The whole of life is like that now. It’s even impossible to think naturally because opinion has been set out for you to read back. Originality has been used up. And yet faith in one’s uniqueness dies hard.’
When he was at boarding school his best friend was calledSmith. Smith used to amuse himself, and Moon, by making indecent phone calls from public kiosks. One of his victims cunningly pretended interest in some obscene suggestion and asked for the caller’s name, and Smith blurted out, ‘My name is Brown.’ There was a nuance in that which Moon had tried to pin down for years.
‘I cannot commit myself to either side of a question,’ Moon said. ‘Because if you attach yourself to one or the other you disappear into it. And I can’t even side with the balance of morality because I don’t know whether morality is an instinct or just an imposition.’
Moon felt that he was within reach of a statement by which he could stand and to which he would return again and again. When he tried to overtake it the only thing that came into his head was a joke he had once heard about an actor.
He looked desperately at O’Hara who sat bundled up, closed off by his hat and cloak. There seemed no possibility of response. ‘There was this actor,’ Moon beseeched him. He pushed against the coach, rocking it. ‘An actor… I haven’t got myself placed yet, O’Hara,’ he cried. ‘I haven’t got myself taped, you see. So I’ve got no direction, no momentum, and everything reaches me at slightly the wrong angle.’ He shook the coach and the greys rippled. ‘O’Hara! You tell me-you’ve been black all along, haven’t you? I hadn’t seen your face before, is that it?’
‘Black schmack, vhat’s the difference?’
‘And why do you talk like that – it’s not authentic, it’s not real at all – why are you so unconvincing, O’Hara?’
‘A Dublin blackamoor should speak like a Yid?’
‘Lord Malquist said you were a Cockney.’
‘Pink you strike me,’ said O’Hara and shook with glee.
Moon pushed himself flat-handed away from the coach. The donkey moved quietly and looked at him. The street lights had paled from their blood-orange creation, and thefront of the house caught the shadows on its ledges and sills, regaining the detail that had been flattened into it by the dusk. The brass plate set into the stone came alive again, announcing—
BOSWELL INC.
Registered Office
Moon went back into the house and down the hall to the kitchen. He put the light on. The Risen Christ sat asleep with his head on the table. Moon shook him.
‘Listen, what colour was O’Hara-did you notice?’
The Risen Christ looked at Moon seeking recognition, then his eyes cleared.
‘Top o’ the morning to you, yer honour.’
‘The coachman – O’Hara.’
‘The nig-nog? What about him?’
Moon sat down at the table. The Risen Christ stretched and got up and went to the window.
‘Lovely prospect.’
Moon kept his eyes shut.
‘Best be off.’
He heard the tap running and the Risen Christ blowing water through his nose.
‘Food in the belly and a place to lay one’s head,’ said the Risen Christ. He promised, ‘I’ll see you’re all right when the time comes.’
Moon nodded blind.
‘I give my blessing then. I’ll just take this bitty loaf for my ass.’
Moon waited until the Risen Christ had gone and then, keeping his eyes shut, he felt his way to the back door, opened it and stepped out into the cold. Already reassured by the stink of rotting vegetables, he opened his eyes and found himself in the dark of the walled yard.
The kitchen window had been sealed flush against the bricks by a large rectangle of plyboard. A label showed whiteagainst it and Moon by putting his face close could just make it out. It said,
Petfinch Court, the South Garden,
and
Panachrome Murals give you a New Outlook.
Moon was intensely grateful. Perhaps there was an explanation for everything. When he went back into the kitchen
When he was at boarding school his best friend was calledSmith. Smith used to amuse himself, and Moon, by making indecent phone calls from public kiosks. One of his victims cunningly pretended interest in some obscene suggestion and asked for the caller’s name, and Smith blurted out, ‘My name is Brown.’ There was a nuance in that which Moon had tried to pin down for years.
‘I cannot commit myself to either side of a question,’ Moon said. ‘Because if you attach yourself to one or the other you disappear into it. And I can’t even side with the balance of morality because I don’t know whether morality is an instinct or just an imposition.’
Moon felt that he was within reach of a statement by which he could stand and to which he would return again and again. When he tried to overtake it the only thing that came into his head was a joke he had once heard about an actor.
He looked desperately at O’Hara who sat bundled up, closed off by his hat and cloak. There seemed no possibility of response. ‘There was this actor,’ Moon beseeched him. He pushed against the coach, rocking it. ‘An actor… I haven’t got myself placed yet, O’Hara,’ he cried. ‘I haven’t got myself taped, you see. So I’ve got no direction, no momentum, and everything reaches me at slightly the wrong angle.’ He shook the coach and the greys rippled. ‘O’Hara! You tell me-you’ve been black all along, haven’t you? I hadn’t seen your face before, is that it?’
‘Black schmack, vhat’s the difference?’
‘And why do you talk like that – it’s not authentic, it’s not real at all – why are you so unconvincing, O’Hara?’
‘A Dublin blackamoor should speak like a Yid?’
‘Lord Malquist said you were a Cockney.’
‘Pink you strike me,’ said O’Hara and shook with glee.
Moon pushed himself flat-handed away from the coach. The donkey moved quietly and looked at him. The street lights had paled from their blood-orange creation, and thefront of the house caught the shadows on its ledges and sills, regaining the detail that had been flattened into it by the dusk. The brass plate set into the stone came alive again, announcing—
BOSWELL INC.
Registered Office
Moon went back into the house and down the hall to the kitchen. He put the light on. The Risen Christ sat asleep with his head on the table. Moon shook him.
‘Listen, what colour was O’Hara-did you notice?’
The Risen Christ looked at Moon seeking recognition, then his eyes cleared.
‘Top o’ the morning to you, yer honour.’
‘The coachman – O’Hara.’
‘The nig-nog? What about him?’
Moon sat down at the table. The Risen Christ stretched and got up and went to the window.
‘Lovely prospect.’
Moon kept his eyes shut.
‘Best be off.’
He heard the tap running and the Risen Christ blowing water through his nose.
‘Food in the belly and a place to lay one’s head,’ said the Risen Christ. He promised, ‘I’ll see you’re all right when the time comes.’
Moon nodded blind.
‘I give my blessing then. I’ll just take this bitty loaf for my ass.’
Moon waited until the Risen Christ had gone and then, keeping his eyes shut, he felt his way to the back door, opened it and stepped out into the cold. Already reassured by the stink of rotting vegetables, he opened his eyes and found himself in the dark of the walled yard.
The kitchen window had been sealed flush against the bricks by a large rectangle of plyboard. A label showed whiteagainst it and Moon by putting his face close could just make it out. It said,
Petfinch Court, the South Garden,
and
Panachrome Murals give you a New Outlook.
Moon was intensely grateful. Perhaps there was an explanation for everything. When he went back into the kitchen
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