Double Talk by Patrick Warner Page B

every Wednesday the auctioneer’s amplified voice reeled off a rhythmic and vigorous sales pitch, past Murphy’s pub where sloth-like Pat behind the counter countered impatience with his mantra of “one-moment-if-you-please,” past the Garda Station with its tantalizing cannabis poster tacked to the cork bulletin board just inside the front door, past Touhy’s Grand Hotel where anyone over the age of fourteen could expect service at the bar, past the bike repair shop where every December a mechanised Santy, his hobnailed boots bolted to the pedals, made slow progress towards Christmas; past butcher shops, bookies, sweet shops and more bars, turning at last in the town square, by the vandalized remains of a sculpture, a lost-wax bronze casting, by Bridgetown’s one and only artist.
    It didn’t matter where I went; the question was always the same, “No sign of that visa yet?” or “Are you still here?” And the grin that said they knew very well I had tried to put one over on them. They didn’t believe that soon I would be standing on the deck of the Calypso , at the right arm of a leathery but spry Jacques Cousteau, and beside us Jacques’ biological son, Philippe, as together we set out to film Eels of the Sargasso or join forces with Greenpeace to chase Russian whalers through the Barents Sea. Had they felt what I had felt when I ticked the boxes for B.Sc. and Biology on the university application form, they would never have doubted. Through the clack of my pen on the tabletop came the roar of the zodiac’s massive outboard engine and the boat’s flat bottom banging the cold North Atlantic waves. For hours I had navigated those forms as though they were ocean charts, until at last it had all come down to my signature — my newly constructed signature. Had they felt the vigour in my cursive loop, had they seen the way it played out across the page, they would have known the strength of my conviction. They would not have doubted.
    And then the long anticipated future arrived. One day I was in Bridgetown, the next I was in Boston, and the day after that in St. John’s, Newfoundland. I awoke in a strange bed, in a strange room on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean, half expecting to find a completely naked girl beside me.
    I had made it. I was here. No, I was there. Ha! Ha!
    I looked around the room: unadorned cough-syrup pink walls, with here and there a darker patch where pictures or mirrors had been removed. Directly at the foot of the bed was a dresser, its bare wood surface scorched, as though it had been finished with a blow torch. The only appealing piece of décor was a set of cool looking split-bamboo blinds that were slightly wider than the window they covered.
    I felt giddy and slightly unreal, as though I were stuck in the transporter beam of the Starship Enterprise and could not quite materialize. Was this what it felt like to have a hangover? I thought back to the previous night, the dope, the beer and then my abrupt dash from the kitchen with Wallace shouting directions to the bathroom.
    But I wasn’t sick any more. The rumble in my stomach was my body’s response to the smell of coffee wafting up from downstairs. I could also smell rashers and sausages frying. It occurred to me that I had not eaten since lunchtime the day before. Listening, I heard the fat in the pan flare and sputter as though Wallace — or whoever was down there — had just dropped a couple of eggs into it. Now someone was stacking dishes.
    Uncle Wallace was alone in the kitchen, looking just as harried as he had the night before. Was this his usual demeanour, I wondered, or had my arrival just put him into a spin? He was wearing a different tracksuit, this time brown with cream stripes, and his hair had a fresh shine.
    â€œWe have to be at the university by 10:00, so we can’t hang about,” he said. No good morning, did you sleep well, or how are