Skippy Dies by Paul Murray Page A

Inferno
. When she heard about him, her sister had wondered aloud how much of a future you could have with someone you’d met at a
     disaster movie. But at that point Halley wasn’t feeling picky. She had been in Dublin just over three weeks – not so long
     that she didn’t still get lost all the time on the infuriating streets that kept changing their names, but enough to disabuse
     her of most of her illusions about the place; enough too, with the deposit and first month’s rent for her new apartment, to
     separate her from most of the money she’d brought, and cut the time available for soul-searching and self-finding quite drastically.
     That afternoon she’d spent in an Internet café, reluctantly updating her résumé; she hadn’t had a conversation since the night
     before, a stilted exchange with the Chinese pizza delivery boy about his native Yunan province. When she spotted the poster
     for
The Towering Inferno
, which she and Zephyr must have watched twenty times together, it was like catching sight of an old friend. She went in and
     for three hours warmed herself in the familiar blaze of collapsing architecture and suffocating hotel guests; she stayed in
     her seat until the ushers started sweeping round her feet.
    Standing on the kerb outside the cinema she unfolded her map of the city, and was scouring it for any place that might serve
     to use up the next couple of hours when a taxicab hurtled by and whipped it out of her hands. The map flapped madly up into
     the air, then swooped back down to spread itself over the chest of a man who’d just come out the cinema door. Halley crimsoned
     with embarrassment, then noticed that the man – bewilderedly unwrapping himself from the two-dimensional image of the city,
     so it looked almost as if he’d popped out of the map himself – was kind of cute.
    (‘Cute how?’ Zephyr asked her. ‘Irish-looking,’ Halley said, by which she meant a collection of indistinct features – pale
     skin, mousy hair, general air of ill-health – that combine to mysteriously powerful romantic effect.)
    The man looked right and left, then saw her cringing on the far side of the cobbled street. ‘I believe this is yours,’ he
     said, presenting her with the incorrectly folded map.
    ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Sorry.’
    ‘Didn’t I see you inside at the film?’
    She nodded vaguely, pulling at her hair.
    ‘I noticed because you stayed right to the end. Most people leap out of their seats the instant they see the credits appear.
     I always wonder what they’re in such a hurry to get back to.’
    ‘It’s hard to comprehend,’ she agreed.
    ‘Yeah,’ the man said, pursing his lips reflectively. The conversation had reached its natural conclusion and she knew he was
     considering whether he should leave it there in its brief, formal perfection or risk ruining that perfection by attempting
     to bring it a stage further; she found herself hoping he would take the chance. ‘You’re not from Dublin, are you?’ he said.
    ‘Hence the map,’ she said, and then, realizing this sounded acerbic, ‘I’m from the United States. California originally. But
     I’ve come from New York. What about you?’
    ‘Here,’ he said, gesturing at the surrounding streets. ‘So – where was it you were looking for?’
    ‘Oh,’ she said. Not wanting to admit the dismal truth, that she had been looking merely for a destination, any destination,
     she squeezed her eyes tight shut and tried to remember one of the little triangles on the tourist map. ‘Uh, the museum?’ There
     was bound to be a museum.
    ‘Ah right,’ he said. ‘You know, I’ve never been there since it moved. But I can show you where it is. It’s not far.’ With
     a shall-we gesture, he turned, and she followed him downhill to the quays, a fracas of trucks and bus stops and seagulls.
     He pointed upriver at the far bank. ‘It’s about half an hour’s
walk,’ he said. ‘Although, actually, I’d imagine it