Beautiful World, Where Are You Read online

  The problem with museums like the d’Orsay, by the way and just totally incidentally, is that there’s far too much art, so that no matter how well you plan your route or how noble your intentions, you will always find yourself walking irritably past priceless works of profound genius looking for the bathrooms. And you feel slightly cheapened afterwards, like you’ve let yourself down—at least I do. I bet you never look for the bathrooms in museums, Eileen. I bet as soon as you enter the hallowed halls of Europe’s great galleries, you simply leave such corporeal practicalities behind you—if indeed they ever plague you in the first place. One doesn’t think of you as a corporeal being really, but as a beam of pure intellect. And how I wish I had a little more of your radiance illuminating my life at the moment.

  Yesterday afternoon I gave three interviews and did an hour-long photoshoot, and between two of the interviews, my father called me to tell me that he had a fall and he’s back in hospital getting an x-ray. His voice sounded thin and his speech was quite garbled. I received the call while standing in the corridor of my publisher’s office building in Montparnasse. In front of me was an entrance to the ladies’ toilets, and beside that a large poster for a bestselling paperback by a French writer. I asked him what time the x-ray was scheduled but he had no idea—I’m not even sure how he managed to place the call. When we hung up, I went straight back down the corridor and into an office room, where a nice female journalist in her forties proceeded to conduct an hour-long interview with me about my influences and literary style. The photoshoot afterwards took place on the street. Several passers-by stopped to watch, perhaps curious as to who I was and why my photograph was being taken, while the photographer gave instructions such as: ‘Relax your face’, and ‘Try to look more your normal self.’ At eight p.m., a car took me to an event space in Montmartre, where I gave a public reading and answered audience questions, sipping intermittently from a tiny plastic bottle of lukewarm water.

  This morning, tired and disorientated, I wandered down the street near my hotel and eventually found and entered an empty church. There I sat for about twenty minutes bathed in the slow serious air of sanctity and cried a few picturesque tears about the nobility of Jesus. This is all by way of explaining to you my interest in Christianity—put simply, I am fascinated and touched by the ‘personality’ of Jesus, in rather a sentimental, arguably even maudlin way. Everything about his life moves me. On the one hand, I feel toward him a kind of personal attraction and closeness that is most reminiscent of my feeling for certain beloved fictional characters—which makes sense, considering that I’ve encountered him through exactly the same means, i.e. by reading about him in books. On the other hand, I feel humbled and impressed by him in a different way. He seems to me to embody a kind of moral beauty, and my admiration for that beauty even makes me want to say that I ‘love’ him, though I’m well aware how ridiculous that sounds. But, Eileen, I do love him, and I can’t even pretend that it’s only the same love I feel for Prince Myshkin, or for Charles Swann, or for Isabel Archer. It is actually something different, a different feeling. And while I don’t, as such, really ‘believe’ that Jesus was resurrected after his death, it’s also true to say that some of the most moving scenes in the Gospels, and some of those to which I return most frequently, take place after the resurrection. I find it hard to separate the Jesus who appears after the resurrection from the man who appears before; they seem to me to be all of one being. I suppose what I mean is that in his resurrected form, he goes on saying the kind of things that ‘only he’ could say, that I can’t imagine emanating from any other consciousness. But that’s as close as I get to thinking about his divinity. I have a strong liking and affection for him and I feel moved when I contemplate his life and death. That’s all.

  Rather than filling me with spiritual peace, however, the example set by Jesus only makes my existence seem trivial and shallow in comparison. In public I’m always talking about care ethics and the value of human community, but in my real life I don’t take on the work of caring for anyone except myself. Who in the world relies on me for anything? No one. I can blame myself, and I do, but I also think the failure is general. People our age used to get married and have children and conduct love affairs, and now everyone is still single at thirty and lives with housemates they never see. Traditional marriage was obviously not fit for purpose, and almost ubiquitously ended in one kind of failure or another, but at least it was an effort at something, and not just a sad sterile foreclosure on the possibility of life. Of course if we all stay alone and practise celibacy and carefully police our personal boundaries, many problems will be avoided, but it seems we will also have almost nothing left that makes life worthwhile. I guess you could say the old ways of being together were wrong—they were!—and that we didn’t want to repeat old mistakes—we didn’t. But when we tore down what confined us, what did we have in mind to replace it? I offer no defence of coercive heterosexual monogamy, except that it was at least a way of doing things, a way of seeing life through. What do we have now? Instead? Nothing. And we hate people for making mistakes so much more than we love them for doing good that the easiest way to live is to do nothing, say nothing, and love no one.

  However: Jesus teaches us not to judge. I can’t approve of unforgiving puritanism or of moral vanity, but I am hardly perfect in either regard. All my mania for culture, for ‘really good’ things, for knowing about jazz recordings and red wine and Danish furniture, even about Keats and Shakespeare and James Baldwin, what if it’s all a form of vanity, or even worse, a little bandage over the initial wound of my origins? I have put between myself and my parents such a gulf of sophistication that it’s impossible for them to touch me now or to reach me at all. And I look back across that gulf, not with a sense of guilt or loss, but with relief and satisfaction. Am I better than they are? Certainly not, although maybe luckier. But I am different, and I don’t understand them very well, and I can’t live with them or draw them into my inner world—or for that matter write about them. All my filial duties are nothing but a series of rituals on my part designed to shield myself from criticism while giving nothing of myself away. It was touching what you said in your last message about our civilisation collapsing and life going on afterwards. And yet I can’t imagine my life that way—I mean whatever goes on, it won’t be my life anymore, not really. Because in my deepest essence I am just an artefact of our culture, just a little bubble winking at the brim of our civilisation. And when it’s gone, I’ll be gone. Not that I think I mind.

  PS—I hate to ask, but since Simon says he’s coming along with you—should I make up two bedrooms or one?

  19.

  On Friday morning it rained and Eileen took the bus to work. She had finished The Karamazov Brothers by then and was reading The Golden Bowl, standing up on the bus with one hand gripping the yellow upright rail and the other holding a copy of the novel in paperback. After alighting she put her scarf over her head and walked a couple of minutes to the office on Kildare Street in the rain. Inside, her colleagues were laughing at a satirical video about the Brexit negotiations. Eileen stood at the computer where they were gathered to watch it, looking over their shoulders at the screen, as the rain slid softly and noiselessly down the outer panes of the office windows. Oh, I’ve seen this one, she said. It’s funny. After that she made a pot of coffee and sat down at her desk. She checked her phone and saw a message from Lola about a ‘cake tasting’ later that week. I’m busy tomorrow evening but otherwise free, Eileen wrote back. Let me know what works. Lola replied within a couple of minutes.

  Lola: What are you doing tomorrow

  Eileen: I have plans

  Lola: Heh heh

  Lola: Are you seeing someone??

  Eileen glanced around the office, as if to check that no one was watching, and then, returning her attention to her phone, she began typing again.

  Eileen: no comment

  Lola: Is he tall

  Eileen: none of your business


  Eileen: but yes he’s 6’3”

  Lola:!!

  Lola: Did you meet him on the internet?

  Lola: Is he a serial killer?

  Lola: Still if he’s 6’3 I suppose it’s swings and roundabouts

  Eileen: this interview is terminated

  Eileen: let me know about the ‘cake tasting’

  Lola: Do you want to bring him to the wedding?

  Eileen: that won’t be necessary

  Lola: Why not??

  Eileen put her phone away and opened a new browser window on her work computer. For a moment she paused, staring at the search engine on the home page, and then quickly and lightly she tapped out the words ‘eileen lydon’ and hit the return key. A page of results showed on-screen, with a set of images displayed at the top. One was a photograph of Eileen herself, sandwiched between two black-and-white historical images. The other results were chiefly social media profiles belonging to other people, along with some obituaries and professional listings. At the bottom of the page, a link to the magazine’s website read: Eileen Lydon|Editorial Assistant. She clicked the link and a new page opened. No photograph was included, and the text simply read: Eileen Lydon is an editorial assistant and contributor at the Harcourt Review. Her essay on the novels of Natalia Ginzburg appeared in Issue 43, Winter 2015. The final part of the sentence was hyperlinked and Eileen clicked it, leading her to a page on which the magazine issue could be purchased online. She closed the tab then and opened up her work email account.

  At home that evening, Eileen called her parents’ landline number, and her father Pat picked up the phone. They talked for a few minutes about a minor political controversy that had been in the news that day, both with similar or even identical tones of disapproval. Please God it won’t be long before the next election, Pat said. Eileen told him she would keep her fingers crossed. He asked her how she was getting on at work and she said: Nothing to report. She was sitting on the bed in her room, one arm holding her phone to her ear, the other resting on her knees. I’ll put you on to your mother, he said. A rasping noise then, and what sounded like clicking, before Mary’s voice said into the receiver: Hello? Eileen gave a strained smile. Hello, she said. How are you? For a little while they talked about work. Mary told an anecdote involving a new member of staff at the school who had mixed up two female teachers who were both named Ms Walsh. That’s funny, Eileen said. After that they talked about the wedding, a dress Eileen had seen in a shop window, two different pairs of shoes Mary was deciding between, and finally they moved on to the subjects of Lola’s behaviour, Mary’s responses to Lola’s behaviour, and the underlying attitudes revealed by Mary’s responses to Lola’s behaviour. When she loses her temper with you, you expect me to take your side, said Eileen. But when she loses her temper with me, you say it’s none of your business. Mary sighed loudly into the receiver. Okay, okay, she said, I’m a failure, I’ve let you both down, what more do you want me to say? Sternly, Eileen answered: No, I never said any of that. After a pause, Mary asked if she had any plans for the weekend. In a guarded tone of voice she said she was going to see Simon on Saturday night. Is he still with the new girlfriend? Mary asked. Eileen closed her eyes and said she didn’t know. You were very fond of him at one time, Mary said. Eileen said nothing for a few seconds. Weren’t you? Mary prompted. Eileen opened her eyes then. Yes, Mother, she answered. With a smile in her voice Mary went on: He’s a handsome boy alright. Although he must be well into his thirties now, is he? I’m sure Andrew and Geraldine wouldn’t mind seeing him settled. Eileen was rubbing her fingertip over a piece of embroidery on the quilt. Maybe he’ll marry me, she said. Mary gave a shocked hoot of laughter. Oh, you’re wicked, she said. And you know, the way you have him wrapped around your finger, I wouldn’t be surprised. Is that your new scheme? Eileen replied that it was not ‘a scheme’. Well, you’d be a lucky woman, said Mary. Eileen nodded her head in silence for a moment. And would he not be a lucky man? she asked then. Mary laughed again at that. Now Eileen, she said, you know I think the world of you. But I have to say that, because you’re my daughter. Eileen went on tracing over the rough stubbled lines of the embroidery with her index finger. If you have to say it, why have I literally never heard you say it before? she asked. Mary was no longer laughing. Okay, pet, she said. I won’t keep you any longer. You have a nice evening now. I love you.

  After hanging up the phone, Eileen opened a messaging app and selected Simon’s name. Their most recent exchange displayed on-screen, from the day before, and she scrolled back up to reread the messages in sequence.

  Eileen: send me a photo of your room

  The next message was a photograph of a hotel room interior, with a double bed taking up most of the floor space. On the bed was a purple duvet and a folded quilt in a different shade of purple.

  Eileen: and now one with you in it..….

  Simon: Haha

  Simon: ‘Senior political adviser caught sending explicit images from War of Independence commemoration ceremony’

  Eileen: what did the IRA fight for if not our freedoms, Simon?

  Simon: ‘It’s what the boys would have wanted,’ insists disgraced former aide

  Eileen: oh before I forget

  Eileen: did you know Alice is in Paris this week?

  Simon: You’re not serious

  Simon: Where did she fly from?

  Eileen: didn’t say but it has to be Dublin

  Simon: International woman of mystery

  Eileen: oh god do NOT say that

  Eileen: that’s exactly what she wants people to be saying

  Simon: No, I just hope she’s alright

  Simon: If I’m back here early tonight I’ll give you a ring, ok?

  After that Eileen had posted the thumbs-up emoji. No further messages had been exchanged. She exited the thread now and returned to the home screen of the messaging app. For a moment her finger hovered over the button to close the app, and then, instead, as if on impulse, she tapped Lola’s name. Lola’s most recent message, from earlier that day, displayed on-screen: Why not?? With her thumbs Eileen began typing out a reply.

  Eileen: because he’s going to be there anyway

  She hit send, and almost instantly an icon showed that Lola had ‘seen’ the message. The animated ellipsis appeared, and within a few seconds a reply arrived.

  Lola: Oh my god

  Lola: Speaking of serial killers

  Lola: Please tell me it’s not Simon Costigan

  Eileen settled herself back against the headboard, typing.

  Eileen: wow

  Eileen: all these years and you’re still mad that he likes me better than you

  Lola: Eileen

  Lola: You’re not seriously going out with that freak are you

  Eileen: if I am it’s none of your business

  Lola: You realise he goes to confession right

  Lola: Like he literally tells his bad thoughts to a priest

  Eileen: ok

  Eileen: firstly, I don’t think that’s really what happens at confession

  Lola: Money down he turns out to be sexually deviant

  Lola: He definitely fancied you when you were 15

  Lola: And he was at least 20

  Lola: Wonder if he told any priests about that

  Eileen: lmao

  Eileen: in our entire lives, literally one man has ever liked me better than you

  Eileen: and you still can’t get over it

  Lola: Alright kiddo

  Lola: Just don’t come crying to me when you’re married and pregnant

  Lola: And some schoolgirls from your neighbourhood start to mysteriously go missing..….

  For a few seconds Eileen stared down at the screen of her phone, her head swaying absently from side to side, before she began typing again.

  Eileen: do you know why you hate him Lola?

  Eileen: it’s because he’s the only person who has ever taken my side against you

  Lola saw this message, b
ut no ellipsis appeared, and no reply arrived. Eileen locked her phone and pushed it away from her, down the bed. Stretching her legs out, she opened up her laptop and started to draft an email to Alice. Twenty minutes later her phone buzzed again and she retrieved it.

  Lola: Actual lol

  Reading this message, Eileen took a deep breath in and then allowed her eyes to close. Slowly the breath left her body and re-entered the room, the breath mingling now with the air of the room, moving through the air of the room and dispersing, droplets and microscopic aerosol particles diffusing through the air of the room and dropping slowly, slowly, toward the floor.

  * * *

  By ten o’clock the following night, Eileen was in the kitchen of a house in Pimlico, drinking whiskey from a plastic cup and talking to a woman named Leanne. The hours can be long, yeah, Leanne was saying. I’d be in there until nine a few times a week, anyway. Eileen was wearing a black silk blouse and had a thin gold chain around her neck, which glinted under the light from the ceiling fixture. Music was playing from the living room and beside them, at the sink, someone was trying to open a bottle of sparkling wine. Eileen said she left work before six o’clock most evenings. Leanne gave a high, almost horrified laugh. Jesus, she said. Six p.m.? Where do you work, sorry? Eileen told her she worked for a literary magazine. Paula, who was hosting the party, came over and offered them some sparkling wine. Eileen held up her cup and said: I’m good, thanks. The doorbell rang and Paula put down the bottle and went away again. Leanne started to tell Eileen about various late nights she had recently spent in the office, on one occasion getting a taxi home at half past six in the morning only to return to work in another taxi two hours later. I can’t imagine that’s good for your health, Eileen said. The door of the kitchen opened then, and Leanne turned around to see who had come in. It was Simon, wearing a white overshirt and carrying a canvas bag on his shoulder. At the sight of him, Leanne let out a cry of greeting. She threw her arms open and he accepted her embrace, looking past her at Eileen with a smile. Hello, he said. How are we?