my mind. I can go straight back to the moment and see us there, sitting on high stools at a long dark bar, eating sandwiches thick as doorsteps, with old newspaper advertisements plastering the walls, and posters for local charities, announcements of cattle fairs, and boats to Scotland. The sun found a way through the filth on the windowpane to fling a few bars of light on the floor, and the glow caught the young American full in his golden face.
Any attention that our group received went to Miller. A chatty local gave him the day’s newspaper. The proprietor’s wife gave him the largest plate of food. The proprietor gave him and him alone a souvenir mug.
The proprietor knew James Clare—who didn’t?—and, discovering my connection, began to tell me about a haunting on the shore at Malin Head, where the ghosts of two young fishermen kept coming back. They’d been drowned there in the middle of the nineteenth century and everybody had seen these ghosts. I took out my notebook to write it down and, from the corner of my eye, saw Miss Begley and Mr. Miller enter a deep conversation.
When it ended, I wondered whether Miss Begley too had seen a ghost, because, as she sat back, the sun that lit this young officer alsoshowed a desperation in her face. And a sense of confusion. And, I thought, panic.
30
That Charles Miller enjoyed our company couldn’t be denied. As Miss Begley fell into a long silence on the way back to Derry, he wanted to know everything about my work. That’s when I told him about the two young Germans washed ashore at Ballymacadoyle, and in the urgency of his response he almost stood up behind the steering wheel.
How old? What did they wear? Were they armed? Did you see a boat? Could they have come from a submarine? Where are they now?
He turned me inside out with questions.
When I had told the tale he subsided and held a silence for long minutes. What did I know in those days—oh, what did I know?
But we could have talked all day and all night, he and I. No wonder I came to admire him so—he showed such interest, not just in me, but in life generally.
“All our neighbors back home—they have old stories,” he said. “Their parents came west, or their grandparents emigrated from Germany or Russia or China. I love those stories.”
I missed him when we parted. He shook my hand and said, simple as a child, “We’ll meet again, Ben. I know it.”
Although I wanted to tell him about Venetia and my own life, the time proved too short. But I sensed that he was the kind of man who would have taken on the tale as a project, and he’d have approached it in a practical way as a difficulty to be solved. He might even have involved himself in the search. I thought,
Maybe I’ll ask him. Maybe he’ll help or have some ideas
.
That night, I said to her, “There was a time when you looked shocked today.”
Sounding candid, she told me, “There’s been intimacy with a girl back home. He says he must marry her.”
“Is there a child?” I asked.
“I don’t think so. He says it’s a matter of honor.”
“What are you going to do?” I said.
“He’s asked me to do something for him. It’s outlandish, but—”
She didn’t finish the sentence.
“Can you tell me what it is?”
“Not just now, Ben. Sleep’s gentle voice is calling me.”
Next morning, Miss Begley and I set out for the South. She, grave and less garrulous than usual, nonetheless made heads turn as we boarded the bus, the straw of her hat as round and yellow as the sun. We had no conversation, not enough privacy, until we caught the train at Sligo, and sat in a compartment, just the two of us. By then something of her bounce had returned.
“Well, what d’you think of him?” she asked me.
“He likes you,” I said. My inner voice said,
And I don’t like that fact
.
She laughed. “I like him.”
“What’s going to happen?” I said.
Mona Lisa smiled again. “We made a deal.”
I said, “Why are you
Any attention that our group received went to Miller. A chatty local gave him the day’s newspaper. The proprietor’s wife gave him the largest plate of food. The proprietor gave him and him alone a souvenir mug.
The proprietor knew James Clare—who didn’t?—and, discovering my connection, began to tell me about a haunting on the shore at Malin Head, where the ghosts of two young fishermen kept coming back. They’d been drowned there in the middle of the nineteenth century and everybody had seen these ghosts. I took out my notebook to write it down and, from the corner of my eye, saw Miss Begley and Mr. Miller enter a deep conversation.
When it ended, I wondered whether Miss Begley too had seen a ghost, because, as she sat back, the sun that lit this young officer alsoshowed a desperation in her face. And a sense of confusion. And, I thought, panic.
30
That Charles Miller enjoyed our company couldn’t be denied. As Miss Begley fell into a long silence on the way back to Derry, he wanted to know everything about my work. That’s when I told him about the two young Germans washed ashore at Ballymacadoyle, and in the urgency of his response he almost stood up behind the steering wheel.
How old? What did they wear? Were they armed? Did you see a boat? Could they have come from a submarine? Where are they now?
He turned me inside out with questions.
When I had told the tale he subsided and held a silence for long minutes. What did I know in those days—oh, what did I know?
But we could have talked all day and all night, he and I. No wonder I came to admire him so—he showed such interest, not just in me, but in life generally.
“All our neighbors back home—they have old stories,” he said. “Their parents came west, or their grandparents emigrated from Germany or Russia or China. I love those stories.”
I missed him when we parted. He shook my hand and said, simple as a child, “We’ll meet again, Ben. I know it.”
Although I wanted to tell him about Venetia and my own life, the time proved too short. But I sensed that he was the kind of man who would have taken on the tale as a project, and he’d have approached it in a practical way as a difficulty to be solved. He might even have involved himself in the search. I thought,
Maybe I’ll ask him. Maybe he’ll help or have some ideas
.
That night, I said to her, “There was a time when you looked shocked today.”
Sounding candid, she told me, “There’s been intimacy with a girl back home. He says he must marry her.”
“Is there a child?” I asked.
“I don’t think so. He says it’s a matter of honor.”
“What are you going to do?” I said.
“He’s asked me to do something for him. It’s outlandish, but—”
She didn’t finish the sentence.
“Can you tell me what it is?”
“Not just now, Ben. Sleep’s gentle voice is calling me.”
Next morning, Miss Begley and I set out for the South. She, grave and less garrulous than usual, nonetheless made heads turn as we boarded the bus, the straw of her hat as round and yellow as the sun. We had no conversation, not enough privacy, until we caught the train at Sligo, and sat in a compartment, just the two of us. By then something of her bounce had returned.
“Well, what d’you think of him?” she asked me.
“He likes you,” I said. My inner voice said,
And I don’t like that fact
.
She laughed. “I like him.”
“What’s going to happen?” I said.
Mona Lisa smiled again. “We made a deal.”
I said, “Why are you
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