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  A horse-drawn carriage takes the four Kerrigans home in silence. As they move through the front door, the maid calls out from the kitchen.

  “A parcel came in the mail for you this morning, Mr. Neil, sir. Postmarked in London.”

  “London?”

  Neil’s hands tear at the package: a book. A book of stories.

  Joyce’s Dubliners!

  “Oh my God, then it actually has happened, Jimmy actually has managed to publish his tales.”

  Envy and admiration vie in Neil as he quickly flips to the title page . . .

  (No, Milo. I’m sorry, but we cannot go into the history of the publication of Dubliners at this point. No. Out of the question. You know too much. Shut up. Maybe Neil can tell his grandson about it years later, in Quebec. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it . . . )

  The camera moves in close to read the words inscribed above and below the title in Joyce’s surprisingly graceful, legible hand:

  Here at long last, fully seven years after my pregnant brain gave birth to them, are my Dubliners—a greedy, hypocritical, weak, silly, pusillanimous people who love to lie through their teeth and of whom, because of the vise of virtue in which our country is currently imprisoned, the truth can only be told from afar. I take the greatest pleasure in offering them to my friend Neil Kerrigan.

  And in parentheses beneath the scribbled signature:

  (Are you a man yet?)

  “So he managed to get around the law after all,” says Judge Kerrigan, “by publishing them abroad.”

  “What would that man know about Dubliners, I wonder?” scoffs Mrs. Kerrigan. “He’s been in Europe for a decade!”

  “And why would he send them to you?” Dorothy pipes up. “It’ll be a bad influence, won’t it, Mother?”

  Neil’s hand moves in wonder on the page of a genuine published book in which his name has been inscribed by the author . . . CUT.

  Neil in a pool of warm lamplight in his bedroom that evening—deeply, utterly absorbed in the tales.

  A few hours later: Neil talking to himself as he walks along the Liffey in the depths of night.

  I shall someday write as well as or better than Jimmy Joyce or Willie Yeats. I think, oh no, I know I can. Practice law, yes, fine, no problem, for a few years—just to get myself established. But in the dark, in secret, I’ll soon start spinning magical webs of words to enchant the masses. I’m only twenty-two. No writer is world famous at twenty-two—with the possible exception of Rimbaud, but he doesn’t count because he retired from literature at age nineteen to smuggle weapons to Abyssinia. I’m only twenty-two, and though Jimmy Joyce is fully ten years older than I, his first real book (apart from slim volumes of student poetry) has just now come out, and is not an extraordinarily fat one, either. Besides, he’s not serious competition. He’s gone off to Italy or Yugoslavia or wherever and will probably, now that he’s got Dubliners out of his system, forget all about his native land. I’ve been training since the day I was born. The pablum of priests my mother fed me was spiked by my teachers with the heady brandy of Irish lore, I guzzled down Shakespeare, Milton and Browning on my own, and now I feel ripe and ready. The fruit of my imagination is fairly exploding with seed. Semen and sense! A billion teeming, bubbling words in the cerebellum like a billion sperms in the ballocks—fertile, gusty, gutsy, true. I’m merely waiting for the event that will jerk my brain into gear so it can start spewing out lengthy chapters filled with violence and beauty, philosophy and pain.

  I, I, I! Not shy, sweet, bespectacled William Butler Yeats, losing himself in Ouija boards and reincarnation for the love of Maud Gonne; not distant, bad-boy, scoffing, scabrous, scatalogical James Joyce, fiddling with twaddle, but diffident in face of battle—neither Willie nor Jimmy but I, Neil Kerrigan and no other, shall father the great literary opus of the new Ireland! I shall be both true poet and true fighter, my name greater, higher and louder than anyone else’s—Neil Kerrigan! Have you read the latest Kerrigan? Louder, higher, greater, the full male thrust of my loins surging into my poems and tales . . . Pen is sword. Penis is word. PENISWORD . . .

  YOU OKAY, MILO? You all right, man? You want me to call the nurse or anything? Yes, I know the tubes are supposed to be bringing you everything you need to stay alive—Irish whisky, beef stew with plenty of potatoes, late Emily Carr paintings, early Wim Wenders films, the return flight of Canadian geese in May, Pierre Elliott Trudeau (sorry, just wanted to make sure you were still alive), ah, heroin, capoeira ceremonies in Salvador de Bahia, endless nights of fucking with Paul Schwarz . . . hey. What else could you want, right?

  Sure, Astuto. I’ll let you take a five-minute nap, and then we’ll get back to work . . .

  • • • • •

  Awinita, April 1951

  RAIN AND DARKNESS, seen through the window of the cruddy little bedroom above the bar.

  Awinita’s stomach is rounder than before, and she wears a floaty blue shirt to make this less apparent. We’re in her eyes again, currently looking down. A man’s hands come in under the shirt. Gently, she pushes him away.

  “Aren’t you forgettin sometin’, sweetheart?”

  We see the man’s hands dig a wad of bills from his jeans pocket. A heavyset man in his forties. Unpleasant body: rigid, rilled with fat. Turning, he licks his thumb and counts ten singles onto the little Formica table near the window.

  “Would you mind maybe,” says Awinita in a husky whisper as he comes at her undoing his belt (close loud sound of the belt buckle, one of the Pavlovian signals that warns the woman’s brain it will soon be time to waft her elsewhere), “from de side or from behind?”

  “Yeah, I’d mind,” the man says, pushing her toward the bed and grabbing at her blue shirt to tear it off (but, being inside of it, we’ll never see her body in these scenes). “Damn right I’d mind. I pay good money to fuck you and I’ll fuck you however I bloody well feel like fucking you, ain’t no squaw gonna tell me what position I gotta fuck her in, for the luva Christ! No skin off my back if you lose your bastard! Make one less Injun on welfare, guzzlin’ down my tax money!”

  A spot of pink. It grows, shivers and shimmers into a carnation . . . The flower grows a long green stem and dances gaily for a couple of seconds . . . Then the stem splits in two and its ends rise up to meet above its head. Meanwhile it goes on dancing. Watching it is painful—like watching a ballerina dancing on her crotch.

  The rain hurls itself against the windowpanes. Fleetingly, in the shadows, we see the man heaving with his full weight on top of us.

  “Don’t you know what condoms are for?” he says. “Don’t they teach you that up on the res? They sure should! Only useful education for Injuns. Well, no point in usin’ one now, eh? Can’t get pregnant twice, can you? No matter how two-faced you Injuns are, not even you can conceive two bastards on top of the other. Huh . . . uh! Uh!”

  In slow motion, in black and white, pelted by unrelenting rain, Awinita lets herself into a tin-roofed shack. One room. No electricity, only candlelight. Packed dirt floor. Fireplace made of clay or mud and willow sticks. Her floaty blue shirt is the only touch of color in the scene. Gathered in silence around the table are her mother and several siblings, their faces drawn and still with hunger. Smiling, Awinita sets her purse on the table, opens it and proudly withdraws a huge roll of dollar bills. But far from lighting up, her family’s faces only grow sadder. Tears roll down their cheeks. Awinita stands there, money in hand, not knowing what to do. The dim light grows dimmer.

  Back on Saint Catherine Street, we hear the door slam as the john departs.

  CUT to Awinita seated at the bar. People milling around her, music. When the barman brings her a Coke, we see that the stool next to hers is empty.

  “Thanks, Irwin.”

  Awinita sips her Coke. A blond man in his thirties (glasses, attaché case, suit and tie) perches his straight businessman’s ass on the stool next to hers. Close-up on his face: close-shaven, thin-lipped, a faint air of nastiness around the mouth
. . .

  (Yeah, you’re right, Milo—it’s important to get the johns’ faces, show how frighteningly diverse they are. All, though, are weighed down by their stories, and desperate to shake off some of the weight . . .)

  Irwin brings Awinita a Coke, takes a banknote from the blond man, rings up two rum and Cokes . . .

  “Tanks,” says Awinita, nodding vaguely at the drink. “Pleasure. What’s your name?”“Nita.” “Hey, Nita, I’m John.” “Good to meet you, John.” “Good to meet you, Nita. Had no idea I’d be meeting somethin’ so good when I ducked in here.” “You jus’ wanted in out of de rain, eh?” “Right.” “Well. Cheers, John.” “Cheers, Nita . . .” (Problem, Milo. Familiar problem: what to do with boring dialogue . . . Nah, skip it. Maybe shoot the scene from the far side of the room, over by the jukebox, now playing Nat King Cole’s “Too Young.” Just their lips moving . . .)

  The blond man looks at Awinita and she looks back at him. His eyes say, “Are you . . .?,” and hers, “Long as you’re not a cop, baby,” and his, “Here, upstairs?,” and hers, “You got it all figured out, smart boy.” Leaning forward, his lips form the words, “How much for the back entrance?: and hers, “Fifteen.” The businessman winces. “Hey, that’s steep,” he says, making as if to bolt, but already Awinita’s hand is on his thigh, already his blood is racing and they both know the moment for mind-changing has been left behind.

  Three five-dollar bills on the Formica table.

  He hadn’t noticed. Only when he puts his arms around her from behind does the fact of Awinita’s pregnancy register on his brain. His hands freeze on her belly.

  “Jesus,” he says.

  “Kinda doubt it,” says she. This makes him laugh, which relaxes him.

  Awinita’s eyes are closed. On the pale pink screen of her eyelids . . .

  A whole forest of cartoon trees shoots up at once. Multicolored birds flit swiftly in and out of their branches—their singing, too, is sped up. Shrill trills and twitters, jerky flutters. In the space of a few seconds, the sun rises and sets several times. The seasons rush past: the trees shed their leaves, look dark and wintry for a moment, then sprout new leaves again.

  Meanwhile, we hear the sound of a belt buckle—a different belt buckle. A zipper being undone. Clothes rustling. The sound of a key turning in a lock. A mattress creaking. A door being pulled to. A key turning in a lock. A door being slammed. Ta, ta-da DA . . . Yes, we can bring in the capoeira beat here—but faintly, as a hint, a way of breathing, a vestige. Ta, ta-da DA . . . A key turning in a lock. Pants being zipped up. A belt buckle. Pants being zipped down. A man pissing into a toilet. Loose change jingling. Ta, ta-da DA . . . A man guzzling beer, then burping. Key in lock. Snore. Door slam. Fart. Quarrel in next room. Doors. Mattress creaks. Zippers. Buckles. A man groaning as he reaches climax. This sound track gradually dies out. FADE TO BLACK. Howling wind . . . CUT.

  Awinita sits smoking at the bar, looking tired.

  “Want a coffee?” the barman asks her.

  “Sure. Tanks, Irwin.”

  Another man comes to sit on the stool next to her. Tall and youngish, with filthy long black hair and a phony leather cap. He has a lisp.

  “You alone, mith?”

  “Not anymore!”

  “Mind if I thit with you for a while?”

  “Make yourself at home.”

  Just then the door to the bar opens and Declan walks in, hatless. Though wet, his red hair is longer than when we saw him last; he hasn’t returned to jail. Close-up on his green eyes as, catching sight of Awinita, they light up in a hazel blaze.

  We move toward him: Awinita has left her lisper in the lurch.

  “Well, if it ain’t Mister Cleaning-Fluid.”

  They’re in each other’s arms.

  “I missed you, Nita.”

  “I missed you, too, baby.”

  CUT.

  • • • • •

  III

  MOLEQUE

  Kid, urchin. Originally simply meant child. Today designates street kids, juvenile delinquents.

  Milo, 1956–58

  AT FOUR, MILO is a nervous, bristling hedgehog of a child who speaks mostly German with a smattering of French and English, but he especially speaks silence. Silence is the tongue he shares with dogs and cats and trees and flowers, stones and lakes and rivers and skies, turtles and fish, birds and beds, tables and chairs and ceilings and curtains. When you think about it, most things in the world don’t talk and would never do anything to hurt you. Telephones are in between. They look like objects, but in fact they’re nearly people. They talk. His foster mother listened to the telephone talking, then came and told him he’d be leaving. The telephone told her he had to. He doesn’t know why, that’s just the way it is. If you take it as your starting point that everything is unfathomable, and stick to it, you’ll never be disappointed.

  Strangers came and took him to a building he’d never seen before. For three days he lived there in a large dorm room with other little children; then other strangers came to fetch him and now he’s living in their house.

  He’s not really living there, he’s just pretending. His plan is to string them along for a while, let them believe he’s settled in with them in this house in the suburbs, take a few days to get his bearings, then run away. Though these people call him Milo, he knows he has another name—the one the blond woman gave him after they rode on the merry-go-round together. A cocoon-like name he felt safe inside. For the time being he’s forgotten it, because he was so small when she told it to him—but it’s in his memory somewhere and will come back to him someday, he’s sure of it.

  The new family are the Manderses. There’s the father, Jan, handsome and bald with glasses; the mother, Sara, with big, soft breasts and a lilting voice; a boy, ten, Norbert, with spiky blond hair; and a girl, seven, Ana, whose nose is covered in freckles. The parents are Dutch, which sounds like Deutsch, which means German, only they don’t speak German, they speak Dutch, but since they now live in Canada they’ve resolved to speak nothing but English, only sometimes they forget and lapse into Dutch which sounds like Deutsch which means German.

  As Norbert can’t help boasting to Milo right off the bat, Jan built the swing set in the backyard with his own two hands . . .

  (Don’t cry, Astuto. I know, your eyes are as dry as ever but you can’t fool me, I can tell you’re crying, so c’mon, stop it. Don’t forget that snippet of wisdom we gleaned after years of talking and drinking and fucking together—to grow up is to admit that pretty much everything you believed as a child is false. You believed that the sun rose and set, that your soul was immortal, that adults were strong. Wisdom is rough . . . )

  Jan Manders takes Milo over to the swing set, plunks him into the huge black tire that dangles there, and starts pushing . . . Gently at first, until the boy gets used to it, then Want to go a little higher? Milo nods. A little higher? Milo nods, excited. A little higher? Milo nods. Okay, that’s high enough . . .

  He feels safe, surrounded on all sides by the hard warm ring of black rubber, watching the trees swing back and forth above his head, his whole self given up to sheer, pleasurable sensation.

  Sara Manders is rolling out dough for a piecrust. A radio is playing in the background (what year are we? ‘57—yeah, okay, Ella Fitzgerald, Sara could be humming along with Ella) . . . Milo comes over to watch her and she hoists him onto a chair and helps him help her, tying an apron on him, dusting the rolling pin with flour, then gently guiding his hands on the pin to flatten out the ball of dough.

  At bath time she splashes warm water on his back and neck and rubs him gently everywhere with a sudsy washcloth.

  At bedtime she reads to the two older children on the living room couch and he creeps up in his pajamas, presses his back to the back of the couch, sticks his thumb in his mouth, closes his eyes and listens. At first, because there are so many words he doesn’t know, it’s just the lilting, the rhythm and melody of her voice that hypnotize him, but after a while
the images of the stories start to crystallize and he looks forward to the moment when, picking up where she left off the night before, Sara will thrill them again with her imitations of the sulky donkey and the Queen of Hearts and the parrot that squawks Pieces of eight! Pieces of eight!

  “What does that mean, Mama?” Ana asks, and Sara admits she doesn’t know, her English isn’t good enough . . . but her imitation of the squawking parrot has them in stitches.

  (Was it your grandfather, Milo, who finally told you about pieces of eight? Helping you think it through. Why do we call a quarter two bits, my boy? Because British pounds were divided into eight pieces or bits . . .)

  When she comes to kiss him good night, Sara runs her fingers through Milo’s hair. Her own children’s hair, like the little that remains of Jan’s, is thin and blond; hers is light brown but Milo’s is thick wavy brown with auburn glints in it. What beautiful hair you have, Milo!

  It had never occurred to the boy that something about him could be beautiful.

  SWING SWIFTLY THROUGH the cycle of a year.

  Autumn: little Ana teaching him the rudiments of reading as she learns them at school.

  Winter: the skating rink. Milo inherits Ana’s pink-and-white skates from the year before and is relieved when no one teases him for wearing pink. By afternoon’s end, cheeks red, eyes flashing in silent pride, he skates around the rink all by himself and the Manders family applauds him. At the drink stand where Jan buys them hot chocolate afterward, they get jostled by a noisy group of preteens yelling at one another in French. Though he can’t quite understand the language, it stirs memories in his brain (transient images of neon lights and white-clad arms) that make him want to die.