Elsewhere, p.5
Elsewhere, page 5
‘Please, Shanshan,’ Declan said, looking annoyed. ‘Let’s be honest. Do you want to go?’
She glared at him. Knocking back her drink, she shoved the glass into Declan’s hand and pushed through the mob to get her coat.
It was frosty outside. The street was marvellously lit. Multicoloured Christmas trees were glittering through windows of the apartment buildings. Shanshan enfolded herself in her black coat and walked back along the quay. Outside Londis, the cashier was smoking at the old spot, wearing a short-sleeved shirt. He waved at her. ‘Good evening!’
Shanshan tramped towards him and reached out her hand. ‘Cigarette please.’
He laughed. ‘Am I your dealer now?’
They stood together, smoking. Shanshan could feel the heat rising from his arm, brushing her frozen cheek. She thought of the tattoo underneath his sleeve.
‘Are you going home for Christmas?’ she said.
‘The in-laws’ in Waterford,’ he said. ‘My wife’s an only child and I have six siblings. Every year we go back to her folks’ house. Fair enough. Yourself? Any plans?’
‘My husband and I are going away as well. We are going to Burma.’ She exhaled.
‘Where is that? Is that in Asia?’
‘South-East Asia.’
‘Imagine.’ He took a drag.
They continued to smoke in silence. Two 67 buses passed, both quite empty.
‘I’d better go now.’ The cashier put out the cigarette on the ground. ‘Have a good evening and happy Christmas.’
‘You too,’ she said.
The next morning, Declan apologised. ‘Sorry for the fuss with Maeve. She’s going through a rough time. Plus, she was really pissed.’
‘I could see that,’ Shanshan said.
Declan coughed. ‘The editor just emailed. My article is out today. Shall we check the tickets now?’ He looked at her with his brown eyes, as if their brief exchange in the pub did not happen at all.
Shanshan felt a twitch in her chest. There was a hopelessness on Declan’s face that reminded her of the time before their trip to Burma, when he’d shown up at her friend’s place. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Let’s have a look.’
They started checking the flights to Yangon. On Skyscanner, all the dates were marked red.
‘It’s probably too late to book anything now.’ Shanshan sighed.
‘It’s not too late,’ said Declan. ‘We’ll find something, I promise you.’
‘But do you see the price?’ Shanshan shook her head. ‘The cheapest ticket here is 908 euro per person – and it takes three transfers and forty-nine hours.’
‘I’ll find something.’ Declan took the laptop from her.
‘Never mind,’ Shanshan said. ‘We don’t have to go. It’s not practical anyway.’
‘We’ll go,’ he insisted.
She watched him type and search, sensing the familiar smell of his body intensified by perspiration. Every time when she was about to give up, he persisted. They were like two comets chasing each other in circles, sometimes getting closer, yet always light years apart.
They sat for two hours and found out the cheapest option was to go to Hong Kong first, wait there for thirteen hours and fly to Yangon the second day. It would cost 1268 euro for the two of them. Then the hotels – Declan was on the laptop, scrolling, clicking, reading out numbers while Shanshan took notes, doing the sums.
The number kept getting bigger. Shanshan bent her sore neck and saw it had gone dark again outside. ‘Shall we take a break? I need to eat before making any decisions,’ she said.
Declan agreed. They were starving after the intense labour and he suggested they go to Mulligan’s. They walked. It was quiet and dark on North Circular Road. Shanshan held Declan’s hand.
‘I know it’ll be strange to go to Burma again. And it’s a lot of money,’ she said.
Declan sighed. His exhalation turned white in the air and vanished like a ghost. ‘But you still want to go.’
They turned into Aughrim Street and walked past a church. She said: ‘I’m sorry that it hasn’t been great between us.’
‘You don’t need to apologise,’ Declan said, looking ahead.
‘And I’m sorry for the miscarriage. I can’t understand how I did not notice that I was pregnant,’ she said in a small voice. ‘Sometimes I feel maybe it’s because I don’t want to have children. I don’t want to be a mother.’
He listened and thought for a few seconds. ‘You’ll get there, Shanshan. Be patient. Give your body time to heal.’
From the distance, they could hear music playing. They turned onto Manor Street and arrived at Mulligan’s. They ate mussels, chips, drank beer and went back home around six.
The cottage felt cold and empty. Across the sofa lay the laptop, notebooks and pens. Shanshan asked: ‘Shall we book it now?’
‘Sure.’ Declan hung up his coat and strode to the sofa.
The phone rang from Declan’s coat pocket. Shanshan handed it to him. On the screen it said: ‘Home’.
‘Howya,’ Declan answered and stepped into the kitchen. She could hear his voice coming. ‘Jesus … Sure, of course … Are you okay? … Okay, okay … Sure I will. No bother … Do you need anything? … No worries, we can get a taxi from the train station … See you.’
He came back. ‘It was Dad,’ he said. ‘Mam fell from the stairs and they think she broke her hip, possibly some internal bleeding. And Dad, he’s been in bed for a week now because his back got worse. Aoife’s in Germany with her boyfriend. The others are too far away. They need me there.’
‘My goodness. Poor Rita.’
‘We’d better go soon. She is having an operation. Someone has to be there,’ Declan said.
They packed quickly and left Dublin by train at ten past eight. Declan looked out the window for a while before saying: ‘I’m sorry. But I don’t think we will go to Burma this time.’
‘Of course. You don’t need to say this,’ she said.
‘We can go during the Easter holiday. We’ll book the flights early and we can stay in nice hotels.’
‘That’d be good.’
He soon fell asleep, crouching on the seat, head resting on her shoulder.
The train was full. It was already the 21st. People were going back to Mullingar, to Longford, to Ballymote, to Sligo, to the rain and snow.
They arrived at Longford at ten and went straight to the hospital.
Rita had hip replacement surgery the next day at noon. Afterwards, Shanshan and Declan met her in the ward. When they walked in, Rita was lying flat on the bed with a pillow in between her legs.
‘It’s been twenty-six years since I had an epidural and that was for Seán,’ she said. ‘It all passed in a blink.’
‘How do you feel?’ Declan asked.
‘Great. I’m in no pain now, soon I’ll be flying,’ she said. ‘Shanshan, can you come over? I haven’t seen you for ages.’
Shanshan had been standing at the foot of the bed. She walked over and looked down at Rita. Her mother-in-law’s face was swollen and bruised like a moulded boule bread, stitches on her forehead.
‘Ah, poor girl, no need to be upset,’ Rita said, ‘I’m fine. I’ll be fine.’
‘I know,’ Shanshan said, wiping her eyes.
‘This is what happens when you get old. Look at Paul and me. One with a broken back, the other with a broken hip, both on the bed.’ She tittered and started to cough.
‘Mam, please,’ Declan said. ‘You need to be still.’
‘I need some water,’ she said.
Shanshan went to get the water. She filled half the glass and put in a straw. Carefully she lowered the glass to Rita’s cheek and manoeuvred the straw into her mouth.
Rita drank. ‘Thank you, Shanshan,’ she said. ‘And congratulations on the Guardian story, Declan.’
‘Ah that’s nothing. It was only because of the case. The English wanted to know about “Slab” Murphy, and I was there to tell,’ he said.
They chatted away. Shanshan stood under the fluorescent light, beside the chalk-white bed, feeling she was removed from the room. She pinned her nails in her palms to stop herself from trembling. She couldn’t help but see her own mother’s face, a swollen, ugly and ridiculous face, covered by cuts and bruises. The body had been laid on a bare steel tray. A policewoman had asked her: ‘Can you confirm the victim’s identification?’
When the visiting hour was over, the couple said goodbye to Rita, walked back to the house and bought some groceries on the way. Shanshan cooked bacon and Brussels sprouts, heated up two tins of refried beans and made a green salad with feta cheese.
‘The best dinner I’ve had in ages,’ Paul exclaimed after eating everything.
‘Say it in front of Mam,’ Declan said.
The father and son drank wine and talked late into the night. The next day, the siblings began to return: Róisín flew back from London, and Seán arrived before midnight, taking the last bus from Dublin Airport. On the early morning of the 24th, Aoife got home and gave Shanshan a long squeeze. When Cormac and his wife Silvia came back and released their five-year-old and eight-year-old, the three-storey house seemed too small to contain all the screams and laughter.
After dinner, they sat in the living room. Coronation Street was on TV. Róisín carried out board games. ‘Ah I’d love to play this.’ Seán pulled out one box, reading the cover. ‘Discovering Éire: a strategic game of travelling around Ireland.’
‘Sure,’ Declan said, sliding down the sofa and sitting on the carpet.
‘I’m in,’ Aoife said. She scooted over towards Declan and waved to Shanshan. ‘Come sit by me, Shanshan, I’ll show you how to play.’
‘I’m a bit tired,’ Shanshan said. ‘I might just go to the next room and watch TV.’
Declan took a look at her. ‘Alright. Get a blanket. The heating in that room is not great.’
She went into the second living room and turned on the light. It seemed that earlier on the two little boys had had some fun in here. Books, magazines and newspapers were scattered all over the floor. She started picking them up, putting books back on the shelves and newspapers underneath the coffee table. Halfway through, a familiar face surfaced, wearing a khaki flat cap.
She shivered, as if being bitten by the image, and nearly dropped the paper.
The ‘Untouchable’ IRA Godfather Brought Down by Tax Law. It was Declan’s piece in the Guardian. His parents must have bought the paper on the day it came out.
Shanshan sat down on the sofa and began to read: Thomas ‘Slab’ Murphy’s farm straddles County Louth and County Armagh on the Irish border. It was there he amassed a multi-million-euro fortune through cross-border smuggling and ruled the IRA for more than forty years. Once considered a ‘good Republican’ by Sinn Féin, he was charged on 21 September in the Special Criminal Court in Dublin with tax evasion, being accused of failing to make any returns to Revenue …
An irrecoverable cold was filling out Shanshan’s body. She put down the paper and pulled the blanket over herself with quivering fingers, but it didn’t help. Through the wall, she heard laughter, intermittently. At a certain point, someone screamed and then they were all clapping and chanting: ‘Declan! Declan! Declan!’ She thought of getting up and joining them for the game but she couldn’t move. She looked at the black TV screen, the dark and hollow fireplace.
She sat there for so long it felt as if Christmas was over and all the people had left the house.
Rita came home on St Stephen’s Day. There was a lot of resting and physio to do but she was on the mend. Róisín returned to London on the same day. Two days later, Cormac and Silvia packed up eight suitcases and flew back to Madrid with the kids. Declan, Shanshan and Seán left on the 31st. They spent New Year’s Day together in Dublin before Seán headed to Scotland, joining his friends for a stag party. In another week’s time he’d recommence his teaching job in Abu Dhabi.
The court opened on 10 January. This time, the case was of Donal Billings, a sixty-six-year-old man who had called the gardaí, stating he had planted a bomb on a Dublin-to-Longford bus ahead of a state visit by the Queen. He could face eight to ten years in jail.
In February, Shanshan read in the newspaper that the court had jailed ‘Slab’ Murphy for eighteen months. At the end of the month, the couple found out she was pregnant again.
They dropped their plan to visit Burma during the Easter break and finally painted the house. Shanshan would go to Phoenix Park for most of her walks, or sometimes she’d head to the Rotunda in the city centre for check-ups or antenatal classes. As the days got brighter and the London plane trees began to sprout, Shanshan had taken on a few translation jobs and decided to read George Orwell. Starting with Declan’s favourite, 1984, then Animal Farm and Down and Out in Paris and London. She had grown fond of the author and was confident that one day she would be able to read Burmese Days and perhaps even discuss the novel with her husband. Although she would try to avoid, if possible, A Collection of Essays, especially ‘Shooting an Elephant’.
Every time, just a glimpse of the jade-green spine on the bookshelves was enough to make her freeze, feeling in the pit of her stomach and remembering the moment, two days after being admitted to Mawlamyine General Hospital, when she had opened her mouth for the first time, and asked Declan if he could read this story to her.
In a low and slightly hoarse voice, he had read to her how Orwell had pulled the trigger of the rifle, aiming the first bullet a few inches in front of the elephant’s earhole, where its brain was. The elephant sagged to its knees and Orwell fired again at the same spot and then again for the third time and how, finally, the elephant trumpeted and came down completely – but it was not dead. And Declan went on: ‘I sent back for my small rifle and poured shot after shot into his heart and down his throat. They seemed to make no impression. The tortured gasps continued as steadily as the ticking of a clock.’
That had been when Shanshan started to cry. Her hands covered her face and the tears streamed down along her arms. She cried out loudly, almost howling. Her body shook.
‘Mama, Mama, Mama,’ she cried, in Chinese.
Mama.
When Travelling in the Summer
‘when travelling in the summertime,’ shen kuo wrote in the year 1095, ‘there’s no need for assorted fruit platter, savoury cakes and raisins. On his back Servant Yi carries bamboo luggage, which consists of two sections. The lower section is a compartment while the upper section an open shelf. On the left side of the shelf is a bookcase, which contains a stack of rice paper, a couple of ink brushes, a bottle of ink, an ink stone, scissors, A Brief Guide to Rhyme and some other books. In the compartment, there are six or seven bowls and plates, four pairs of chopsticks, a few pieces of fresh fruit and a fruit knife. On the right side of the shelf is a zither, stored in a bamboo case. There is also a folding Go board. The stones for the game are kept in the compartment, alongside three kinds of tea, including a fermented one, three sets of teacups and saucers, and seven tea mixing bowls and spoons.’
It was January when Shen Kuo was writing in his study and the snow was about to fall. Seven braziers burnt brightly in the room. Amid the crackling sound of firewood, he looked outside the window at a plum blossom tree and thought of the midsummer days, all the perspiration and light-headedness that would occur during travel. The imagined heat made his throat dry and itchy. He drank from the teacup. Then he dipped the brush onto the ink stone, made a fine stroke on the rice paper and carried on in a dancing rhythm: ‘Another few bits and pieces to bring: a small axe, a machete, a pick for blocks of Chinese medicine, two candles, a cane, a pair of rain boots, a raincoat, a conical straw hat, a teapot, a tea whisker and a flask of oil.’
He finished writing in the small hours when five of the seven braziers had dimmed. He stood up from the desk, closed the ink bottle and washed the brush in a brass basin. Afterwards, he dried the brush, trimmed the tip with scissors and carefully hung it back on the penholder.
Must travel light in the summer, he thought as he blew out the candles. Bring only the essentials.
On 5 January, Shen Kuo’s old friend Huang arrived from the capital with his two wives, six concubines and forty servants and maids. His caravan congested the main street outside Shen Kuo’s estate. As the servants scurried back and forth, unloading the luggage, Huang got off his carriage and stepped languidly to the front gate.
In front of Shen Kuo’s estate, Huang stopped and looked up at the mahogany gate. A pair of stone gods stood on each side. The one on the right had the head of an ox, eyes protruding. It held a pair of axes. The left one, whose face resembled a horse, bared its teeth, letting out a soundless scream. Its arms extended forward, thrusting a machete at the visitor.
Huang smiled at them. His gaze moved to the top of the gate, where a thick wooden plaque hung. On the plaque, the name of the estate was engraved: Mengxi – the Dream Creek.
Huang stared at the plaque, eyes narrowed. ‘Knock on the door,’ he ordered.
A broad-shouldered servant walked up and pounded the gate. ‘Here arrives the prestigious third-class officer, the grand minister of the supreme court, Master Huang! Come greet him immediately!’
The call repeated, each time louder. It finally reached to the end of the estate and the gate opened. Behind the gate stood a young man in a white robe. His eyebrows were thick and dark, his eyes firm and bright. ‘Welcome.’ He bowed. ‘Master and Madam are expecting you.’
Shen Kuo and his wife, Woman Zhang, stood at the centre of the great hall as Servant Yi guided Huang in. Stepping over the stone threshold, Huang smiled warmly at Shen Kuo. He was smaller and older than Shen Kuo remembered. His face was wrinkled like the dried shell of a cicada.
‘It has been eight years, Mr Shen.’ Huang bowed. ‘I hope you haven’t been ill since.’
‘I’ve been healthy. Thank you,’ Shen Kuo said. ‘I’m glad to know you are ranked third class – a grand minister.’
