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- Herausgeber: Brandon
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018
A son tries to mourn the death of the father who abandoned him. A family rages against the murder of their gay son in war-torn Raqqa. Brilliance turns to madness in the fickle and unforgiving world of theatre. And in the titular story, the world of an operatic tenor violently collides with that of a homeless couple on the streets of New York. In the first collection of stories by Frank McGuinness, this award-winning master storyteller writes above all about freedom: freedom to love, freedom from hate, freedom to speak, freedom to silence. In hypnotic, spellbinding prose, Frank McGuinness hears the voices and sees the visions of his own troubled times. Authentic, shocking, and always and ever bearing the unique ring of truth, Paprika is a collection to cherish.
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Praise for Paprika
Frank McGuinness’ collection, Paprika, moves, roughly, hilariously and heartbreakingly, from Donegal, to Derry, to Manhattan’s posh hotels, to an apartment in Raqqa and a farm in Conglash. McGuinness knows, loves and sees this wide world and paints it with great compassion, sharp wit and always, the beautiful, beautiful sentences.
—Amy Bloom
Frank McGuinness has many voices, they come from the dark recesses of the heart; savage, beautiful, insistent and desiring. These stories fought their way out on to the page.
—Anne Enright
In this startling collection of stories, Frank McGuinness stalks through the pages like a feral cat with a scabrous wit, casually upending our notions of society in all of its manifestations, historical and modern, mystical and real, poring over the guts of humanity with a delicacy of words that will delight, enthral and terrify.
—Liz Nugent
For Mary Jones and Jeremy Lewis
Table of Contents
The Sunday Father
My father died on the same Sunday as Princess Diana. His distraught wife rang to tell me the news. I was not distraught but I did offer her my condolences. She gave me details about the body and its burial. I listened carefully, noting it all down, for I hadn’t the heart or the desire to tell this stranger I wouldn’t be going.
The tickets were booked and our clothes packed before I had changed out of my pyjamas and showered. I fed our twins, Beth and Simon, their favourite mashed banana. I’d beaten the fruit to a delicious pulp. They are smiling infants except when they eat; then they look solemn as scarecrows. I’ve seen babies devour food as if it will be grabbed from them. Both of mine eat with no sense of hurry, sure that they will be allowed to clean their plates. That is why it took me so long to get dressed. That morning my priority was to see my children did not go hungry.
Honoria organised our usual minder. Absolutely understood she couldn’t expect notice, ghastly shock, everything would be fine for a few days, a week if we liked, this wonderful woman assured us. And she was sorry to hear about my father. Yes, terrible news, shattering, quite shattering, you’re so good to take both, Ria gushes on the phone. But she adores them, no trouble. When Ria comes back into the kitchen, I notice two little golden beads of sweat on her forehead. Her red hair is unruly. All done, she sighs, and leans back against the sink. Get a move on, get ready, she advises.
I don’t want to get ready. It is Sunday. I want to make love. I want to throw my red golden beautiful wife to the cold ground of our tiled kitchen, I want to smear mashed banana over her hard flesh, I want to fuck our brains out all day till we have satisfied every terrifying desire and one of us is crying, sobbing our hearts out with pain. I want what I cannot have. Right, I’ll get a move on. Do, do, we don’t have that much time. I have a sudden idea. Maybe we should take them with us. Take the twins to Dublin.
– Why?
– He’s not seen them. He probably would want to.
– You mean your father? He’s dead. How can he see them?
– Must have forgotten.
– Just get dressed.
– All right.
The mourning for the dead princess I expected in London, but the Irish surprised me. It was all I heard them talking about in the airport. If they were not camouflaging their sorrow behind the newspapers, they were openly lamenting in conversation with each other. What’s happened to the Irish, why have they stopped hating, Ria inquired. I could not help. I was busy wondering how strangers could be so genuinely tearful – and it was real tears I saw them shed – at the death of a woman who in life would not piss on them if their trousers were on fire. The man who bred me and left me, my father, had died that morning. I could not stir up from inside me an ounce of sorrow. How would the little princes, William and Harry, how would they manage without a mother? They have a father, I interrupted one conversation, and it must have been too sharp. For the women stopped talking and looked at me as if I had barked and bit them.
I was tempted to throw my head back and howl just to see the effect such a manifestation of faked grief would have on the two, but I resisted. What is the point of entertaining with extravagant gestures when you’re never going to set eyes on the bastards again and cannot appreciate their fearfulness recollected in tranquillity? This pack of dungbags boarding our plane was driving me to demented distraction, churning my stomach into stinking sticky salted butter spread thickly on stale bread. Full of nothing but its own fat. My legs too were turning into that rancid mess, melting as we walked into the heart of the aircraft.
I would have loved to use my boot to clear off the shits lamenting Diana’s death. Even to tread on their toes. To give them genuine pain. A real reason to weep. To stop their smell so that I would not have to get on the plane and be surrounded by them in that place of their excrement. Today I cannot, I must fly. Ria looked at me early that morning. You are going to Dublin. Don’t try any excuses. We will be at your father’s funeral. I can book tickets and pack in five minutes. That is that.
I calm myself on the flight. I imagine Beth and Simon lie in my arms. The two of them may weigh a ton together but I don’t mind. Bethy always cries when we try to get her to sleep. Beth-Bethy-Bathsheba, I’d whisper. Bathsheba is what I wish we’d called her, though Simon was Simon from the start. Ria said she might suffer at school from so oddly biblical a name. I argued that it was not as if we were going to send her to school in Nazareth, so we settled on the more acceptably Jewish Elizabeth. I now adore Elizabeth because it belongs to my beautiful daughter, and for her in the future I wish all the diversities and differences her name can transform itself into – Beth, Bessie, Eliza, Eilish, Ella, Lizzie, Lisa, Liza, Eileen and a million more if she so wishes. I wonder which of these my dead father would have settled on for his granddaughter. Probably he would have called her that crying child. That eternally crying child. Put a sock in it. Take the strap to her. Slam a shoe over her arse and that will shut her crying. The slap of a slipper across her face will quieten the bitch.
Do not touch my baby. She is trying to sleep in my arms. Together with her twin brother. I will sing to them. I start to hum. Ria is curious. What are you singing? Nothing. I am embarrassed at the sound of my voice, so I sing silently to my son and daughter who are now beginning to enjoy their invisible sleep.
On wings of the wind over the dark rolling deep
Angels are coming to watch over thy sleep,
Angels are coming to watch over thee
So listen to the wind coming over the sea.
Hear the wind blow, love, hear the wind blow.
Lean your head over and hear the wind blow.
My daughter wakes up crying. The little boy wakes up too. I try to comfort them by rocking to and fro, saying, please, little ones, please don’t cry, what’s making you cry? They answer in voices strangely, savagely adult for two-year-old children. Beth blames me for singing such a sad song. That was what made her cry. It also turns out that I had offended Simon’s sense of metrics. He points out that in the ‘Connemara Cradle Song’, my lullaby, I have misused the word ‘over’ three times. It is ‘o’er the dark rolling deep’, ‘o’er thy sleep’, ‘o’er the sea’. This is precisely what the anonymous lyricist composed. He uses the two syllable ‘over’ in the last line. Had he intended two syllables earlier, he would have done so. Also the archaic ‘list’ is preferable to ‘listen’, and ‘list to the wind’ is more beautiful than the barbarous carnage I have inflicted on their infant ears.
I listen to this tedious nitpicking with good grace. They are still babies really. Such pedantry at that age is quite an endearing trait. Peering at me through horn-rimmed bottle-glass spectacles, their breath reeking of morning sherry, they burst into tears, having assembled about them a group of likeminded academic young ladies, sweet in blue stockings, one of whom is devoted to gathering what monies you can spare for a charity dedicated to the relief of suffering distressed gentlefolk now suffering in greater and greater numbers. Her name, she reveals, is Princess Diana, whose gentle face deserved a softer death than being squashed like a melodeon in a Paris tunnel. I can hear the crash, the car ballooning, the baying of mad dogs. Noise makes the glass of water in my hand fly from me. Luckily the spill drenches only my own person. Ria and the kind air hostess towel me down. He’s fine. I’m fine. No harm done. What were you thinking of? Leave me alone, for God’s sake, I want to say. Instead I thank Ria for organising all of this. She does not smile as I want her to smile. Instead, she is quite serious. She says, that’s fine but maybe you were right. Maybe we should have brought Simon and Bathsheba.
Jesus, this city, how do I hate thee, let me count the ways. I hate the stench of Dublin filling my nostrils as I take the first step on this hard soil. I contain myself, I stop the smell. My brain is bigger than my body. I decide that I hate the exchange of money in this filthy temple of this filthy city in this filthy country. I suggest we pay for everything in sterling, pound on par for punt, and my wife puts me up against a wall. She declares enough is enough. These are our hard-earned wages. She will not allow herself to be ripped off, not by me, not by any chancer – get that out of my lazy, lousy head. I have put up with your shit too much already this day, she hisses. Absolutely no more. Do I understand that? Because if I don’t she will get on the next available flight to London. Go back to our children. She will leave me to die in Dublin and swear to Jesus will not come back for my funeral. Does she make herself clear?
If you do not want to do that, wait for me in the bar. Douse yourself with drink. Pour the pints into you. Welcome the fountain of good old Guinness into your hungry exile’s stomach. Crash into a bottle of duty-free Black Bush. Let it rip down your throat. Catch cancer hoarding the smoke of ten thousand Sweet Afton cigarettes safely ensconced in your dirty lungs. Die roaring for morphine and cursing the first Player’s No. 6 you stuck into your mouth, acting the hard man to impress the harder men studying commerce. They could win over women because for some reason they had no fear of them. And you have always been frightened of women, I imagine my wife saying. That man you kept following, my boy, the man you were obsessed with, the man you wanted to fuck, what words did he use to shake you out of his spell? He spoke them in Irish. In Gaeilge. In Erse. An bhuil cinéal eagla ort? Is there some kind of fear in you? Fear of women. His fear, neatly diverted onto me.
I let Ria queue at the bureau de change. We get a good deal on the exchange, thank Christ. It will be expensive standing drinks at the wake and funeral. I do not know how many friends my father had made but to be safe I am expecting many unfamiliar faces. I watch my wife walk away from the counter. If Princess Diana had ever come to Dublin, rather than gallivant through Paris, now lying cold in the morgue, she too might have stood in line to get Irish money. They could do nothing for her in the best French hospitals and they could do nothing for my father in whatever hospital Dublin deigned to offer one of its least significant citizens. Blood loss stopped her breathing, and my father’s heart could be cut out of his aging body and placed in her hands again, in her veins, her breasts, her child, her children. I think of her sons. The princes. Their savage grief to have lost their mother. I think of myself. My father’s son. My utter indifference. I wished him dead and I got my wish. My father that I hate in this city I hate.
Ria joins me with our money. We catch a taxi into our city, our capital, the centre of our capital. I hate the roadworks disfiguring the endless detours. I hate the driver cracking jokes about politics. I don’t fucking remember who the Taoiseach is. I do not care. So I say nothing. Ria says your man sounds like a right chancer. Well, he’s rightly screwed us, the driver says, he’s screwed Ireland. I imagine the bastard mounting the statue of Cú Chulainn at the GPO. His prick blasts through the bronze arse of the ancient hero and in juicy jubilation that cock can grow so monumental it bursts through Cú Chulainn’s mouth, spouting poisonous sperm all through this hateful city, its disease of greed infecting the innocent, turning them into the guilty, the gutless, the bastard cowards that let Dublin become this hateful shrine to the shite that it smells of.
But my nose is sick of shit. I want no more of it. I want to go home. Where is my home? With Simon, my son, my loyal son. With Bathsheba, my daughter, my beautiful daughter. We’re here, Ria says, we’re at the hotel, you have the Irish money, pay the man! The bill is eight million roubles. Fuck it, are we in Moscow, in Petersburg, in Odessa? Why are you speaking, my good man, in that oddly Slavonic fashion? Ria pulls the wallet from my hands. My husband’s father has died, he is behaving strangely. I am sorry for your troubles, the taxi man says. No, you’re not, you’re more sorry for the Princess of Wales, at least you know who she was. I couldn’t give a fuck for her, he assures me, the English can all go to hell. I’m glad the royal family got what was coming to them. She deserved to die young – how many of ours did they take too soon? She got what they were looking for. I vomit profusely in his car, after I laugh myself sick just to let him think I agree.
He starts to scream. Bastard, bastard, get out.
He throws open the door beside me. But I decline this invitation to step outside. Instead I lean over the driver’s seat and explode my guts onto where my bigoted chauffeur sat. It dances everywhere, the yellow, the green, the white, inside me, now outside. I vomit for Ireland.
He has stopped screaming. He is now crying. Big salty tears from his eyes. This fucking grown man is bawling over a car. I ask him, what is wrong? Have you lost your father? Have you lost your young wife? Have you lost your virginity? Why are you weeping and screaming as if I have defiled your life? My father left my mother and so I was defiled as an abandoned child. I recovered from this loss sufficiently well to be capable of stepping out of a cab and entering a hotel with the express intention of checking in, but my wife got there before me and did the dirty of telling them I was in need of sound sleep, that I’d be fine. Absolutely fine. I talk to the weeping driver, I say I am sorry. You have made my father’s funeral much easier to bear. I wish to give you a present. I therefore take a pair of pink socks from my hand luggage and give them to him. I tell him, in Egypt this is the done thing to thank a boy for being fucked. Or indeed for fucking. He stops crying. I smile. I say, please, for you, the least I can do for destroying your beautiful car. These socks belonged to my Egyptian father. He has just died. From an excess of pink.
Am I thanked for this act of enlightened generosity? Am I buffalo? He hurls the pink socks from the window of his car, and I catch them with the skill that surprises me. The ancient Gaelic game of hurling was never my strong point. Now, a grown man, back with his wife, having fathered two children, albeit twins, I seem to have acquired a skill, a stratagem, a structure to my physical behaviour that allows me to be so quick. So accomplished, so extraordinarily capable of playing with the professionalism abhorred by those who know the game, who rule it, who appreciate the finer points of its playing.
Clearly my father dying has unleashed in me not so much a masculine grace but the leonine female strength of a good man with a sliotar in one hand and a stick in the other, arriving at that moment of triumph in a match when he becomes she and is unbeatable. I was my father’s son, but when the old boy, the old fella, the old man died, I could, had I so wished, become queen of England, Scotland, Wales, Northern Ireland – the entire territory of the United Kingdom – should I have stayed with the treacherous, disloyal adulterer who was my husband.
Instead I married early. A virgin. I married a woman who sleeps, exhausted, in the afternoon, having gotten up early, arranged flights, dumped two kids, done every fucking job demanded of her: she sleeps beside me. What are her dreams?
She is with her husband. A drug dealer. He showers three, four times a day since he’s given up heroin. He concentrates instead on selling, while all the time seeking by showering to be rid of the stench that is himself. No, that will not do. Next dream.
She mutilates herself as punishment for not having children. Her unhappy husband encourages this by sipping the blood from her wound, so purple, so lovely in the flow of juice. He dresses himself in her mutilation so he can be a man and a woman. He wraps himself in such fashion as he wishes for the cloths of heaven to swaddle round his wife’s cunt and then he may not fuck her. He is thinking of his dying father. The same day as Princess Diana died. When he tries to breathe he finds her blonde hair inside his mouth. He finds a broken, beautiful body in the bathroom as he takes a piss. She is white, gentle soap in the hands he washes, pink English Rose in the paste against his yellowing teeth and the smell of woman in her corpse as he turns to kiss his sleeping wife, at siesta, at peace, in Dublin, the city he hates.
How do I hate thee, let me count the ways. I walk down Grafton Street. My, how it is changed. It is wonderful the way Dublin has turned its magical streets into my father crying like a child not to be left alone. Diana nowhere to be seen. Absolutely nowhere. I think my wife is pregnant. This would explain my behaviour.
We take the Dart to Booterstown to meet the woman who married my recently deceased father. In our pockets we carry wallets with a wad of Irish money, a little of my medication, pictures of our twins, pictures of ourselves, pictures of my father, pictures of Ria’s parents, pictures of our house in London, pictures of myself at the age my father left us, pictures that go to make up life if you live by pictures. We reach the coast and get out of the Dart. I’ve done this before. Three times I’ve stood at the rusting stairway looking into the grey sea and dirty sand, wondering if he might be taking a constitutional walk along the shore and by chance bump into me. The waves would sometimes threaten to mount the stone wall and soak me, but they never did. The sea at Booterstown is well mannered. I would stand there looking out at the hard water thinking of my mother abandoned by my father, and in the seabirds’ harsh voices I could hear her weeping at her cruelty in driving him away even though it was the right thing to do, for the brute beast could not keep his claws off women, any women, all women. I was once tempted to start beating my head against the wall for no good reason other than to drive my parents’ memory out of my brain, but that would not have worked. I remember everything. I stand today before crossing over, looking at the deserted strand – it is always deserted – when to my shock, two horses, one white, one brown, driven by young girls, race like lightning striking the land, scattered silver beneath their hoofs, then disappear forever out of sight on their way towards the city submerged beneath black traffic.
– You could have knocked me down with a feather when I heard your name was the same as my own. Talk about like father and son. Two of them picking women called Ria. Of course I would say your full name is Maria. Am I right?
– It’s Honoria, actually, my wife informs.
– How lovely. You’ll never guess what mine is, so I’m not going to give you the trouble of guessing. I’ll tell you straight. It’s Rialto. I’m called after the cinema my mother had her first court in. Could you beat that? My poor sister, Lord have mercy on her, she passed herself off as Agnes but she was christened Angina. I know it’s a disease, but my mother swore she was some kind of Neapolitan saint devoted to the care of the Sacred Heart. She was a cruel woman at a baptism font. But didn’t we survive? And God love her, she left myself and himself lying in that coffin this lovely little house in Booterstown.
That is where we are sitting, myself, two Rias, a scrawny priest called Father Gerard and the corpse of my dead father in whose name we are gathered under this roof, hearing the click of the two clocks, watching a blank TV screen, smelling the roses on the wallpaper, the daisies on the carpet and the marigolds on the cushions. The net curtains are clean, the whole house stinks of scrubbing soap and the priest is lisping his way through another decade of the rosary. Some men might believe they have a vocation to the priesthood because of a vision, a vow, a desire to make money, a desire for security, but Father Gerard took to the collar because he was a sissy, and this vocation was as good a means of protecting his goolies from marauding boots as any other devised by God or man. He looks like a sissy, talks like one, sits like one, breathes like one. No one, as I’ve said, could lay a finger on him or kick the shit out of him because the bastard is both a priest and an old man. Changed times, though, in Dublin. Neither age nor dignity might spare him in this country where they’ve begun to hate the old and have always hated the clergy but were too tongue-tied, too servile, too superstitious to admit it.
The short silence between us is broken by the widow.
