A Fifth of Bruen: Early Fiction of Ken Bruen
- Автор: Бруен Кен
- Год: 2006
- Язык: английский
- Год: Busted Flush Press
- ISBN: 978-0-9767157-2-6
- Жанр: Триллеры
Электронная книга - «A Fifth of Bruen: Early Fiction of Ken Bruen». Краткое содержание книги:
“Well, Grace, I like the melancholy. Us Irish are happiest with a full blast of sadness. Music to hang yourself by basically.”
“You and Sylvia Plath, both, be my guest.”
Later, the bar began to fill, and Ford would have said something but his tongue felt shredded. The mule had indeed kicked. Grace began to stand up. Ford couldn’t bear the thought of her departure. She moved her face right next to his. “Here we go,” he thought, “the old peck on the cheek and sayonara.” His heart was broken.
“So, Ford,” she said, “you wanna get laid or what?”
“How was it for you,” Ford asked. He blew a nigh perfect smoke ring rising to the gods. If he felt any better they might have to certify him.
“Well... You’re a cryer, I’ll give you that.”
Ford felt gut kicked. Who needed sour mash? She added, “I liked it, don’t get me wrong, but it wasn’t special. You wouldn’t want me to lie... You’re not that kind of guy.”
I am, he roared silently, I am. Jeez! Lie to me and lie big. Who wanted honesty? He wanted to be a stud. Ford always felt that when someone said “I respect your honesty,” you should check the silverware. He could see his epitaph:
“A man of integrity but a lousy lay.”
Oh my God!
Grace turned to him and said, “So, you want to try again?” He did.
Ford knew the difference between a gift and mere talent. He had a talent for drawing. His sketches won him prizes at school. But gifted, no. You could develop a talent but you couldn’t work towards a gift. You were or you weren’t and he wasn’t. Vikki had given him a lavish copy of Beardsley’s work and he almost never looked at it. “Look and weep,” he knew. Somerset Maugham had said, “The greatest curse must be to have the compulsion to write, and no talent.” Ford shuddered on reading that. Substitute “sketch” for “write.”
Feeling a time of inspiration around them, Ford had a mental picture of Addie Bundren on the back of a wagon. He could see the red clay of the Mississippi... and sketched it... over and over till he felt he caught Faulkner’s vision... and obsession. It hung in his living room. With visitors to his flat, Ford appreciated the difference fully twixt talent and the jackpot. They’d say, “Nice sketch. Hey, I love your sofa, where’d you get it?” If he were gifted, they’d say, “Wow, what a sketch!” No mention of the bloody sofa.
Grace had looked at the sketch for what seemed like a long time. Ford, in anticipation actually fell on the sofa.
Finally she said, “Read any Faulkner?”
He loved her then. It was the best moment of all that they’d had. Ford was blessed just then because he knew the moment for what it was. Knew and understood and was grateful near to weeping.
Grace was in his life for three months. They drank sour mash, wailed with Waylon and made love a lot. Ford was never sure if he became a better lover. Certainly he became a more frequent one. Grace hadn’t told him the deal on her husband. She wasn’t a lady to urge “Tell me now.”
Grace wouldn’t live with him. That was O.K., he felt almost good enough to sketch again. Then that Friday she arranged to meet him at Finches on the Fulham Road. She arrived late and, uncharacteristically, bothered.
“Let’s drink gin,” she said.
Ford had already started on scotch, but hell, he was flexible.
She looked pale but it made her look lovelier to Ford.
“I hate this pub,” she said, “almost as much as I hate gin.”
“You aren’t pregnant... or anything,” Ford ventured. As to whether he disguised the hope in his voice, he’d never know for sure.
“No such bloody luck,” she said. “Cecil has returned to London. He’s been Stateside these past months... or do you think I invited him?”
“I dunno, Grace.”
“Judas Priest! That’s from Hill Street Blues... You couldn’t invent Cecil. He’s moving permanently to New York and... I’m the wife, so...”
“You’re going to New York”
“Bingo! God, this gin is awful.”
“Have something else.”
“What! And feel better? I wanna get drunk, not happy.”
“It’s over between us then,” said Ford. Stating the obvious was all he could muster.
“Tell you the truth Ford, I don’t think we can bring you.”
He could have smiled. I mean, a bit of levity was fairly vital here. But he didn’t and it wasn’t something he felt he’d regret.
“Say something Ford, any god-damn thing.”
“Good-bye?”
“Ford, I like you a whole lot, for reasons you’d never even realize. But... Bottom line time: Cecil is rich and I like being rich. I like it a lot! Your mentor, Scott Fitz, ‘The rich are different from you and me.’ Well, babe, I’m with them. I like the difference.”
“Daisy had the sound of money in her voice,” Ford muttered. The gin was making him sick. Worse, maudlin.
“That kind of stuff Ford. You won ninety pounds on a horse and thought you were loaded. I’m talking gold credit cards and Gucci toothbrushes.”
“Toothbrushes!” thought Ford. “She’s hoppin’ on my heart and talking toothbrushes!” He said, “I was rich that day I met you.”
“Jeez, don’t get poetic on me Ford. Not when I’m swiggin’ gin. We had a good time, kiddo. Hell, a great time, but, I mean, was it love?”
She paused, then said, “I always wanted to ask you something...”
“Better ask now while I’m in such a carefree phase,” he said.
“Vikki — did you love her?”
Ford walloped a measure of gin and wondered if the truth mattered. He’d once heard Sean Connery say on TV, “Tell the truth and then it’s their problem.” Worth a shot.
“I loved her because she loved me.”
Grace was silent. She didn’t order any more to drink and Ford didn’t think he’d ever order another gin. He said, to break the silence, “Did I ever tell you that the very meaning of the word ‘Grace’ is ’a free gift’?”
She liked that. He didn’t even have to look at her to know how pleased she was. She prepared to leave and handed him a bag with Tower Records splurged on it. A record, per chance?
“It’s Waylon,” she said.
“Who else?”
“You keep sketching, Ford, O.K.?” She turned to go.
“Grace.”
“Yes?”
“You be careful out there... And that’s from Hill Street Blues.”
He thought, “God mind you well” as she walked out. Not that he would have said that. But oh, how he meant it. She won’t look back, he bet, and this at least Ford got right.
The barman said, “You all right?”
“Yea... Thanks.”
“Anything else?”
“Got any sour mash?”
Ford felt he should stay a bit after her departure. Like about a week. In the while, the pain subsided and he knew he had some decisions to reach. He decided to start smoking again and what else? Right. Buy Marlboro. Pity he hadn’t a zippo.
It was time to leave when he asked a guy where the best place to buy hand-tooled cowboy boots was. He frequently considered sketching what it was he’d left behind there. Close his eyes and he could see it. The bar counter, a mess of glasses and the Tower Records bag. What eased the vision was the half empty box of Marlboro standing upright. Red, white and vivid against the gaudy yellow. As yet he hadn’t bought a zippo. The cowboy boots he put down to a passing whim. No more than that. Nothing but a passing fancy.
The very next day Ford caught a snatch of conversation he was to rate among his absolute favourites. This would top his collection. Hungover! He was knocking on heaven’s door. The phantom orchestras were full tilt boogie in his head. A cure... He’d have to have something before he appeared at work. Purely medicinal. The early morning houses at Smithfield. Have to be.