The Searcher(62)

“Good man,” Mart says happily, beckoning for the Lucozade bottle, which has worked its way around the pub and back again. “Now, mister: there’ll be no more need for you to go chasing uppity young lads all over the townland, getting yourself all worked up and frustrated. Locky’ll have you sorted inside the fortnight.”

“Well, thank you,” Cal says. “I appreciate that.”

Mart fills Cal’s shot glass and raises his own. “No bother. We have to look after each other around here. No one else is going to do it, amn’t I right?”

They clink glasses and drink. Cal comes unmoored from the room again, but this time he’s expecting it and finds himself able to enjoy the ride. The buck-naked window guy finishes his song and nods gravely at the round of applause, and the far corner strikes up something smart and snappy that starts “Whatever you say, say nothing.”

“Now that I have you loosened up,” Mart says, louder, pointing his glass at Cal. “How’re you getting on with the lovely Lena?”

That gets a scattering of whoops and laughter from the other men. “She’s a nice lady,” Cal says.

“She is. And since I was good friends with her daddy, God rest him, I think I should ask you: what’s your intentions there?”

“Well,” Cal says, taking it slowly and carefully, “I might intend to take one of her pups. But I haven’t made my mind up yet.”

Mart is shaking his head vigorously and waving a finger at Cal. “Ah no no no. That won’t do at all. You can’t be leading on a fine woman like Lena Dunne and then letting her down.”

“I only met her twice,” Cal points out.

“We’ve got the bloody village matchmaker here,” someone says.

“Even if I was,” Mart tells him, “there’s nothing I could do for the likes of you. I like to see people settled and happy, is all. This fella needs a woman.”

“No point in him courting Lena,” a deep voice says from the corner of the alcove, “if he’ll be heading back off to Yankeestania before the winter’s out.”

There’s a splinter of a pause. Across the pub, the tin whistle lets out an ear-piercing trill.

“He’s going nowhere,” Mart says, a little bit louder, glancing around the table to make sure everyone hears him. “This man’s a fine neighbor, and I’m planning to hang on to him.” He adds, with a grin to Cal, “Sure, none of this shower would be arsed getting me them biscuits.”

“If Lena won’t have him,” someone else says, “we’ll sort him out with Belinda.”

There’s a burst of laughter. Cal can’t get the flavor of it. There’s mockery in it, but around here mockery is like rain: most of the time it’s either present or incipient, and there are at least a dozen variants, ranging from nurturing to savage, and so subtly distinguished that it would take years to get the hang of them all.

“Who’s Belinda?” he asks.

“A blow-in, like yourself,” Senan says, grinning. “D’you fancy the redheads?”

“I wouldn’t say the carpet matches the curtains there,” someone else says.

“What would you know? You haven’t been next nor near a woman since Elvis was number one.”

“That’s not what your sister says.”

“Go on outa that. My sister’d roll the likes of you into a ball and use you to polish her floors.”

“Belinda’s an English one,” Mart tells Cal, taking pity on him. “She has a wee cottage up by Knockfarraney, been there near twenty year. Mad as a brush, so she is. Covered in great big purple shawls and jewelry with Celtic yokes on. She came here because she thought she’d have the best chance at meeting the Little People round this way.”

“Did she?” Cal asks. “Meet them?” The room is still realigning its angles every time he blinks, but less dramatically.

“She says she gets glimpses of them at the full moon,” Mart says, grinning. “Out in the fields, like, or in the woods. She does paint pictures of them and sell them in the tourist shops in Galway.”

“I seen her paintings,” someone says. “They’ve some fine sets of knockers on them, the Little People. I’ll have to start spending more time in them fields at night myself.”

“Off you go. You might be lucky and meet Belinda.”

“Dancing round a fairy ring in the nip.”

“Tell her you’re the king of the fairies.”

“Belinda’s grand,” Mart says. “She may be a Sassenach and she may be gone in the head, but there’s no harm in her. She’s not like your man Lord Muck.”

They all laugh. The mockery is right up front this time, loud and ferocious, an aggression.

“Who’s Lord Muck?” Cal asks.

“No need to worry your head about him,” Senan says, reaching for his pint, still grinning. “He’s gone.”

“Another blow-in,” Mart says. “Englishman. He was here for a bit of peace, so he could write a great novel. About a genius who rides the arse off a load of young ones because his wife doesn’t appreciate his poems.”

“I’d read that book,” someone says.

“You never read a book in your life,” someone else tells him.