a tiger. It seemed impossible that this creature had come back for me.
We sat down. Nursing the glass from which she had not drunk, Flynn leaned forward in her chair and asked my mother how sheâd enjoyed her holiday. She chatted to Molly about the cat, and it seemed no time at all before she said that she must go.
âCall round and see me,â she said shyly, as she left. She waved her hand awkwardly from hip level, the hand that I must not, for now, touch.
I followed her out to the car. With my mother safely inside, in the cover of darkness I put out my hand and touched her face. When my hand reached her mouth, she took my fingers softly between her teeth and bit them. I pinched her on the back of the neck, playfully. Then, wanting to punish her, IÂ pinched harder, and she slapped me away. We glared at each other. How much I hated and loved her at that moment!
âThat was a nice girl,â said my mother.
âYes,â I replied, not able to look her in the eye.
I wondered if she could see how I burned.
They left very early next morning, just as the sun was coming up. Molly was an early riser anyway, and my mother wanted to get a large part of the distance covered before they stopped at a motel for the night.
I wiped a tear as the car pulled away. And then thought with relief and guilt that nothing prevented me from going to Flynn at once. I wanted so much to see her, but to run to her place straight after saying goodbye to my family would be like saying that I had wanted them gone. And my pride stood in the way as well. Sheâd left me hanging on in agony for what had seemed like an aeon, and I didnât want to be at her beck and call.
I went back inside, and the place was empty and lonely. IÂ washed up the few breakfast dishes. There was no bedding to deal with as theyâd taken it away with them.
I fought a battle between anger and longing. My flat felt as barren as a wasteland. Someone might have died there.
I stared out through the windows, and sat all day watching the shadows move across the room. Finally, when I could bear it no longer, I got up and showered, automatically dressing in something I could wear to work the next morning.
And I walked down the hill to the town, in the twilight, in the red light of a summer evening, in the crow-cawing evening, with the setting sun pinking the clouds, to the purple staircase, the shadowy purple staircase to her flat.
PART TWO
Chapter One
B UT BEFORE FLYNN , before nearly everything, there is Michael. There is Michael, there is Finnegans Wake , there is my mother and Molly, my father and Josh. There is Morgan. There is a girl in a diaphanous dress.
But to begin at this particular moment: I am experiencing something close to bliss. I am sixteen, and browsing in a second-hand bookshop in our suburb.
The shopâs in Canberraâs inner north, part of a villagey shopping centre with a park in front and at the rear. Down the laneway that leads between the two parks, the narrow shop stretches halfway up the lane, its windows offering views of the maze-like arrangement of shelves inside. Itâs the most higgledy-piggledy shop Iâve ever seen. Everything is in categories, but books are only roughly alphabetical, only barely shelved. Little piles of books lie in abandon everywhere, and finding one you want is like a lucky dip.
LITERATURE is right at the back. I lean against the glass, warmed by the early afternoon autumn light. I am filled with bliss because Iâve discovered a fat, barely thumbed book called Finnegans Wake.
riverrun is the way it starts â I always like to see how a book begins and ends â and the incomplete last sentence of the book appears to form the beginning of the first. That is, if this book could be said to have sentences by the usual definition, or indeed be about anything. But the language makes sense in a rhythmic, nonsensical way, and this matter of making sense and yet not at the same
We sat down. Nursing the glass from which she had not drunk, Flynn leaned forward in her chair and asked my mother how sheâd enjoyed her holiday. She chatted to Molly about the cat, and it seemed no time at all before she said that she must go.
âCall round and see me,â she said shyly, as she left. She waved her hand awkwardly from hip level, the hand that I must not, for now, touch.
I followed her out to the car. With my mother safely inside, in the cover of darkness I put out my hand and touched her face. When my hand reached her mouth, she took my fingers softly between her teeth and bit them. I pinched her on the back of the neck, playfully. Then, wanting to punish her, IÂ pinched harder, and she slapped me away. We glared at each other. How much I hated and loved her at that moment!
âThat was a nice girl,â said my mother.
âYes,â I replied, not able to look her in the eye.
I wondered if she could see how I burned.
They left very early next morning, just as the sun was coming up. Molly was an early riser anyway, and my mother wanted to get a large part of the distance covered before they stopped at a motel for the night.
I wiped a tear as the car pulled away. And then thought with relief and guilt that nothing prevented me from going to Flynn at once. I wanted so much to see her, but to run to her place straight after saying goodbye to my family would be like saying that I had wanted them gone. And my pride stood in the way as well. Sheâd left me hanging on in agony for what had seemed like an aeon, and I didnât want to be at her beck and call.
I went back inside, and the place was empty and lonely. IÂ washed up the few breakfast dishes. There was no bedding to deal with as theyâd taken it away with them.
I fought a battle between anger and longing. My flat felt as barren as a wasteland. Someone might have died there.
I stared out through the windows, and sat all day watching the shadows move across the room. Finally, when I could bear it no longer, I got up and showered, automatically dressing in something I could wear to work the next morning.
And I walked down the hill to the town, in the twilight, in the red light of a summer evening, in the crow-cawing evening, with the setting sun pinking the clouds, to the purple staircase, the shadowy purple staircase to her flat.
PART TWO
Chapter One
B UT BEFORE FLYNN , before nearly everything, there is Michael. There is Michael, there is Finnegans Wake , there is my mother and Molly, my father and Josh. There is Morgan. There is a girl in a diaphanous dress.
But to begin at this particular moment: I am experiencing something close to bliss. I am sixteen, and browsing in a second-hand bookshop in our suburb.
The shopâs in Canberraâs inner north, part of a villagey shopping centre with a park in front and at the rear. Down the laneway that leads between the two parks, the narrow shop stretches halfway up the lane, its windows offering views of the maze-like arrangement of shelves inside. Itâs the most higgledy-piggledy shop Iâve ever seen. Everything is in categories, but books are only roughly alphabetical, only barely shelved. Little piles of books lie in abandon everywhere, and finding one you want is like a lucky dip.
LITERATURE is right at the back. I lean against the glass, warmed by the early afternoon autumn light. I am filled with bliss because Iâve discovered a fat, barely thumbed book called Finnegans Wake.
riverrun is the way it starts â I always like to see how a book begins and ends â and the incomplete last sentence of the book appears to form the beginning of the first. That is, if this book could be said to have sentences by the usual definition, or indeed be about anything. But the language makes sense in a rhythmic, nonsensical way, and this matter of making sense and yet not at the same
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