Elegy For April

Quirke were set in a half circle in front of the desk.

“Yes,” Celia Latimer was saying to her brother-in-law, in an acid tone, “I’ve no doubt Dr. Quirke is concerned.” She was looking pointedly at the whiskey glass standing on the blotter, and Latimer snatched it up guiltily and carried it to the cabinet in the corner and put it away. His sister-in-law turned to Quirke again. “Have you heard something of April, Dr. Quirke?”

Quirke suddenly found himself thinking about the smell of Isabel Galloway’s skin. It was a warm, soft smell, with an undertone of what must be greasepaint; it had reminded him of something, and now he realized what it was. He saw himself as a boy, sitting cross-legged on a rug before a fireplace with sheets of paper strewn around him. The sheets were written on, and he was using the back of them for drawing paper. He must have been in Judge Griff n’s study, where often he was allowed to play while the Judge was working there; the sheets of paper he was drawing on must have been discarded drafts of judgments. The day outside was cold, a day like this one, in the depths of winter, but the fire was hot, and there were chilblain diamonds on his legs, and his forehead was burning in a way that he could just bear but that was pleasurable, too. Never such happiness since then, never such safety. He was drawing with crayons, and it was the waxen smell of them that he must have been remembering when in the bedroom in her little house by the canal Isabel Galloway put her face close to his, her face that seemed to be burning too, as his had burned that day, long ago, in front of the fire, in Judge Griff n’s room.

He blinked. “What?” he said. “I’m sorry?”

“I said, have you heard something of April?” Celia Latimer asked again. “Has she been in touch with your daughter?”

He leaned forward to stub out his cigarette in the ashtray on the corner of Latimer’s desk. “No,” he said, “I’m afraid not.”

She looked to her brother-in-law, returning to his chair. “And what do the Gardai say, William?” she asked.

Latimer did not look at her. “The Gardai, as such, aren’t involved, only this man Hackett, the detective you met at the house that day. In fact”- he glanced darkly in Quirke’s direction-”I’m not sure why he was brought into it in the first place.”

Quirke returned his look with a level stare. He disliked this large, truculent, stupid man. He wanted to be elsewhere. He thought of the sunlight outside, shining so wanly, so tentatively, on the grayed lawn. Portobello.

Oscar Latimer, who so far had been silent, now gave himself a sort of angry shake, clasping his hands on the wooden arms of his chair as if he were about to leap up and do something violent. “It’s disgraceful,” he said, his voice cracking. “First, strangers knowing our business, then the Guards! Next it’ll be the newspapers- that will be a fine thing. And all because my sister couldn’t be trusted to run her life in any sort of responsible fashion.” His mother put a restraining hand on his arm, and he stopped talking and pressed his lips shut. There were spots of color high on his cheekbones. He had, Quirke thought, the striving, hindered air of a man elbowing his way through a seething mob.

Bill Latimer turned to his sister-in-law again. “I’ve told Hackett, the detective, that discretion is paramount. I presume”- he gave Quirke another hard glance-”we’re all agreed on that?”

Quirke had been puzzled and now suddenly was not. He realized at last what was taking place here, and why he had been summoned to be part of it. A ceremony of banishment was being enacted. April Latimer was being tacitly but definitively thrust by her family out of its midst. She was being disowned. Her brother, her uncle, even her mother, would no longer be held accountable for her actions, not even for her being. And Quirke was the neutral but necessary witness, the one whose seal, whether he offered it or not, would be put upon the covenant. And what, he asked himself, if she were dead? That possibility too, he realized, was to be incorporated in the anathema.

ROSE CRAWFORD WAS WAITING FOR HIM IN THE BACK BAR AT JAMmet’s. There was a bottle of Bollinger in an ice bucket on the table before her. She had gone back to America before Christmas to attend to her financial affairs, and had returned on the Queen Mary, which had docked in Cobh that morning. She complained of the train from Cork, saying it was cold and dirty and without a dining car. “I had almost forgotten,” she said, “what this country is like.” She had brought him a box of Romeo y Julietas and a novelty tie with a half-naked blonde with an enormous bust and cherry-pink nipples painted on it. She was wearing a blue silk suit and a silk scarf loosely knotted at her throat. Her hair, in which she was letting some of the silver show, was done in a new style, parted in the center and drawn back sweepingly at both sides. She appeared crisp and fresh, and her manner as usual was one of dark and skeptical amusement. “You look very well,” she told Quirke, and signaled to the barman to open the champagne. “Certainly better than the last time I saw you.”

“I’ve been away too,” he said.

“Oh, yes?”

“I was in St. John of the Cross.”

“My-what’s that?”

“A drying -out clinic.”

“Yes, now that I think of it, Phoebe mentioned in one of her letters that you were in the bin. I thought she was exaggerating. What was it like?”

“All right.”

She smiled. “I’m sure.” The barman poured the champagne and set the sizzling glasses before them. Quirke looked at his, chewing on his lip. “Do you dare?” Rose asked, smiling with sweet malice. “I don’t want to be responsible for putting you back on the cross.”

He picked up his glass and tipped the rim of it against hers. They drank. “Here’s to sobriety,” he said.

She had reserved her favorite table, in the corner with a banquette, from where they had a view of the rest of the dining room. They ordered poached salmon. Mнcheбl and Hilton from the Gate were at a nearby table, lunching in what seemed an angry silence; Mнcheбl’s wig looked blacker and glossier than ever.

“Tell me the news,” Rose said. “If there is any.”

He sipped his champagne. It was a drink he did not care for, usually, finding even the best vintages too dry and acid; today, however, it tasted fine. He would drink one glass, he told himself, one glass only, and after that perhaps a glass of Chablis, and then would stop.

“I wondered if you would come back,” he said. “I thought Boston might take you into its bosom and keep you there.”

“Oh, Boston,” she said dismissively. “In fact, I was in New York, mostly. Now, there’s a town.”

“But you returned nevertheless to dear, dirty Dublin.”

“And you, Quirke, and you.”

The waiter brought their fish, and Quirke ordered his glass of Chablis. Rose made no comment, only told the waiter she would keep to the champagne.

“Have you spoken to Phoebe yet?” Quirke asked. “Since you got back, that is.”

“No, Quirke dear, you were my first port of call, as always. How is the darling girl?”

He told her about April Latimer, how she was missing and that no one knew where she was; he did not mention the blood that had been found beside her bed. Rose listened, watching him in her shrewd way. She was the second wife, now widow, of his father-in-law, Josh Crawford, Irish-American haulage giant, as the newspapers used to call him, and sometime crook. He had been much older than she, and had left her a rich woman. After he died she had moved to Ireland on a whim and bought a great house in Wicklow which she rarely visited, preferring what she called the coziness of her suite at the Shelbourne, where she had her bedroom, two reception rooms, two bathrooms, and a private dining room. Quirke and she had gone to bed together once, and once only, in turbulent times, a thing they never spoke of but which remained between them, something to be aware of, like a light shining uncertainly afar in a dark wood.

“And what do you think has become of her,” she asked, “this young woman?”

“I don’t know.”

“But you have your suspicions.”

He paused, setting down his knife and fork and gazing before him for some moments. “I have- fears,” he said at length. “It doesn’t look good. She’s wild, her family tell me, though Phoebe insists they’re exaggerating. I can’t say. She worked at the hospital, but I never came across her.”

“Does Malachy know her?”