The Fabulists | Page 8

the beginning of the chapter. The
traveller, an Irishman, had relatives in Galicia - the Celtic part of the
peninsula. Mungo envied him such a background. At the same time, it
would be better if he, Mungo, were completely alone to make a fresh
start.
It didn't have to be Spain, but it was the country he knew most about
for now, more than England - more than Ireland, perhaps. A fresh start.
In reality it was impossible, he knew; but he could rehearse it in his
imagination. Maybe he could disguise it as a story for the children. He
returned to where he had left off, and finished the chapter.
It had been snowing, but as dawn broke the sky was cloudless and the
snow was compact and silent across the plateau. Mungo repeated the
lines to himself while descending the library stairs to the shopping
centre.

As he turned from the stairs he almost collided with her. She smiled
faintly as if in recognition, but flustered, he wasn't quite sure if it was
the same woman, and side-stepped to let her pass. Could it be her?
Surely not. Was it a smile of derision? He backtracked, and she had
paused by the sweet shop. Staring, as if in shock, he decided it wasn't
her. This woman didn't fit his luminous image. True, she had light red
hair, and similar clothing, but she seemed defeated somehow, whether
by age or constant misfortune he could not say. And he had
remembered her as having flaming red hair, hadn't he? If only he could
see her face again, he would know then. If he could see her eyes, then
certainly he would know. It would give him a chance to smile, and she
could smile back and they could laugh at his foolishness and say hello.
She didn't turn, but as soon as she walked along the passage to Parnell
Street, he knew. He stood at the sweet shop and watched her retreating
figure. Yes, it was her all right, and yes, despite her graceful carriage,
she seemed defeated. Suddenly, he felt the weight of defeat too, and
turned to leave by the Henry Street exit, when Parnell Street would
have brought him more quickly home.
'Ripe bananas, five for fifty!' 'Cigarette lighters, four for a pound!' The
sing-song cries of the street-sellers greeted him on Henry Street. He
lounged about for a while, browsing amongst the cheap shoes, and then
in the music shop across the road. He hated wasting time like this,
when he could afford neither shoes nor music, but he did it all the same,
knowing he was trying to avoid thinking about the woman.
He found himself walking back along Liffey Street, half believing he
might meet her again, and paused at the junction with Strand Street,
where he felt something magical had brought them together for those
shocking moments. At the Ha'penny Bridge, he looked down Ormond
Quay and recalled that his journey home after the Parade of Innocence
had left him in her wake. How she had hurried away! Of course it had
been dark, and maybe without realizing it he had scared her, and he felt
pity and then affection and a desire to make amends.
On the hump of the footbridge, he stopped and looked around him, as
so many passed by. Then he peered up-river. He knew he was attracting

curious glances, and he longed at that moment for a camera. With a
camera he would have a legitimate reason - a composition, perhaps, of
the coppergreen domes of the Four Courts and Adam and Eve's, with
the Guinness steam house in the distance, slightly left of centre,
completing the picture. Without a camera he felt naked. If he was a
passer-by, he too would wonder why someone was staring into the
distance from a bridge over a river at high tide. The obvious reason was
furthest from the truth. He did it because he wanted to, and that was
reason enough. There was no other reason. He had no purpose here, nor
did he want or need one. He felt a thrill of happiness at his brief
freedom, and gratitude to an anonymous woman.

-Three -
It was where she shopped anyway, so for a week she found an excuse
to go to the shopping centre every other day at about the same time.
The coincidence of meeting him twice in an hour was one thing, but the
moment had passed and was lost. She shrugged. Such things happened
all the time in the likes of Henry Street - didn't they? Apart from his
stiff arm, what intrigued her was that he had frightened her half to
death on the night of the parade, but in daylight he seemed deferential
and