Read Online The Dead Republic by Roddy Doyle - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Roddy Doyle
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breaking.
His foot tapped my knee.
—The wedding, he said.
They’d gone. But I’d caught one of them. A real name, not a hidden star.
—We did that, I said.
—What about the dowry?
—What dowry?
—You should have read the fucking story, said Ford.—There’s always a dowry.
—What’s a dowry?
He leaned out of the chair, and then pulled himself back in. He’d taken a piece of paper from a back pocket. He brought the page right up to his face; he lifted his specs. There was less than an inch between his eyes and the paper.
—Can’t make out Meta’s scrawl here.
He coughed. He read.
—Dowry. Noun. An amount of property or money brought by a bride to her husband on their marriage. Origin. Middle English.
He stopped reading.
—That clear? he said.
—Yeah.
—Great, he said.—Middle English, my ass. It’s an Irish tradition. So, what did she bring?
—Nothing.
—Nothing?
—Just herself.
I could see her now. I could feel her - no, I couldn’t - but I could remember her skin, and her heat and breath. I could put her together. I had my words and pictures. I was there - in the tepee, not in Dublin or Roscommon. And I wanted to stay there, in the fuckin’ tepee. I wanted to put my life together, to tell my story. But I didn’t want to crawl back into it, or even think that I could do that. I wanted to live properly. I wanted to keep going.
He was waiting, looking at me.
— Macushla , I said.
—The tune? John McCormack?
—She liked that one.
—Great, he said.
He hummed it a bit, and stopped.
—It’ll fit, he said.—It’s a song about fucking a corpse, but we can use it.
—Good.
—No dowry?
—No.
—See, we need that tension. The brother won’t hand over the dowry. So she won’t let the guy fuck her until she gets the dowry. The legs stayed crossed, and these are legs . So he fights the brother. Fights the fucker right across the country. Bam, bam. For twenty minutes. Gets the dowry and throws it in the fire.
He sat up.
—She needs the dowry, he said.—We have to see that fight. We have to see her angry, you know, red-haired and fucking furious.
—She was in the I.R.A., for fuck sake. How much more anger do you want?
—Mary Kate, he said.
—Who?
—I told you. This woman has to have a name.
I looked at him. He looked at me.
—Okay, I said.
—Okay?
I nodded, once. I could give the man the name. That way, the story would stay mine.
—Great, he said.
He was happy. He loved the name; I could see that. He was rolling it around.
—Yeah, he said.—Mary Kate. Two names. Enough for two fine women. That’s what we call them in Ireland, right? Fine women.
I said nothing.
—We’ll still go with the Miss O’Shea thing, he said.—But then he finds out her name is Mary Kate. Right after she becomes Mary Kate Smart and her brother won’t hand over the dowry.
—She didn’t have a brother, I said.
—What did she have? Her dad’s dead - has to be. Who gives her away - at the wedding?
—Her cousin.
—He can be her brother.
—No.
—The man of the house. A big guy. Colludes with the British. Makes sense. We can shoot him in the head.
—Hang on a minute, I said, and I took out the notebook.
I wrote the name. IVAN REYNOLDS. Her cousin. I went back some pages. I found it. MISS O’SHEA. I wrote below it. NOT
MARY KATE.
He nodded at the notebook.
—You’re writing stuff down there.
—Yeah.
—Remember what I said? We got to get it all into two hours, less. We got to take shortcuts.
He held his hand out. He wanted the notebook.
—Go on, he said.—I already ate. I just want to see it.
I let him take it from my hand. He opened it and brought it to his face. He lifted his glasses.
—This is great, he said.
He mumbled. I saw him turning pages.
—Names, he said.—Names. Tell me about Victor.
—My brother.
—Yeah.
—He died.
—He dies, you take up arms. It’s good.
—There were dogs, I told him.
—Christ. They ate him?
—No,
His foot tapped my knee.
—The wedding, he said.
They’d gone. But I’d caught one of them. A real name, not a hidden star.
—We did that, I said.
—What about the dowry?
—What dowry?
—You should have read the fucking story, said Ford.—There’s always a dowry.
—What’s a dowry?
He leaned out of the chair, and then pulled himself back in. He’d taken a piece of paper from a back pocket. He brought the page right up to his face; he lifted his specs. There was less than an inch between his eyes and the paper.
—Can’t make out Meta’s scrawl here.
He coughed. He read.
—Dowry. Noun. An amount of property or money brought by a bride to her husband on their marriage. Origin. Middle English.
He stopped reading.
—That clear? he said.
—Yeah.
—Great, he said.—Middle English, my ass. It’s an Irish tradition. So, what did she bring?
—Nothing.
—Nothing?
—Just herself.
I could see her now. I could feel her - no, I couldn’t - but I could remember her skin, and her heat and breath. I could put her together. I had my words and pictures. I was there - in the tepee, not in Dublin or Roscommon. And I wanted to stay there, in the fuckin’ tepee. I wanted to put my life together, to tell my story. But I didn’t want to crawl back into it, or even think that I could do that. I wanted to live properly. I wanted to keep going.
He was waiting, looking at me.
— Macushla , I said.
—The tune? John McCormack?
—She liked that one.
—Great, he said.
He hummed it a bit, and stopped.
—It’ll fit, he said.—It’s a song about fucking a corpse, but we can use it.
—Good.
—No dowry?
—No.
—See, we need that tension. The brother won’t hand over the dowry. So she won’t let the guy fuck her until she gets the dowry. The legs stayed crossed, and these are legs . So he fights the brother. Fights the fucker right across the country. Bam, bam. For twenty minutes. Gets the dowry and throws it in the fire.
He sat up.
—She needs the dowry, he said.—We have to see that fight. We have to see her angry, you know, red-haired and fucking furious.
—She was in the I.R.A., for fuck sake. How much more anger do you want?
—Mary Kate, he said.
—Who?
—I told you. This woman has to have a name.
I looked at him. He looked at me.
—Okay, I said.
—Okay?
I nodded, once. I could give the man the name. That way, the story would stay mine.
—Great, he said.
He was happy. He loved the name; I could see that. He was rolling it around.
—Yeah, he said.—Mary Kate. Two names. Enough for two fine women. That’s what we call them in Ireland, right? Fine women.
I said nothing.
—We’ll still go with the Miss O’Shea thing, he said.—But then he finds out her name is Mary Kate. Right after she becomes Mary Kate Smart and her brother won’t hand over the dowry.
—She didn’t have a brother, I said.
—What did she have? Her dad’s dead - has to be. Who gives her away - at the wedding?
—Her cousin.
—He can be her brother.
—No.
—The man of the house. A big guy. Colludes with the British. Makes sense. We can shoot him in the head.
—Hang on a minute, I said, and I took out the notebook.
I wrote the name. IVAN REYNOLDS. Her cousin. I went back some pages. I found it. MISS O’SHEA. I wrote below it. NOT
MARY KATE.
He nodded at the notebook.
—You’re writing stuff down there.
—Yeah.
—Remember what I said? We got to get it all into two hours, less. We got to take shortcuts.
He held his hand out. He wanted the notebook.
—Go on, he said.—I already ate. I just want to see it.
I let him take it from my hand. He opened it and brought it to his face. He lifted his glasses.
—This is great, he said.
He mumbled. I saw him turning pages.
—Names, he said.—Names. Tell me about Victor.
—My brother.
—Yeah.
—He died.
—He dies, you take up arms. It’s good.
—There were dogs, I told him.
—Christ. They ate him?
—No,
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