Читать книгу Nude - Naeem Murr - Страница 7

Eugene hurried through the park, worried they might close Richmond Gate. The air was thick with the brackish odor of the ferns. The trees sponged in what little light remained, turning the few people he came upon into Seurat's grainy shades. Pushing down his trilby and pulling up the collar of his mackintosh against the chill, he tried not to think about the skin of soaking clothes he'd left on the bathroom floor.

The restlessness in the breeze of the trees beside the path made Eugene think of something his wife had once told him about how it felt, when she was on night duty during the war, to walk through hospital wards of wounded soldiers sleeping. Where was Catherine tonight? Had she forgiven him for what had happened all those years ago with Lisa, his student? Lisa, whose pale skin would flush so she looked scalded if he so much as glanced at her in class. He caught sight of Lisa in the street sometimes, walking as if through an endless gauntlet of jeering men. He wanted to tell her there was power in her body, but it wasn't his place.

That he should have lost his job, his wife. His life.

Once through the gate, he made his way down to the Thames and sat on a bench near Richmond Bridge. Jimmy would pass here on his way to the Duke. He just wanted someone to talk to, though he knew Jimmy would shy from talk that even flirted with intimacy. But Jimmy was one of the most sensitive and thoughtful men Eugene had ever known. If there were anyone in Eugene's acquaintance who might have achieved greatness, it was Jimmy. His acclaimed doctoral thesis on the human body of Christ had been followed, during his first year of seminary in Dublin, by a book of poems that many had compared to the work of Hopkins. How had he allowed himself to become just an old man obsessed with his bowels? Ever since he'd left the Jesuits and come to England, just after the war, he'd led a dissolute life. He spent most nights in the Duke, and when he was younger worked his way, as if he didn't much care for the job but needed the overtime, through one woman after another. Women drawn, no doubt, to his gentle and unavailable soul.

It was dark before Eugene saw him coming down the towpath, that massive, shambling frame. He looked like an old bare-knuckle fighter, now ruined and brooding.

“Euge,” Jimmy called out, his voice still carrying a faint Dublin lilt, “you're looking very metaphysical tonight.”

“Am I?”

“You are, indeed.” Jimmy cut over and sat himself beside Eugene. “You should try to get a grant from the city council for sitting here and looking profound. They could make you a tourist attraction. Sure, the Americans will pay for anything.”

“Why not?” Eugene was overwhelmed, as always, by Jimmy's jokey chatter.

“Hey, you should come to the Duke tonight,” Jimmy continued. “Gary's in town. All the old gang will be there.”

“Yes, I might.”

“God, it's been years since I've seen you in the Duke. You're becoming a bit of a recluse.”

Jimmy lit a cigarette. It was Eugene's opportunity to speak, but he didn't want to banter. He wanted to tell Jimmy he'd just got into the shower with all his clothes on. He didn't care if Jimmy made a joke of it; Jimmy would understand he was afraid. But he couldn't just say it straight out like that, and Jimmy's discomfort at the silence, his fidgeting and checking of his watch compounded Eugene's reluctance, until, to relieve the tension, Eugene blurted, “So how's your stomach?”