The Truth About Love Read Online Free PDF Page B

best.”
    “Forgive me. The line is not specifically aimed at you Mr. O’Hara. It is a line from a book I hope to write.”
    “I heard you’re a writer—but sure we’re all writers here.”
    “You, Mr. O’Hara?”
    “Yes. But like much of the rest of the country I don’t put pen to paper. Too much talk here. But writers, we’re all still writers.”
    “Certainly story-tellers … raconteurs.”
    “Story-tellers? Yes. Raconteurs? No. Makes us sound a bit false.”
    “I’m sorry. I did not mean to offend you.”
    “You didn’t.”
    “No harm done, then? As you say here.”
    “Aha, and where did you pick that up?”
    “I have become, of necessity, a jackdaw? Yes? Of expressions.”
    “And what else have you picked up here?”
    “More than you might imagine.”
    “And tell me, Mr. Middlehoff, are you happy here?”
    “On and off.”
    “Then you’ve learned more than you came with. Which I suppose is the purpose of exile.”
    “So you will stay in this town?”
    “Yes. And in the same house. I’ll be carried out feet first, as we say.”
    “Feet first?”
    “In a coffin, Mr. Middlehoff. Unlike the lad. I want to die at home when my time comes. Even though it’s not been a lucky house for us. Let me ask you this, I’d like your opinion—you’re a knowledgeable man. Do you think houses can break our spirit? Not through evil but through some old sorrow we know nothing about?”
    “Perhaps. Strange things happen to houses. They are invaded. Sometimes their original purpose subverted.”
    “Subverted?”
    “Yes.”
    “Well do you think they were always unlucky? Cursed in some way?”
    “The long history of a house is indeed often thematic … Perhaps … I …”
    “I see that even you’re not certain. We loved that house. Maybe love isn’t enough. We fought so hard to get it years ago. Well, we got it. When God wants to punish us He answers our prayers! Bitter thought. Unlucky houses. Unlucky families. Which comes first, do you think?”
    I note the verbal commas and full stops that are often eccentrically placed in an Irish sentence. Their conversation a tracery of question marks not always positioned to elicit information.
    “I confess, Mr. O’Hara, that I simply do not know.”
    “That’s honest. So, at the end of all this, Mr. Middlehoff, will you sell me the gate?”
    “I don’t know that either, Mr. O’Hara.”
    “I’m aware the gate is valuable. But is it also special to you? Above the value? Is it more than a magnificent gate to you?”
    “Perhaps.”
    “How special?”
    “I’m no longer sure.”
    “So I’ve got a hope then?”
    “Yes. Though I note you do not ask me where the gate has come from.”
    “Its history, you mean? Because you’re German?”
    “Yes. Its history. Because I’m German.”
    “Well, I’m going to take a gamble on that. And the lad had his own dreams, which he wove around that gate, so what ever history the gate had it’s wreathed now in his dreams and it’ll at least be one dream I bought him. And bad luck has had its way with us. Like I said, I need to give him something he loved. Do you understand?”
    “I do.”
    “Good. We have an understanding then?”
    “Yes? Where would you put it? If I agree.”
    “I’m going to put it at the entrance to the back garden, you know, where …”
    “Yes. I know. I have spoken to Dr. Carter …”
    “Dr. Carter did his best—his very best—but I know now what he probably knew then—there was no hope. No hope at all. He’s a fine doctor, Carter. It’s hard for him here, an English Protestant doctor. I’ve never felt that way myself but others do. They leave him to his own practice. It’s good enough, I suppose, there’s quite a number of Anglo-Irish around here. I admire the English in many ways. And we owe them a debt, a great debt. A harsh thing to say to you, Mr. Middlehoff. Though it’s not something we speak about much here, admiration of the English.”
    “I’ve noticed. Dr.