Read Online The Little Red Chairs by Edna O’Brien - Free Book Online
Authors: Edna O’Brien
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clearance.
‘I couldn’t tell you the answer to that.’
He explodes, asks loudly what the country is coming to: civil servants and government officials sitting on their arses not doing their jobs properly, shirking their civic responsibilities. Did the teacher not know the law?
‘She’s a woman.’
‘Woman or no woman, the law is the law.’
The doctor is seized with rage. The same murderous and subversive rage that landed his father and that father before him in prison. Yet he manages to keep a grip on himself and in a guise of holiness, he takes the crystal pendulum that is hanging from his neck and waves it back and forth at his opponent, as though in a blessing. The guard ignores it, takes out his phone and moves a distance away, obviously to ring his superiors, to put the country on high alert.
In those moments, as Dr Vlad watches and waits, he remembers his wife’s last letter, saying they must never ever correspond again, since it was becoming too dangerous. He recalls her description of searches in the various houses he had lived in since his disappearance and at the end her begging him to give himself up. No, no my dearest. If I am to give myself up it will not be to some imbecile in a wood in Ireland. He remembers then his mistress of the dark tresses, whom he met through their occult interests, her tendresse, white poodles that she walked in back streets and maybe was walking at that moment and thinking of him. Those last two years together – while he was still a free man – were happy ones, feted in bars, greeted openly, pictures of him all along the walls, in combat attire and everyone knowing who he was.
The oaf has returned, even more het up, as obviously there is no signal in that wood and he has not been able to reach head office.
‘Let me see your identity again,’ he says, and this time, having stared at them, he takes out a small notebook and biro, for the defendant to make a statement.
‘Why do I have to make a statement?’
‘Because I’m telling you to.’
With utter confidence, the doctor gives his name, his age, his occupation, Alexandria where he was born, the various countries where he was educated, the Balkan countries he has lived in, the academies where he has studied, the cities in which he received honours, and the date when he arrived in Cloonoila. Then in Latin and French and English, from memory he lists the various medicines he has imported and for which he secured the correct permits. Mother Nature of course has also supplied him with cures, gathered in those very woods and local environs. He lists them: willow, dandelion, valerian, moss, not to mention the seaweed which he, along with others, harvests in the early morning and which he uses for his seaweed baths. Several times he has to repeat what he has said, because the scribe is not familiar with the words, and then, to compound the comedy, his biro has run out of ink, he licks it to set down a few more syllables and finally, has to resort to borrowing his captive’s fountain pen. This would be a farce, if discovery was not only seconds away and his true identity about to become known.
‘I’m arresting you,’ the voice says and it is like a thunderclap. I’m arresting you . He balances himself against one of the tree trunks and at his most persuasive, like a gentle father talking to an errant child, he remonstrates, saying if he were the type ofperson intent on harm he would hardly take fifteen children out in broad daylight. He would take one in his motor car and that under cover of darkness.
‘Dragan,’ the guard repeats, asking if that was an unusual name and is told that there are plenty of Dragans, scattered all over the Balkans, Transylvania and Ukraine.
‘Is it related to Dracula?’ he is asked.
‘No … but that’s an interesting variation,’ and then, with a brazen recklessness, he says, ‘I took the name in honour of a lame shepherd of wolves.’ I took the name, rather than I am that name , but the
‘I couldn’t tell you the answer to that.’
He explodes, asks loudly what the country is coming to: civil servants and government officials sitting on their arses not doing their jobs properly, shirking their civic responsibilities. Did the teacher not know the law?
‘She’s a woman.’
‘Woman or no woman, the law is the law.’
The doctor is seized with rage. The same murderous and subversive rage that landed his father and that father before him in prison. Yet he manages to keep a grip on himself and in a guise of holiness, he takes the crystal pendulum that is hanging from his neck and waves it back and forth at his opponent, as though in a blessing. The guard ignores it, takes out his phone and moves a distance away, obviously to ring his superiors, to put the country on high alert.
In those moments, as Dr Vlad watches and waits, he remembers his wife’s last letter, saying they must never ever correspond again, since it was becoming too dangerous. He recalls her description of searches in the various houses he had lived in since his disappearance and at the end her begging him to give himself up. No, no my dearest. If I am to give myself up it will not be to some imbecile in a wood in Ireland. He remembers then his mistress of the dark tresses, whom he met through their occult interests, her tendresse, white poodles that she walked in back streets and maybe was walking at that moment and thinking of him. Those last two years together – while he was still a free man – were happy ones, feted in bars, greeted openly, pictures of him all along the walls, in combat attire and everyone knowing who he was.
The oaf has returned, even more het up, as obviously there is no signal in that wood and he has not been able to reach head office.
‘Let me see your identity again,’ he says, and this time, having stared at them, he takes out a small notebook and biro, for the defendant to make a statement.
‘Why do I have to make a statement?’
‘Because I’m telling you to.’
With utter confidence, the doctor gives his name, his age, his occupation, Alexandria where he was born, the various countries where he was educated, the Balkan countries he has lived in, the academies where he has studied, the cities in which he received honours, and the date when he arrived in Cloonoila. Then in Latin and French and English, from memory he lists the various medicines he has imported and for which he secured the correct permits. Mother Nature of course has also supplied him with cures, gathered in those very woods and local environs. He lists them: willow, dandelion, valerian, moss, not to mention the seaweed which he, along with others, harvests in the early morning and which he uses for his seaweed baths. Several times he has to repeat what he has said, because the scribe is not familiar with the words, and then, to compound the comedy, his biro has run out of ink, he licks it to set down a few more syllables and finally, has to resort to borrowing his captive’s fountain pen. This would be a farce, if discovery was not only seconds away and his true identity about to become known.
‘I’m arresting you,’ the voice says and it is like a thunderclap. I’m arresting you . He balances himself against one of the tree trunks and at his most persuasive, like a gentle father talking to an errant child, he remonstrates, saying if he were the type ofperson intent on harm he would hardly take fifteen children out in broad daylight. He would take one in his motor car and that under cover of darkness.
‘Dragan,’ the guard repeats, asking if that was an unusual name and is told that there are plenty of Dragans, scattered all over the Balkans, Transylvania and Ukraine.
‘Is it related to Dracula?’ he is asked.
‘No … but that’s an interesting variation,’ and then, with a brazen recklessness, he says, ‘I took the name in honour of a lame shepherd of wolves.’ I took the name, rather than I am that name , but the
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