This chapter is set in Dublin in the not too recent past. Frank makes a difficult journey in even more difficult personal circumstances...
Temple Bar
Frank was tired and still bleeding internally when he turned into the narrow lane in the so-called Bohemian centre of Dublin. What it had in common with the magnificent slums of the Belle Epoque which Frank had been lucky enough to experience first-hand was vomit, urine and faeces. Sludgy puddles of semi-digested food and alcohol, snaking trails of dark piss and the occasional turd too large to have been produced by a dog decorated the paving slabs. The hypodermic syringes, condoms and fast-food wrappings were of course jetsam of the new century, still devoid of nostalgic qualities, although he felt the narcotic elements had a certain style.
The school was surrounded by a half-hearted fence of corrugated iron, rusting despite the galvanising process due to its weekly anointments of urine, bearing faded fly-posters and site safety notices. The door and windows were boarded up, and although potential squatters had forced open a couple of entrances, Frank was confident that the malevolent atmosphere of the institution would drive out anyone attempting to make shelter no matter how temporary. He stepped over the nettles growing in the rubbish that filled the narrow space between fence and school, one flicking up inside his trouser leg, brushing pain into his lower left calf. He coughed a worm of blood onto his lips and used it to massage the rash. He was uncomfortable, frustrated and very tired. His elegant plans had come to nothing and for the first time in over a century he found himself having to take emergency measures. He was not even preparing a rear-guard action. This was full-fledged retreat; he was cashing in his insurance, after which he would lick his wounds before finding another suitable victim and commence upon a further modest plan to enrich himself.
The rubbish on the heavy iron manhole cover required some work to be cleared, and the huge rectangle of cast iron was almost impossible for him to move in his weakened state. Sweat ran grime into his eyes and his face was smeared with black blood and cat-shit flavoured earth by the time the door was lifted past the point of equilibrium and it crashed over, opening the damp vacuum of the basement to the Dublin sky for the first time in fifteen years or so. Of course he knew the exact day, in fact the very second, when he had last used this redundant doorway, but he was hardly in the mood to recall it now. His kidneys ached, his entrails were knotted with pain and his lungs were refusing to play their full part in respiration. In short he was dying and to make matters worse he looked a mess and stank of his own various excretions.
School basements were magnificent repositories of personal and educational histories. He remembered his father’s maps of the world with all the purple countries being once under the influence of Norway and the pink forming the British Empire. He had resented the scale of the British influence, but had reasoned that most of it was intolerably hot and peopled by Negroes or Orientals, therefore hopelessly unmanageable and intellectually insignificant. Low temperatures suppressed the basic appetites and encouraged abstract thought. As a child he had imagined that it was only a matter of time before the scientific and industrial superiority of the Scandanavians would colour the world, by which he meant Europe, most of Russia and the North Americas a satisfying purple. That was all before he had left his nation behind as his contemporaries fell into sloth, old age and the grave. He was, by virtue of his genius, a self-made man in a quite literal sense.
He made his way past the large sagging boxes in the gloom which rapidly deepened into total void. He supposed that somewhere in those boxes was the school record of his nemesis, the one who had brought him to this embarrassing u-turn in his long and successful career. Fuck her, he thought, recoiling at the taste of the thought. Still, it was acceptable to express annoyance in these special circumstances. He would put it all behind him once he had carried out the transfer. He struck a match and located the lift, and with it the emergency lighting. The heavy lever’s thud announced the weak 25 watt illumination and the grinding of the gears. Frank stood on the iron grill and felt the platform jerk downwards. The musty smell of old earth came up to meet him and for a moment he was in the intersection of centuries. Then he had left the twentieth century behind and was in the circular sub-basement with its medieval walls and air.
Temple Bar
Frank was tired and still bleeding internally when he turned into the narrow lane in the so-called Bohemian centre of Dublin. What it had in common with the magnificent slums of the Belle Epoque which Frank had been lucky enough to experience first-hand was vomit, urine and faeces. Sludgy puddles of semi-digested food and alcohol, snaking trails of dark piss and the occasional turd too large to have been produced by a dog decorated the paving slabs. The hypodermic syringes, condoms and fast-food wrappings were of course jetsam of the new century, still devoid of nostalgic qualities, although he felt the narcotic elements had a certain style.
The school was surrounded by a half-hearted fence of corrugated iron, rusting despite the galvanising process due to its weekly anointments of urine, bearing faded fly-posters and site safety notices. The door and windows were boarded up, and although potential squatters had forced open a couple of entrances, Frank was confident that the malevolent atmosphere of the institution would drive out anyone attempting to make shelter no matter how temporary. He stepped over the nettles growing in the rubbish that filled the narrow space between fence and school, one flicking up inside his trouser leg, brushing pain into his lower left calf. He coughed a worm of blood onto his lips and used it to massage the rash. He was uncomfortable, frustrated and very tired. His elegant plans had come to nothing and for the first time in over a century he found himself having to take emergency measures. He was not even preparing a rear-guard action. This was full-fledged retreat; he was cashing in his insurance, after which he would lick his wounds before finding another suitable victim and commence upon a further modest plan to enrich himself.
The rubbish on the heavy iron manhole cover required some work to be cleared, and the huge rectangle of cast iron was almost impossible for him to move in his weakened state. Sweat ran grime into his eyes and his face was smeared with black blood and cat-shit flavoured earth by the time the door was lifted past the point of equilibrium and it crashed over, opening the damp vacuum of the basement to the Dublin sky for the first time in fifteen years or so. Of course he knew the exact day, in fact the very second, when he had last used this redundant doorway, but he was hardly in the mood to recall it now. His kidneys ached, his entrails were knotted with pain and his lungs were refusing to play their full part in respiration. In short he was dying and to make matters worse he looked a mess and stank of his own various excretions.
School basements were magnificent repositories of personal and educational histories. He remembered his father’s maps of the world with all the purple countries being once under the influence of Norway and the pink forming the British Empire. He had resented the scale of the British influence, but had reasoned that most of it was intolerably hot and peopled by Negroes or Orientals, therefore hopelessly unmanageable and intellectually insignificant. Low temperatures suppressed the basic appetites and encouraged abstract thought. As a child he had imagined that it was only a matter of time before the scientific and industrial superiority of the Scandanavians would colour the world, by which he meant Europe, most of Russia and the North Americas a satisfying purple. That was all before he had left his nation behind as his contemporaries fell into sloth, old age and the grave. He was, by virtue of his genius, a self-made man in a quite literal sense.
He made his way past the large sagging boxes in the gloom which rapidly deepened into total void. He supposed that somewhere in those boxes was the school record of his nemesis, the one who had brought him to this embarrassing u-turn in his long and successful career. Fuck her, he thought, recoiling at the taste of the thought. Still, it was acceptable to express annoyance in these special circumstances. He would put it all behind him once he had carried out the transfer. He struck a match and located the lift, and with it the emergency lighting. The heavy lever’s thud announced the weak 25 watt illumination and the grinding of the gears. Frank stood on the iron grill and felt the platform jerk downwards. The musty smell of old earth came up to meet him and for a moment he was in the intersection of centuries. Then he had left the twentieth century behind and was in the circular sub-basement with its medieval walls and air.
2 comments:
Finally got time to sit down and give this some proper attention :)
As Diarm was saying, along comes the dame.
I do like a Dublin in all it´s fetid glory.
((have to use this account so google doesn´t log me into my old email adress))
hi ruth here rebecca told me that u told her to tell me to read it so i have and i hope jonathan and his mercedes (it was a mercedes right?) r going to make an apperence at some stage. but so far so good.
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