Read Online Algren at Sea by Nelson Algren - Free Book Online

every Irishman craves martyrdom,” he replied, but I think he was exaggerating.
    â€œâ€˜They went forth to battle/ But they always fell/’” I quoted, “‘Bravely they fought and nobly but not well/ And on the hard-fought field they always fell.’” 1
    â€œA man belongs to himself,” was his reply, groping for Kavanagh’s escape route.
    â€œYou belong to nothing but Guinness,” Mrs. Montague, strictly a non-escapist, only what was she doing in Ireland after having been born in France, told her husband. Then added, “And neither does this other pseudointellectual,” putting me in front of her broom as well.
    â€œNobody in Dublin belongs to anything but Guinness,” she went on, sweeping all reason aside; for they also drink whiskey in Dublin.
    Mrs. Montague is the only person in Dublin who doesn’t drink. Inasmuch as there is nothing in Dublin for a Frenchwoman to drink, this is not a spectacular virtue.
    â€œWould you like some black pudding?” Mrs. Montague asked, and I began to dress for dinner immediately. If black pudding was to be the main course—just fancy what the surprise-du-chef would be!
    The surprise-du-chef was that same black pudding, something that everyone ought to try on a day when everything else goes wrong. It explains why no restaurant on earth features Irish cooking. Simple: there is no Irish cooking.
    â€œIt’s too bad the French didn’t win Ireland,” I observed; “at least they would have taught you people to cook.”
    â€œWe cook very well,” Mr. Montague insisted, “we merely lack the in-gray-dients.”

    I hadn’t thought of that.
    So we walked as night was falling to see the swans come down The Grand Canal.
    They came like ghosts of swans, silently, one at a time.
    John Montague spoke the name of each as it passed, softly, in some tongue I had never heard; as though he had known each when they were men.
    Through the perpetual dark green mists that forever abide, we walked the banks of The Grand Canal.
    â€œThat tree looks like a palm,” I observed to John Montague.
    â€œThat is because it is a palm,” he informed me.
    I had not known palm trees grew in Dublin.
    They do. It has something to do with the Gulf Stream, and they are the only things in the town that aren’t potted.
    When we returned to 6 Herbert Street, I succeeded in wedging myself into the doorway with Montague, so as to preclude being left outdoors. But the doorway of 6 Herbert Street is narrow and we were wedged so fast that neither of us could move despite a good deal of shoving. Mrs. Montague had the presence of mind to butt her husband in the small of his back, thus breaking the wedge, and I came in second.
    Montague, once I was inside, became his old gracious self, opening a door that looked as if it led to a guest room but didn’t.
    â€œThe last time I went through that one I wound up between Patrick Kavanagh and a bartender,” I reminded my host, stubbornly holding my ground. “How about that other door?”
    â€œWhy don’t you try it and find out for yourself?” he invited me, a peculiar huskiness in his voice.
    â€œIt’s raining out, John,” Mrs. Montague reminded him, and opened a passage through which I passed and, what do you know—I was in a wee bedroom with a wee bed where a wee fire burned in a wee stove, with wee bars on a wee window! I always like a window with bars as it keeps creatures of the night from seizing me in the dark.
    That night I dreamed I was walking up a ramp to board a plane, and saw an Aer Lingus stewardess at the top of the ramp who smiled down at me with a look so steady I understood she didn’t like flying anywhere without me.
    I was strong for joining her, and tried to hurry. But it’s a tiring climb up a ramp that has no end with the old sky darkening.

    I had time only so long as the steady girl kept smiling down.