God even if I believed in him.

  While I’m here, I may as well tell you that Felix and I slept together last night. I didn’t really want to tell you, if I’m honest, but I think it would have been weird not to. Not that I’m embarrassed—or maybe I am, but not by him. It’s more the idea of caring what somebody else thinks about me, when that’s exactly what I don’t do, and what I’m so good at not doing. It’s not easy for me, really. I think we’ve been having a nice time together—which is me saying that I’ve had a nice time, and that I never know how he feels. Although our lives have been different in basically every respect, I do feel in a strange way that we’ve taken different routes to reach similar points, and there’s a lot we recognise in one another. You wouldn’t believe how long it’s taken me to write this paragraph. I feel so frightened of being hurt—not of the suffering, which I know I can handle, but the indignity of suffering, the indignity of being open to it. I have a terrible crush on him and get very excited and idiotic when he shows me affection. So of course in the midst of everything, the state of the world being what it is, humanity on the cusp of extinction, here I am writing another email about sex and friendship. What else is there to live for? Love always, Alice.

  15.

  On Monday evening at a quarter past eight, the main room of Simon’s apartment was empty and dim. Through the small window over the sink in the kitchenette, and the larger window in the living room opposite, the remaining daylight touched the various interior surfaces: the silver basin of the sink, with a single dirty plate and knife lying inside; the kitchen table, dotted here and there with crumbs; a fruit bowl containing one browning banana and two apples; a knitted throw sprawled over the sofa untidily; a thin grey layer of dust on the upper rim of the television; the bookcases, the table lamps, a chess set on the coffee table with what appeared to be an unfinished game on the board. This way in silence the room lay as the light faded, as outside in the hallway people climbed and descended the staircase, and in the street traffic swept past in waves of white sound. At twenty to nine came the noise of a key slipped into the lock, and then the apartment door opened. Simon was talking on the phone as he entered, taking a satchel off his shoulder with his free hand, saying aloud: No, I don’t think they’re worried about it, really. It’s just an annoyance. He was dressed in a dark-grey suit, with a green tie secured by a gold pin. Quietly he used his foot to close the door behind him and hung his bag up on a hook. Aha, he said. Is he there with you? I’ll talk to him now if you like. He went into the living room and turned on a floor lamp, dropped his keys on the coffee table. Okay, what do you think is best, then? he asked. Alone in the yellowish light of
the lamp, he looked tired. He went to the kitchen and picked the kettle up as if to test its weight. Yeah, he said. No, that’s fine, I’ll just tell him I’ve talked to you about it. Replacing the kettle in its cradle, he turned it on, and then sat down on a kitchen chair. Right, he said, but if I’m supposed to pretend you haven’t told me, what’s my pretext for calling him in the first place? He held the phone between his face and shoulder and started to unlace his shoes. Then, prompted by a remark on the other end of the call, he sat up and put the phone back into his hand again. Clearly that’s not what I meant, he said. The conversation continued like this for some time, while Simon took his shoes off, removed his tie and made himself a cup of tea. When the phone buzzed in his hand, he lifted it away quickly and checked the screen, while the voice on the other end went on talking. An email notification had appeared, with the subject heading ‘Tuesday call’. Apparently uninterested, he brought the phone back to his ear and carried the cup of tea over to the sofa to sit down. Yeah, yeah, he was saying, I’m home now. I’m just about to put the news on. He closed his eyes while the voice on the phone was speaking. Sure, he said. I’ll let you know. Love you too. Bye. He repeated this last word several times before tapping an icon on-screen to end the call. Looking down at the screen, he opened a messaging app and tapped the name ‘Eileen Lydon’. The most recent message was displayed at the bottom of the screen, with the time stamp 20:14.

  Simon: Hey, I had a really nice time with you at the weekend. Would you like to see each other again this week?

  An icon showed that Eileen had seen the message, but no response had arrived. He closed the app and opened the ‘Tuesday call’ email, which was part of a longer thread. A previous message read: Yes I am told they have phone records also. Simon or Lisa can you get across this please and get in touch with Anthony if needed. One of his colleagues had replied: If we spend any more time dealing with this non issue I am going to lose my mind. The newest message read: Simon I am attaching Anthony’s number and details below. Give him a ring tonight if possible or tomorrow morning? No one is happy about this but it’s where we are. Locking his phone, he allowed his eyes to close and for a few moments he sat on the sofa not moving, his chest rising and falling with his breath. After a time he lifted a hand and passed it slowly down his face. Finally he reached for the remote control and turned the television on. The nine o’clock news was just beginning. He sat watching the first few items roll past on the screen, his eyes half-closed, almost as if he was asleep, but sipping now and then from the cup of tea he kept on an arm of the couch beside him. During an item about road safety his phone buzzed, and he reached for it immediately. On-screen a new message displayed.

  Eileen: oddly formal tone here Simon

  He stared down at this message for several seconds, and then typed out a response.

  Simon: Was it?

  An animated three-dot ellipsis displayed on-screen, to show that Eileen was typing.

  Eileen: why do men over 30 text like they’re updating a LinkedIn profile

  Eileen: Hi [Eileen], it was great seeing you on [Saturday]. Can we connect again? Try selecting a time and date from the drop down menu

  Vaguely now he smiled to himself as his thumbs moved over the keyboard.

  Simon: You’re right

  Simon: If only I were a younger man, I would manually turn off the autocaps function on my phone in order to seem more laidback

  Eileen: it’s in settings

  Eileen: I can help you find it if you get stuck

  At the top of the screen, a new email appeared in the ‘Tuesday call’ thread. The opening text displayed as: Hi all. Have just heard from TJ … Simon dismissed the notification without opening it, and began typing another message to Eileen.

  Simon: No, that’s ok

  Simon: I’m always copy and pasting that message saying I had a nice time at the weekend, can we see each other again, etc.

  Simon: Never had any complaints before

  Eileen: ahaha

  Eileen: you can use copy and paste?? I’m impressed

  Eileen: anyway yes, we can see each other this week

  Eileen: when is good?

  Another message appeared at the top of the screen, from a contact listed as ‘Geraldine Costigan’.

  Geraldine: Your dad says you can give him a ring tomorrow evening if that suits you sweetheart. xxx

  Simon let out a long slow breath, and then swiped upward to dismiss the message. His eyes moving back and forth over the messages to and from Eileen, he typed the words Would you, and then deleted them. He scrolled back up to the previous texts and looked at them once more. Finally, he began typing again.

  Simon: Are you busy just now?

  The double tick showed that Eileen had seen the message, and then the ellipsis appeared.

  Eileen: no

  Eileen: I was going to have a bath but my flatmates used all the hot water

  Eileen: so I’m just lying on my bed looking at internet

  Eileen: why?

  On the television, the news had finished and the weather had come on. An illustrated yellow sun hovered over the Dublin region on the map. Simon started typing again.

  Simon: Do you want to come over here?

  Simon: Endless hot water

  Simon: Ice cream in freezer

  Simon: No flatmates

  A few seconds passed. He rubbed at his jaw with his hand, watching the screen, which reflected on its surface the bulb of the ceiling light in its glass shade overhead.

  Eileen:!!

  Eileen: I was not fishing for an invite!!

  Simon: I know that

  Eileen: are you sure?

  Simon: Yes

  Eileen: it’s very nice of you

  Simon: What can I say, I have a very nice personality

  Eileen: it sounds like fun.…

  Eileen: but I don’t want to intrude on you again!!

  Simon: Eileen

  Simon: Put your shoes on, I’ll call you a taxi

  Eileen: hahaha

  Eileen: yes daddy

  Eileen: thank you

  Looking gratified, he closed out of the messages, opened a taxi app and ordered a driver to Eileen’s address. He rose from the sofa then, muted the television and went to the sink with his empty cup of tea. After washing up and wiping down the kitchen surfaces, he went into his room and made his bed. Several times while he carried out these tasks, he took his phone from his pocket and checked the taxi app, where a small icon representing Eileen’s cab moved slowly and hesitatingly along the quays and southward, and then, closing the app, he pocketed his phone again and returned to what he had been doing before.

  When he answered the door twenty minutes later, Eileen was standing in the hallway wearing a cropped grey sweatshirt and a pleated cotton skirt, carrying a tote bag printed with the logo of a London literary magazine. She looked as if she had earlier been wearing dark lipstick but it had faded. He stood still in front of her for a moment before putting his hand to her waist and kissing her on the cheek. Good to see you, he said. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and he let her hold on to him in the doorway. Thank you for inviting me, she replied. They went inside. He closed the door behind them and she produced from her bag a bottle of red wine. I brought you this, she said. We don’t have to drink it, I just have a horror of coming over to someone’s house and not bringing anything. Especially your house. Imagine what my mother would say. Not that I brought anything last time I dropped by, ha ha. She put the bottle on the table and took her bag off her shoulder. Catching sight of the television, she said: Oh, are you watching Claire Byrne? I won’t interrupt. I’ll just sit quietly on the sofa. He was smiling, his eyes following Eileen as she hung her bag on the back of a kitchen chair and started to refix her hair, loosening the elastic tie that held it up in a bun. No, I’m not watching it, he said. You look nice. Would you like a cup of tea or something? Or a glass of wine if you’d rather. She went to sit on the couch, pulling off the flat leather
shoes she had been wearing and tucking up her feet in their white socks on the cushions. I’ll have tea, she said. I don’t actually feel like wine. Is this a puzzle? He glanced over from the kitchen and saw her pointing at the chessboard. No, he said, it’s a game. Peter was here last night, but he had to head off before we finished. Just as well for me. She went on looking at the board while he boiled the kettle and took a cup down from the press. Did you have the black pieces? she asked. With his back turned to her, he answered no, the white. You’re up two pawns, then, she said. And you can check him with your bishop. He was taking a spoon out of the cutlery drawer, amused. Think about it again, he said. She frowned at the board a little longer, while he made the tea and brought it over to the coffee table. Well, I won’t mess with it, she said. He sat down at the other end of the sofa and turned off the television. Work away, he said. It’s white to move. She picked up the white bishop and checked the black king. Leaning forward, he moved a black pawn to block the attack and threaten her bishop, and she used the bishop to take the pawn. He brought the black knight forward to take the bishop then and fork the white queen and rook. She made a face and said: I’m an idiot. He said it was his fault anyway for leaving himself in such a weak position. She picked up her cup of tea and sat back against the armrest of the sofa. Did I tell you my family are at war with each other about Lola’s wedding invites? she said. I really don’t know why I got involved, she’s just such a nightmare. Do you want to see the texts she’s been sending me? He said yes, and she took her phone out and showed him the message Lola had sent her on Saturday night.

  Lola: Hmmm do I really want to hear about how immature I am from someone who’s stuck in a shitty job making no money and living in a kip at age 30..….

  His eyes moved over the screen and then he took the device from her hand to read it again, frowning. Jesus, the hostility, he murmured.