CC 68: The Health of the Salmon

Paidi’s face, when it hurled those spears across, was like that which I’d seen on him at St. Gerard’s Hall years back when kickboxing was all the rage for us.  I could see the rage flaring up in him in the moments before we fought, villainous and vengeful like the baddie on the cover of a video I’d likely watched the day before.  Earlier, he’d been soundly defeated in another class by an older and more senior competitor with all the  kickboxing girls watching from the side (Emer too, the best of them), and now he was competing at a lower level with a weaker, less-skilled, and considerably more frightened and lamb-like opponent.  That was me.   Pulverise.  You know that word?  Pulverise.  Say it out loud just to get the feeling of it.  PUL-VER-ISE.  That’s what Paidi did to me.  The fucker.  Well, he had something of that look again.  Cheeky bastard, to be honest.  Emer and I were still married;  I hadn’t gone away, so best he got used to it.

‘What about you?’ Emer asked.

‘What about me?’

‘Have you been seeing anyone, or….?’

‘Eh…..’

‘You don’t have to say if you don’t want to.  I figured you might have tried to get on with things.  We’re coming up on nearly a year, you know.’

‘Oh, I know.  No.  I mean, the answer to your question is no.  Well, I’ve tried, sort of.  On the internet.  A few times.’

‘Really?  Interesting.’

‘I found some dating sites and messed around a bit.’

‘Good.  There’s nothing wrong with that.  That’s what everyone’s up to these days, I hear.’

‘Nothing has come of it though, but not for the lack of trying.  I issued the greetings, they went out there, up into the air, and usually nothing came back.  Rarely got a reply.  I tell you, I’ve never typed the word ‘Hi’ so much.  Sometimes I changed it up with a ‘Hello’ or even a ‘Heyo’ if I was feeling a bit hip that day.  Hi.  Hi.  Hello.  Hello.  Heyo.  And then start again.’ 

‘Well, you have to keep at it.  Be persistent.  It’s like applying for a job.  You might get some rejections, but you have to keep going.  Eventually you’ll get there.’

‘Yeah, maybe you’re right.  I don’t know where I’ve been going wrong.  Maybe I should change the picture on my profile.  It’s not me.’

‘What?  Pascal, that’s rubbish.  You have to be honest, and put up a genuine photo of yourself.  You can’t pretend to be someone else.’

‘I know.’

‘What photo do you use?’

‘Brendan Behan.’

‘Ah, come on, Pascal, are you fucking joking?’

Four years.  That’s how long I had to get her back, or keep typing ‘Hi’ into robotland.  If she wanted a divorce, we’d have to wait four more years by Irish law to start that ball rolling; but it was rolling already, I suppose.  A huge rumbling stone sphere.  Four years I’d have to run from that thing like Indiana Jones at the start of the film.  Imagine doing that for four years, Indy.  Why do people bother these days anyway?  Marriage.  Divorce.  Marriage again.  Divorce again.  The whole welter.  I was about to say that to Emer right there and then.  Why did we bother?  But then I thought, nah, fuck it, wait a year and then say it.  These time-worn institutions.  What good were they at all anymore?  I had no use for them.  Emer had no use for them.  Let them crumble away and be done. 

My eyes met Paidi’s for a moment as he was lobbing over one of his warrior aims.  I gave him the warrior back.  Four years, Paidi.  Get used to it, ya twat.

There was some tapping of glass and the room’s drone of discussion sputtered off.  Ross Young, the crime journalist, came out in front to speak.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, fine to be here with you all tonight….’

Ross Young had reported John Carroll’s woes as they happened, and continued to cover the story right up until my friend boiled his mortal coil.  It was a fierce story to work on.  Murder.  A grotesque loner.  An attack on the elderly, the impaired, the weakest among us.  Guilt.  Suicide.  Hot stuff.  For Ross Young’s part in the events, I was mixed; I respected his journalistic duties, but being close to the person at the heart of the matter during those last days, the blunt tone of it struck a sore point.  At the very least, there was something that rubbed me wrong about Ross Young, regardless of his association with poor John.  I wondered if he too was one of the Last Serpents.  He had that slippery snake look; hard glistening putrid skin.

‘Without further ado, the man of the hour, and my good friend, Paddy Klerkin….’

Whoops and Applause as Patrick Anthony Klerkin stepped once more into the spotlight.

‘Well, here we all are,’ the esteemed poet in full voice.  ‘I would like to thank you all for coming on this glorious Oiche Shamhna.  I welcome your exuberance.  This building we are now a part of has special significance for me, and for our wee town.  You’ve heard the stories.  Mitchell House is one of the oldest monuments in the county, and its history is as colourful as Maisie Crawford’s spiritually satisfying salad spread over there.  Give it up for Maisie, ladies and gentlemen, what a feast she has prepared for us tonight.  Here at Mitchell House, a great number of things have been born over the years.  Great ideas have come and fermented here, and bore new ideas, new ways forward in thought and action.  I am so happy that you’ve joined me and my family here tonight.  I hope you all enjoy this new collection of mine, The Recommended Fisherman.  May you all bring in a fine catch in the morning, my friends.  Sláinte an bhradáin, mo chairde – croí  folláin agus gob fliuch.’*

*’The health of the salmon, my friends – a stout heart and a wet mouth.’