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- Part One -
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Silvio stood before the bathroom mirror, carefully shaving. He’d felt refreshed after his morning shower; the warm water had dissolved the anger, the fear and the hangover. Now, as the razor scraped away last night’s stubble from his flesh, he began to feel human again. He winced as the razor cut a tiny nick on his chin; a small smear of blood bubbled threateningly, then retreated. Silvio washed his face and brushed his teeth; one of the few blessings God had bestowed on him was a durable set of teeth, and he cared for them for over half a century as if they were precious pearls. He sprayed on deodorant and splashed on aftershave; he felt a brief sting when the aftershave washed over the tiny cut on his chin. Smoothing the hair oil on to his scalp, he carefully combed the grey, receding hairs. Feeling fully reborn, Silvio wrapped his black dressing gown around him and walked back to his bedroom. It was time to listen to a Dylan song. Every morning, he chose one at random from his vast collection; he never believed in fretting over which jewel to choose from the treasure chest. This morning, he selected “If Not For You”, a whimsical piece of fluff from the early 1970s. As Silvio listened to Dylan cheerfully celebrate his dependence on his woman, the hangover began to assert its presence again. He could see dark shadows hidden in the catchiness of tune. In this song, love was a dangerous addiction. If the woman left, the sky would fall. Like an Old Testament prophet, she could cause the rain to gather. If she walked out the door, the singer would cease to exist. Just like what happened me when Clara left. One year, I had everything. Next year, I had nothing. And a hell of a lot more than the rain fell on my head. When Silvio listened to his morning Dylan song, his world stopped. The building could catch fire, but Silvio would not move until the last seconds of the song faded away back into the vast emptiness from where they had come. After dressing, Silvio examined his reflection in the mirror. The reflection that stared back was of a man dressed to meet kings. A man dressed to negotiate the future of nations. A fifty-five year old man stared back at him. His hair was grey, thinning, but neatly combed and oiled. The face was clean and well shaven. A bit etched on, though. The face of a fifty-five year old man living in Dublin. Deep in his eyes, however, Silvio saw a thirty year old man living in New York. A haunted, petrified man. A man gaping into the abyss, feeling his life crumble in his grip. Deep in the darkness of his pupils, Silvio saw a dead man. A man who, in 1976, completely lost control. A man who lost himself and was left nowhere at all. When Silvio came to Ireland in 1976, he left his New York shadows behind. He severed all ties. Maybe they were severed for him. He wasn’t always sure.
Silvio and Charlie sat sipping bottles of beer on the bench outside Ellington apartments. Although Silvio was thirty years older than Charlie, he enjoyed his neighbour’s company. Both were comfortable in the silence. They knew each other well enough by now, a friendship gradually built over the last two years. They often sat on the bench, smoking cigarettes, drinking beer, sometimes talking, sometimes just enjoying the easy silence of each other’s company. Charlie had been complaining about some trivial nonsense in his office. Silvio tried to warn him that work pressure can easily get out of hand. For ten years, Silvio had worked for Albert & Stone Advertising in Madison Avenue, New York. Some time in 1976, he had a nervous breakdown. He was fired after he ran through his office brandishing a pistol at one of his colleagues. Soon after that, his wife Clara and son Daniel left him. Some months later, Silvio arrived in Dublin. Shattered, but determined to rebuild his life. Charlie had been ranting about the ongoing office politics at bamaLoo.com. Silvio listened to the tedious complaints, deciding not to remind Charlie that his problems didn’t amount to a hill of beans. In fact, they barely created a bump. “I suppose,” Charlie sighed, “I’m just trying to map my career path.” “You could hardly map your way to the end of the street.” Silvio gulped some more beer. “You don’t have to drag that ball and chain around with you. You can unlock it at 5.00 every evening. On your deathbed, you’ll have plenty of regrets. One of them won’t be ‘Damn, I wished I’d spent more time in the office when I was younger.’ Believe me, the less time you spend in there, the better.” “I don’t know why I drag myself into that hell hole every day. In fact, some days, I wonder if life’s worth living.” “Of course it is! You just have to work out how.” Silvio couldn’t help smiling. Charlie wouldn’t have lasted ten minutes in Albert & Stone. “Try to keep your whines in perspective, Charlie. Otherwise, you’ll lose the plot. And the plot is like your virginity: when you lose it, it’s very had to find it again.” “I must have the worst job in the history of the entire universe.” Charlie lit up a cigarette and smoked moodily for some seconds. “There has to be a better life than this.” “Oh, yes,” Silvio nodded. “No matter what you get in life, you’re always convinced that there’s something much better just a little bit beyond your reach. That’s what keeps us going, I suppose: the thought that life could always get a bit better. Otherwise, why would you bother getting up in the morning?” “To go to the toilet,” Charlie shrugged, tapping the ash on the bench. “Or maybe get some headache tablets and a bite to eat.” “Of course, any time you do get want you want, it’s never quite as good as you thought it would be. Life just seems to constantly go out of its way to disappoint you.” “Nice to know I disappoint you, Silvio.” “Charlie, you’d disappoint the most optimistic idealist on the planet!” They sat in silence for some minutes. A green Fiesta pulled into the backyard, parking near the bench. A middle-aged woman in a dark brown suit got out. She took off her sunglasses and put them in her black handbag. She locked the car door and only then noticed Charlie and Silvio sitting on the bench. “Oh, I didn’t see you there,” she smiled. “Hi!” said Charlie. “Good evening, Lucy,” Silvio said, nodding slightly. “Have you had a good day?” “It was fine, Silvio. Thanks for asking.” She glanced at her watch. “Well, I’d better get in. My stomach has been growling for food for the last two hours. I might see you later.” “See you then,” Silvio called after her as she walked away. He stared at the corner of the building for some seconds after she went around it. “So,” Charlie asked, “are you going to Lucy’s party on Saturday evening?” “I suppose so.” “God, don’t have a heart attack from over-enthusiasm!” “I’d better go.” Silvio gave a sudden shudder. “But that crazy couple from apartment 4 will be there. They get on my nerves.” “Bill and Kathleen? What’s wrong with them?” “You know what they’re like. Always shouting and snarling at each other like two mangy alley cats. They’d sicken you.” “They love each other beneath it all.” “Good job. No one else would stand either one of them.” “She’s a strange one,” Charlie remarked, nodding towards Lucy’s Fiesta. “One day, she’s as cold as a bloody icicle in a fridge in November. She looks through you as if you were made of water. The next day, she’s all smiles and sweetness. I’d say she was a goer in her day, though. She has that look about her...” “There’s plenty of spirit in her.” When she was young, I’m sure she wore flowers in her hair and told her boyfriends not to take life so bloody seriously. She would have laughed at them as they raged at some pointless triviality. And she was right to do so. “I noticed that about her from the first day she moved into these apartments… How old would you say she is, Charlie?” “God, I don’t know,” Charlie shrugged. “I’m hopeless at guessing ages. Something between forty and eighty, I’d say.” “That’s a magnificently specific answer! She turned fifty-six last April.” “Get away! She looks much younger than that.” “Yes, she does, doesn’t she? I was talking to her on her birthday. We went down to Murphy’s for a quiet drink. I eventually got her to tell me her age. I damn near fell into the turf fire when she told me.” Something in Silvio’s voice made Charlie look round. Silvio was staring at Lucy’s green Fiesta, a tiny smile curling on his lips. “What exactly are you saying, Silvio? Do you... er... fancy her or something?” “What? God, no!” Silvio glared at Charlie. “Don’t be so bloody stupid!” “Well, it’s just that...” “Never mind what you think!” Silvio snapped.
Silvio sat down on his bed and lit a cigarette. The smoke billowed from his trembling hand. Lucy expected Silvio to be at her party downstairs later in the evening. His desperate attempts to wriggle out of the invitation were to no avail. Silvio had to steady his nerves. He pressed Play on his stereo and closed his eyes as the ominous opening chords of “Blind Willie McTell” filled the bedroom. It was one of Silvio’s favourite songs, a lament for a passing world. A song to sing when the carnival’s over, when they’re taking down the tents. Everywhere was condemned. And when Dylan sang “condemned”, he sang it with all the finality that he once sang “I’m not there, I’m gone.” There would be no debate: the arrow was painted on the doorpost. Judgement had been passed and punishment must follow. Silvio could remember the parties he had gone to in New York. Someone in Albert & Stone would invite everyone back to their place for an evening of wine, cheese and corporate bonding. But no bonding would take place. They were always evenings of tedious intrigue, plots to derail people’s careers, conspiracies to advance one’s own career. The cloaks and daggers always dangled amid the wine and cheese. The room faded into a haze. Silvio blew smoke into Dylan’s voice. He no longer saw the stereo. He saw the inside of the Columbia recording studios in New York. Dylan sat at the piano, coughing away Silvio’s smoke. He gazed into the distance, into the decay. An entire way of life was being wrapped up. Plantations burned as ghostly slavery ships disappeared into the fogs of history. All the beauty and violence of the old South - the love and the theft; the power and the greed; the sweet magnolia and the cracking whips; the twinkling stars and barren trees; the bootlegged whiskey and chain gangs - was fading into the night. Outside, in Ellington Court, a car drove off. Silvio didn’t hear it. He heard only the voice of the man at the piano trying to capture the desolation of the hoot owl’s song. Trying to conjure up the ghost of Blind Willie McTell. Only a dead bluesman would be able to sing of the world’s last days. There was always plenty of power and greed in Albert & Stone. In New York, things were never as simple as they appeared on the surface. Every good seed that was planted in Silvio’s brain was corrupted by his demons and would blossom wildly at the New York parties. At one party in SoHo, he punched a colleague called Nigel Penn in the face because he thought Penn was trying to steal the Lazer account from him. He was very drunk that night. Another evening, back in 1973, Silvio slept with a colleague called Julia Cummings because he thought that she could help him get the lucrative Courtyard deal. He had been sober that night.
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