Adam shut the front door and, when he turned, she’d gone again, as if she’d never been there. A beautiful, ghostlike woman, but who left in her wake the very real aroma of bacon and sausage. The full Irish breakfast. Adam was in love.He followed the smell and the woman down the dark hall, to the kitchen.He pushed open the door.
Adam shut the front door and, when he turned, she’d gone again, as if she’d never been there. A beautiful, ghostlike woman, but who left in her wake the very real aroma of bacon and sausage. The full Irish breakfast. Adam was in love.
He followed the smell and the woman down the dark hall, to the kitchen.
He pushed open the door.
She sat at the table, looking down. The morning sun filled the big window behind Eve, and lit her hair. And the steam rising from the plate in front of her – she looked as if she was on fire. She was, Adam decided – and he knew this to be true – the most beautiful woman had ever seen.
But she ate like a pig and she offered him nothing.
He stood at the door and watched her eat. Three sausages, two fried eggs, five of the thin slices of bacon that in Ireland were called rashers. And toast. Lots of toast; many slices, one by one. Adam watched the butter drip onto the table. He watched the woman – Eve – wipe the white plate with the second last slice of toast. He watched her eat it. And he watched her eat the last slice, after she’d wiped the table with it. The plate and table were clean; the smell, however, still tortured him.
–That’s better, she said. –I was starving.
She was looking at him.
–Where’s the thing? she asked.
–Thing? said Adam. –What thing, please?
–The thing, she said. –For putting the painting on. You’re supposed to, like, look at me from behind it, yeah?
–Do you mean the easel? said Adam.
–Yeah, she said. –Where is it?
–In Poland, said Adam.
She looked disappointed, almost angry.
–I am sorry, said Adam.
-Bummer, said Eve. –Do you even have any paints and stuff?
–I have a pencil, said Adam.
–No way, said Eve. –Is that all?
Adam took the pencil from his back pocket.
–It is a very good pencil, he said.
He held up his drawing pad.
–I wish to do some sketches first, he said.
This was true. Also true was the fact that Adam had no paints and no money to buy any.
She still hadn’t moved.
But now she did. She was out of her chair before he’d noticed her moving. The white plate was in her hand. Then she threw it, like a Frisbee. Adam saw it fly across the kitchen. It landed in the sink, smack, on top of the water. He watched sudsy water rise, and drop. The suds stayed in the air and caught the light. The sudden violence, the happy ending – Adam thought he’d die. His heart dropped into his very empty stomach.
–So, okay, she said.
She turned to Adam.
–So, sketch then. Where do you want me?
Adam took one step into the kitchen. Eve held no more plates or missiles.
–Well? she said. –Am I okay here?
–No, said Adam.
She was too flimsy, too ghostlike, against the white sunlight that filled the window. She’d shimmer and drift, like steam - like the suds - before he’d even started.
He walked to the window. He saw the cord, and pulled down the canvas blind.
–But the sun, she protested.
–Not good, said Adam.
The sun was now a block of grey, tame light, behind the canvas. It looked solid, already painted. Adam began to feel better.
He picked up a chair and moved it to the left of the block of canvas light.
–Sit here, please, he said.
–I want to stand, said Eve –It’s more me.
–You will stand for many hours, perhaps. And you must not move.
–Oh, okay, she said. –Will I stick some music on first?
–No, said Adam.
-Why not?
He didn’t want to tell her that he couldn’t listen to music that he hadn’t already heard many times before. And he guessed that she was not a great admirer of the songs of Tina Turner. So –
–My tone is deaf, he said.
–What does that mean? she said, as she sat. –You can’t make out the notes?
–Yes, said Adam.
She sang.
–I’M YOUR PRIVATE DANCER – DANCER FOR MONEY – What did that sound like?
Wonderful, he thought.
–I did not hear it, he said. –You sang?
–Yeah, she said. –Jesus, you poor thing.
Adam shrugged.
–It does not matter so much, he said.
–Were you always like that? she asked.
And Adam made a decision. He gave her the interesting answer.
–No, he said.
He moved a chair, and sat. He felt suddenly powerful. He almost laughed.
–What happened? Eve asked.
He did not know yet how he would respond. He stared at the white page, then at her. He looked down at the page again. His stomach growled.
–Is it difficult to talk about? she asked.
He nodded, and then started to draw.
© Roddy Doyle 2007
Roddy’s exclusive story appears at the beginning of each month
He followed the smell and the woman down the dark hall, to the kitchen.
He pushed open the door.
She sat at the table, looking down. The morning sun filled the big window behind Eve, and lit her hair. And the steam rising from the plate in front of her – she looked as if she was on fire. She was, Adam decided – and he knew this to be true – the most beautiful woman had ever seen.
But she ate like a pig and she offered him nothing.
He stood at the door and watched her eat. Three sausages, two fried eggs, five of the thin slices of bacon that in Ireland were called rashers. And toast. Lots of toast; many slices, one by one. Adam watched the butter drip onto the table. He watched the woman – Eve – wipe the white plate with the second last slice of toast. He watched her eat it. And he watched her eat the last slice, after she’d wiped the table with it. The plate and table were clean; the smell, however, still tortured him.
–That’s better, she said. –I was starving.
She was looking at him.
–Where’s the thing? she asked.
–Thing? said Adam. –What thing, please?
–The thing, she said. –For putting the painting on. You’re supposed to, like, look at me from behind it, yeah?
–Do you mean the easel? said Adam.
–Yeah, she said. –Where is it?
–In Poland, said Adam.
She looked disappointed, almost angry.
–I am sorry, said Adam.
-Bummer, said Eve. –Do you even have any paints and stuff?
–I have a pencil, said Adam.
–No way, said Eve. –Is that all?
Adam took the pencil from his back pocket.
–It is a very good pencil, he said.
He held up his drawing pad.
–I wish to do some sketches first, he said.
This was true. Also true was the fact that Adam had no paints and no money to buy any.
She still hadn’t moved.
But now she did. She was out of her chair before he’d noticed her moving. The white plate was in her hand. Then she threw it, like a Frisbee. Adam saw it fly across the kitchen. It landed in the sink, smack, on top of the water. He watched sudsy water rise, and drop. The suds stayed in the air and caught the light. The sudden violence, the happy ending – Adam thought he’d die. His heart dropped into his very empty stomach.
–So, okay, she said.
She turned to Adam.
–So, sketch then. Where do you want me?
Adam took one step into the kitchen. Eve held no more plates or missiles.
–Well? she said. –Am I okay here?
–No, said Adam.
She was too flimsy, too ghostlike, against the white sunlight that filled the window. She’d shimmer and drift, like steam - like the suds - before he’d even started.
He walked to the window. He saw the cord, and pulled down the canvas blind.
–But the sun, she protested.
–Not good, said Adam.
The sun was now a block of grey, tame light, behind the canvas. It looked solid, already painted. Adam began to feel better.
He picked up a chair and moved it to the left of the block of canvas light.
–Sit here, please, he said.
–I want to stand, said Eve –It’s more me.
–You will stand for many hours, perhaps. And you must not move.
–Oh, okay, she said. –Will I stick some music on first?
–No, said Adam.
-Why not?
He didn’t want to tell her that he couldn’t listen to music that he hadn’t already heard many times before. And he guessed that she was not a great admirer of the songs of Tina Turner. So –
–My tone is deaf, he said.
–What does that mean? she said, as she sat. –You can’t make out the notes?
–Yes, said Adam.
She sang.
–I’M YOUR PRIVATE DANCER – DANCER FOR MONEY – What did that sound like?
Wonderful, he thought.
–I did not hear it, he said. –You sang?
–Yeah, she said. –Jesus, you poor thing.
Adam shrugged.
–It does not matter so much, he said.
–Were you always like that? she asked.
And Adam made a decision. He gave her the interesting answer.
–No, he said.
He moved a chair, and sat. He felt suddenly powerful. He almost laughed.
–What happened? Eve asked.
He did not know yet how he would respond. He stared at the white page, then at her. He looked down at the page again. His stomach growled.
–Is it difficult to talk about? she asked.
He nodded, and then started to draw.
© Roddy Doyle 2007
Roddy’s exclusive story appears at the beginning of each month
