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knew her—well enough for him to have brought her a book. This implied an intimacy impossible between strangers.
    The man was speaking Irish, as was the custom in western Kerry. Kitty was answering in Irish. Aware that Kerry courtesy required that conversations in the company of those denied acquaintance with the native tongue should be conducted in English, Aaron continued toward the man and his aunt.
    Their talk continued, in Irish. Aaron, not adept at languages—especially one as seemingly difficult as Irish, with its impossible difference between what was put on the printed page and what was pronounced in actual speech, its insistent dismissal of the phonics on which he’d been schooled—could make out little of what was being said, despite his wife’s repeated attempts, during the year since their shared entry into bliss, to teach him the language to which he was a rightful heir, being the son, as he was, of both a Kerry father and a Kerry mother. As far as he could determine from what he thought he could understand, the book had been washed ashore, no doubt from the engulfed McCloud home, but beyond that he could discern nothing. Apparently the man presumed Aaron to have been Kerry-born and Kerry-bred. Aaron expected his aunt to make the required correction, but she was obviously too unsettled by the man’s presence to take her nephew’s needs into account. Indeed, at the moment, she was not speaking with the casual ease consistent with her nature. Far from it. Stammering and giddy laughs punctuated her words. It seemed this Declan Tovey look-alike had had a certain effect on Kitty, and he should make allowances.
    Having waited long enough for common courtesy to assert itself, Aaron held out his hand and said, in English, “I’m Aaron, Kitty’s nephew. Lolly’s husband.” The man gave his head only the slightest turn, his Irish sentence uninterrupted. Not one to waste a gesture, Aaron raised his hand and scratched his forehead.
    What he had failed to achieve—getting the attention of his aunt and the man—was accomplished by the pig. It had stayed at the pen and, between snorts, seemed transfixed by the empty space inside. For a moment, Aaron thought he could understand what the man said next, but his translation immediately informed him that he was mistaken in his assumption. He had thought he’d heard the man say, in Irish, “It wants to get in. To be with the other pig.” Since there was no other pig, it was readily apparent that Aaron’s linguistic ineptitude was persisting despite his best efforts. The pig was staring at nothing. Which meant that, in his incompetence, Aaron was obviously in continuing error and should end his effort at even minimal understanding.
    To further persuade him that any attempt at comprehension was an exercise in futility, he thought the man said the English equivalent of “They can’t be together. Is that the truth of it?” Which made less sense than anything that had gone before.
    His aunt made a few mumbled sounds, then spoke up, too loud at first, then with a more moderated voice, but in words that only increased his exasperation. “No. I … I mean I don’t know. I don’t know if they can be together or not.”
    Whatever she might have actually said, it brought a smile to the man’s face. His teeth were perfect, the smile, even to Aaron, dazzling. After a few more words Aaron didn’t even try to understand, the man started toward the pen.
    With a nervous glance at Aaron, his aunt blurted out a torrent of words that seemed to plead with the man to ignore the pig, the pen, and return to their previous conversation.
    But the man was unheeding. He lifted the latch and opened the gate. The pig, as if relieved of a great anxiety, moved with an almost dainty step into the enclosure. The man shut and latched the gate. Quiet now, the pig looked skyward, trying, it seemed, to discover