Dial Zero
While
it’s a pity that the en-suite doesn’t
have a bath the balcony is a definite plus, I decide, surveying what will be my
universe for the next fourteen days. Childhood memories of my parents’ stories
of their emigrant aunts and uncles bring a wistful smile. Back then, the
journey to New York had meant anything from seven to eleven days at sea; my
return from JFK has taken less than seven hours, even if it will be another
fourteen days before I can travel the final fifty miles to my interim
destination – my sister’s home in the midlands. The joys of quarantine! What price progress? I wonder, recalling
my visit to the Ellis Island Museum about fifteen years ago. Post-Famine
immigrants to the US had also faced confinement on arrival, not to mention a
barrage of medical checks and, judging from the range of primitive surgical
instruments on view at the museum, I have to admit that a Covid-19 swab test
scarcely qualifies as a minor inconvenience. As for those unfortunates who were
quarantined in Ellis Island, I shudder to think how their accommodations might
have compared with my present quarters. I know I’ll be paying for my stay here
but relative to the cost of the fare to America in bygone days, it’s a bargain.
I
browse through the printed list of dos
and don’ts on my bedside locker. It’s more or less the standard hotel list –
but with the relevant Covid-19 restrictions. Not noticing any great conflict
with what I might have expected following my pre-booking research, I test the
quality of the broadband with a quick video call to my sister. She is busy at
work, so I arrange to have a proper catch-up with her and Mam after she gets
home. I unlock my smallest trolley case and after spreading a few items of
clothing across the bed, grab my wash bag and head to the shower.
Refreshed,
dried, and dressed in jeans and white sports shirt, I notice that the clouds
have parted and my balcony is bathed in bright sunshine. I try the balcony
door; it’s locked, and there is no evidence of a key. As recommended in my
printout, I dial zero for reception; there is no reply. I disconnect and retry;
still no reply. I open the zipped pocket of my large trolley case and locate my
wallet of lock picks – an essential part of every locksmith’s kit. Yes, I did
once train as a locksmith and, even though I’ve mainly worked in personal
security in recent years, I’m still certified on both sides of the Atlantic.
Following the loss of two of my major clients, a couple of very narrow escapes,
the dissolution of a disastrous marriage, and reaching the grand old age of
fifty, I decided to tender my list of clients to my colleague and return to the
auld sod in search of a more mundane pathway through life. Ironically, there
was little I could have done to prevent the demise of either client: while both
mogul and mobster had paid top dollar for protection from each other, they had
been equally defenceless against a new, invisible assassin – Covid-19.
I
suppose few of us go through life without sacrificing some scruples at the
altar of Mammon. It’s a basic fact, it’s universal, and it’s probably as old as
mankind itself. After all, I was simply striving to keep both parties alive;
not enabling either to kill the other. I will long remember my sense of relief
the first morning I left my Bronx apartment without my Arcadia .38 Saturday night special strapped to my lower calf. My
legally held weapon, a .38 Glock, I continued to carry in its shoulder holster until
surrendering it on the eve of my departure from The States.
I shiver at the thought that what had
been the norm for over a decade of my life should instantly seem so absurd on
my return to Ireland. Was that person really me? Had I become so seduced by New
York life that I could no longer differentiate between right and wrong? I know
I’ve saved lives, but to what degree was I culpable when an individual whom I’d
protected subsequently caused the death of another? No; I mentally scream and shaking my head as though to dislodge the
thought, turn my attention back to the balcony door.
The
lock offers little resistance and in less than a minute I am breathing the
north Dublin air. My nose tells me that somebody nearby has been mowing grass;
it’s an aroma so different to what I’d experienced in New York’s parks and
suburban lawns. Even five floors above ground level Irish city grass has that
elusive moist earthiness that I associate with the carefree innocence of
childhood summers, one of the many things we don’t realise we’ve missed until
we stumble across them in later life. Like silence – not total silence, but the
absence of intrusive industrial and traffic noise. Instead of revving engines,
honking horns, screaming sirens, and the incessant hum of air conditioning
systems, my ears are filled with glorious birdsong: everything from the sweet
trilling of robins and the warbling of blackbirds, to the harsh grating of
squabbling corvids. Even the lofty gulls sound pleasantly melodious, wheeling
and soaring beneath a backdrop of azure sky, still thankfully devoid of lopsided
grids of polluting vapour trails.
It’s
as if my spirit has somehow soared free of my quarantined body, and my thoughts
are already drifting towards the weeks and months ahead. While I don’t have a
definite plan for the future, I am assured of a roof over my head and I also
know I have no immediate worries about where the price of my next meal might
come. New York may have left me morally bankrupt but it had worked wonders for
my financial wellbeing. Of how I might adjust to life in the rural village of
my childhood, I have no idea. My sister was thrilled when we reached agreement
on our old family home, which had become hers ten years ago when Mam went to
live with her following Dad’s death. Mam is still in good health, and bright as
a button, and has promised to be my first visitor just as soon as I’ve made her
old home habitable again.
It’s
a useful way of passing the time, I decide, trying to visualise the
refurbishment of the old homestead from a blueprint of rose-tinted childhood
memories. I am, however, somewhat conflicted: while my head wants the domestic
mod-cons I’ve become accustomed to Stateside, my heart craves the simple,
homely security of a more innocent time. Should I reclaim my childhood bedroom,
or assert my position as owner by moving into my parents’ room? No; I couldn’t
banish Mam to one of the two smaller rooms on her very first visit; I should
keep her room as close as possible to what she remembers. Besides, there will
be many other tasks requiring more immediate attention. It’s a good time to
take on such a project; even after completing my quarantine I will still have
most of July to get things in motion. Short of any serious hiccups, I would
hope to be reasonably comfortable before the onset of winter.
I
am somewhere between insulating the attic and designing a new sunroom when I
hear it: the hesitant tapping of metal on glass. For a fanciful moment I
imagine a future neighbour tapping on the glass of a wall not yet constructed.
The tapping grows louder, more insistent; even demanding, and I then realise
that it’s coming from the adjacent balcony. There’s a young woman waving
frantically from inside her French door; I vault the dividing rail and
approach. She flourishes a pack of Marlboro lights cigarettes, her pretty face
contorting as she presses fruitlessly against her unyielding door handle. I nod
my understanding, raise a pausing index finger, and rush back to my room to
retrieve my lock picks.
The
yielding lock and her Zippo lighter sound in unison. She bursts past me,
dragging furiously on her cigarette. Conscious of social distancing, I reverse
a couple of steps. She waves an apology,
her long, dark hair partly obscuring her features as she exhales.
“Thanks,”
she sighs; “you’re a lifesaver…” she double-pumps on her cigarette.
“You’re
welcome, but I don’t think the Surgeon General would agree,” I jest, wondering
why she looks so eerily familiar. Perhaps I had noticed her on my flight…
“I’ve
been locked in there for nearly eight bloody hours…even though my test was
negative…You?”
“I’ve
just arrived…from New York…” I say, realising that while she hadn’t been on my
flight, our paths may have previously crossed in the Big Apple; that would
explain why she looks so familiar.
“Geneva.
I’d gone there on a six-month contract, but ended up having to stay another
twelve – thanks to travel restrictions. Luckily for me, as my replacement
wasn’t able to travel either, my contract was extended. I suppose things could
have been worse.”
“Geneva?
Wow, the financial capital of the world. That must have been a blast.” She
doesn’t seem impressed. Shrugging dismissively, she takes another drag of her
cigarette.
“I’m
a sous chef: I was cooking food; not books.”
“An
army marches on its stomach…” I quip, instantly regretting my remark as her
narrowing eyes silently scream seriously;
are you for real? I guess she has already heard that cliché more than once
too often.
“Thanks
again,” she says, deadpan, and takes a final drag before stubbing out her
cigarette. “I hope you won’t get in trouble over picking that lock,”
“What’s
the point of having a PSA licence if
I can’t assist a damsel in distress?”
“A
PSA licence?” She asks, pausing in the doorway
“I’m
a licensed locksmith.” I explain. Eyeing me oddly, she slides her door shut.
Hours
later, her parting look continues to haunt me. I’m certain I’ve seen those
penetrating dark eyes before; but when…where…who? I hear her balcony door slide
yet again but decide it might be wiser to remain indoors rather than risk
another disapproving look from my intriguing neighbour. As a distraction I
browse through the TV channels, finally settling on a CNN report on the
disappointing uptake of Corona vaccines in several US states.
“Sorry…”
Her voice jolts me back to reality. I spring upright on the bed. She leans
against the jamb of my open balcony door; a smile tugs at the corners of her
perfect mouth. “I mean for earlier…I was really stressed; I’ve chilled a bit
since…you shouldn’t miss out on the use of your balcony because of me…”
“No,
you’re grand,” I gasp, feigning nonchalance, “these are trying times…”
“I’ve
brewed some coffee. Bring a cup if you’d like to join me…and milk and sugar if
you use them. We’ll observe social distancing, of course,” she says, vanishing
just as magically as she’d appeared.
After
a quick check in the bathroom mirror, I grab one of the hotel’s courtesy cups
and go outside to find her already seated on her bedroom pouffe beside the rail
that separates our balconies. Wordlessly, she takes my cup and pours a steaming
dark liquid from a stainless steel flask. Instantly hit by its exquisite aroma,
I inhale deeply as I raise the cup to my lips. My eyes widen at the first sip;
I’ve never tasted better coffee. She seems pleased at my reaction.
“This
is amazing,” I breathe; “is it from your hotel in Geneva?”
“No,
it’s from much closer to home.”
“You
mean this is Irish? Wow, I’ve never tasted anything like this; what’s it
called?” It seems that Ireland’s coffee standards have improved greatly during
my exile.
“It’s
Ciarona. Remember the name…” Basking
in the intensity of her gaze, I savour another sip and nod animatedly. I decide
not to mention that I’d consider the name more appropriate to a model of
automobile, a medication, or a luxury confection.
“I
will,” I affirm; “it has something special…in the flavour…I can’t quite pin it
down. Do you know what it is?” Her smile broadens; again, a finger of deja-vu tingles up my spine.
“I
do, but if I told you I’d have to shoot you.” I stifle a shudder: for too long
I’d been dicing with the possibility of a surprise bullet. She seems oblivious
to my flashback. “It’s my Mum’s formula…I…she…we have a little hotel in…”
I
can’t be sure if I nod, shudder or gulp, but I have a vague sense of my mouth
opening and closing. If ever an answer had raised more questions; this one has;
she continues speaking, unknowingly answering another question.
“Mam
named it Ciarona: my sister is
Ciaragh, and I’m Bronagh. Although we’re nothing alike physically – I’m dark
like Mam; Ciaragh is a blue-eyed blonde – we both love the hotel game.” She
pauses to light a cigarette; I feel my dormant tobacco craving scream more
loudly than at any time in more than a decade. “So,” she exhales; “what’s
yours?”
“What…how
do you mean?” I meet her enquiring gaze with a blank stare.
“Your
name; I can’t spend the next two weeks saying hey you…”
“Oh
sorry; I’m Kieran…Kieran with a K…” I
add, and then wonder why I’ve emphasised the K. The ensuing silence is mercifully shattered by a businesslike
rapping on my room door. Waving an apology, I slip back inside and slide the
balcony door shut behind me.
The
dinner trolley is already some way along the corridor when I open my door. I
pick up my tray and bring it to my dressing table. I’m not averse to an
occasional chicken and ham salad but right now I would have liked the option of
steak and fries. I tuck in, nonetheless, and even as I chew I find myself
having imaginary discussions with the hotel’s chef about possible menu choices.
Perhaps I should get Bronagh onboard; she’s a chef, while my knowledge of food
has become limited to side street diners and TV ready meals. Besides, there is
so much more I need to know about Bronagh, about her family, their hotel, and
her coffee-blending mother. Feeling suddenly jetlagged, I remove my shoes,
stretch out on the bed and close my eyes.
At
the ringing of my bedside telephone, I awaken to semi-darkness. Was somebody
finally responding to earlier attempts to contact reception? Bronagh’s voice
sounds in my ear.
“Sorry,”
she breathes; did I wake you?”
“It’s
OK,” I croak. “What time is it?” I ask, fishing in my trousers’ pocket for my iPhone.
“It’s
almost midnight.” I hear her lighter rasp; a deep inhalation. “It’s my
birthday…”
“Oh,
happy birthday…happy birthday to…” I
begin my best Marilyn Monroe impression.
“OK,
OK, I get it. Thanks, but I think I’d rather have you drink with me than sing
to me. I have champagne…and proper glasses!”
“I
have Jameson.” I counter. “Meet you
at the usual place in five?”
“What
if we combine your whiskey and my coffee? I also have some aerosol cream.”
It’s
undoubtedly the finest Irish coffee I’ve ever tasted; the most exquisite fusion
of whiskey, coffee and cream I’ve ever experienced; and she’s served it in
authentic Irish coffee goblets.
“Here’s
to your birthday,” we clink.
“And
here’s to the shortest night,” she grins; “happy solstice…” While I’m well
aware of the actual date, its solar significance hadn’t occurred to me.
“Wow;
you were born on the solstice? How fantastic is that?”
“And
my sister Ciaragh was born on the autumn equinox: She’ll be twenty-three in
September…Hey, aren’t you going to ask me how old I am?”
I
wasn’t; I’m thinking of another person’s age.
“It’s
not your twenty-first; is it?”
“Yes,
I’m a real millennium baby…”
We
dispense with the coffee and cream after a second round, and then trade anecdotes
from our contrasting careers until finally dragging ourselves off to our
respective beds to the first hesitant notes of the dawn chorus. I don’t suppose
Christmas features very prominently in the minds of many people on the summer
solstice, but one particular Yuletide totally dominates my thoughts throughout
my first morning of isolation.
In
December ninety-seven I was the junior of three technicians dispatched by our
Dublin-based company to update the security system of a recently-burgled
computer warehouse down the country.
Already booked for a two-night stay at a nearby hotel, we arrived on site early
on Monday morning and got straight to work. The job went well, so well that by
midmorning on Tuesday the boss was confident that we’d be heading for home well
before dusk. Our optimism looked well-founded until the final test, when one-by-one
a series of junction boxes began to sparkle like Times Square on New Year’s
Eve. When we still hadn’t located the short by eight-thirty, the boss called a
halt and suggested we resume on Wednesday morning – Christmas Eve.
We
identified the fault within the hour and by noon everything had been rewired,
tested and retested within an inch of its existence. My colleagues departed
straight away in their Transit van,
leaving me the use of the smaller Renault
over the holiday period. I knew that
I too should have headed home right then, before the storm, before the power
cut that set every bell of our new alarm system jangling with cacophonous
abandon – but I simply had to see the gorgeous young daughter of the widowed
hotelier one last time.
I
had just parked after resetting the alarm when a huge pine tree fell, narrowly
missing the van but totally blocking the only exit from the hotel car park.
With the storm intensifying throughout the afternoon, the kindly hotelier
insisted that I should remain at the hotel for another night as his guest
rather than risk the fifty-mile drive home.
Yes,
Bronagh is the image of her mother, but I can’t help wondering if Ciaragh might
look anything like me…
Neil Brosnan
From Listowel, Ireland, Neil Brosnan’s short stories have appeared in magazines, such as Ariel Chart, print anthologies, and in electronic format in Ireland, Britain, Europe and the USA. A winner of The Bryan MacMahon, The Maurice Walsh, (four times) and Ireland’s Own, (twice) short story awards, he has published two short story collections: ‘Fresh Water & other stories’ (Original Writing, 2010) and ‘Neap Tide & other stories’ (New Binary Press, 2013)