The Heart's Invisible Furies

by John Boyne

“Well, you could always go to a movie, I suppose. Ignac can get into the over-eighteen shows now so you’ll have some company. You could try Fatal Attraction.”

“It was. You were my best friend, Cyril. I thought we were going to be friends for life. I looked up to you so much.” “That’s not true,” I said, surprised by his words. “It was me who looked up to you. You were everything I wanted to be.” “So were you,” he said. “You were kind and thoughtful and decent. You were my friend. At least that’s what I thought. I didn’t hang out with you for fourteen years because I wanted someone following me around like a puppy. It was because I liked being around you.”

He won’t be able to tell her how it ended, how I felt about her, but you will. I need you to tell her that she was the best person I ever knew. And to tell Liam that my life would have been a lot emptier without his presence in it. That I loved them both and that I’m sorry for all of this.

Irish Writers’ Center, where only a few weeks earlier I had attended the launch party for Ignac’s fourth children’s book, the latest in his hugely popular series about a time-traveling Slovenian boy that had captured the imagination of children (and many adults) around the world.

Seven years had passed since that terrible night in New York when I had lost the only two men I had ever loved within an hour of each other, six years since the trial, five since I had left the States forever after half a dozen operations on my leg, four since I had returned to mainland Europe, three since I’d come back to Dublin, two since Charles’s arrest for fraud and tax evasion and one since he found himself back in jail and had finally reached out to me in the hope of a little filial assistance.

at all. He’s always been a very decent young man.” “Do you mind if I ask what he’s been charged with?” “Murder.” “Murder?” “Yes, but he didn’t do it, so don’t look so shocked.” “Who is he supposed to have murdered?” “His wife. But there was no real evidence, other than fingerprints, DNA and an eyewitness. Also, for what it’s worth, my daughter-in-law was a horrible girl and had it coming to her, if you ask me.

he wore the years well. He’d always been a handsome man, of course, and his good looks had stayed with him into old age, as they so often do with undeserving men.

“Now that you mention it, I think I did hear something about him dying. Poor Max. He wasn’t a bad sort, really. He married up, which every intelligent man should do. I married up several times. And then across once or twice. And then beneath me. I never quite found the right level somehow.

Perhaps I should have married diagonally or in a slightly curved direction. But Elizabeth was a great beauty, that’s for sure. She had it all: class, money, breeding and a fine pair of legs.”

“We didn’t have an affair,” he said, the word emerging like something crude on his tongue. “We just had sex a few times, that’s all. An affair implies that there are emotions at play and there were none. Not on my part anyway. I can’t speak for her. I suppose she’s dead too, is she?”

“Did he write that one about the woman who hated her husband so much that she visited his grave every day and pissed on the headstone?” “No, that was Maude,” I said, recalling one of the more melodramatic scenes from Like to the Lark. “Oh, yes, Maude.” He thought about this. “Good old Maude. She would have hated to see how popular she’s grown.”

“You don’t have dementia,” I said. “Is that what you’re trying to say?” “I’m not dementia,” he insisted, wagging a finger in my face. “All right,” I said. “You’re not dementia. But look, I don’t think it would do any harm for a doctor to take a look at you.” “Only if I can go to him,” he said. “Or her. I hear there are some wonderful lady doctors these days. Whatever’s next?” he added, laughing. “They’ll be driving buses and allowed to vote if someone doesn’t do something to stop them!”

“I suppose so,” I said. “I’m ancient.” “How old are you?” “Forty-nine.” “Jesus, that’s mad.” “Tell me about it.” “I can’t even imagine being that old. Is that why you have the crutch? Have the oul’ knees gone?”

“I miss him, of course. A great deal. We should have had a long future together yet and that was stolen from us. But I’ve come to terms with it. Life happens and death happens.

Looking down from above I could see myself, my wife and son sitting in the room over the remains of my adoptive father and I thought what a strange family I had grown up in and what a peculiar one I would leave behind one day.

“Let’s not talk religion,” I said. “Or weddings.” “All right,” said Ruth. “What will we talk about then?” “Anything you like,” I suggested. “I can’t think of anything,” she said, looking distressed. “Do you think I should get my rash looked at while I’m here?” asked Peter.

actually considered cardiology for a while myself,” said Peter. “As my specialty, I mean.” “Oh, are you a doctor?” I asked, turning to him. “No,” he said, frowning. “I work in construction. Why would you think that?”

“You reach a point where you realize that your life must go on regardless. You choose to live or you choose to die. But then there are moments, things that you see, something funny on the street or a good joke that you hear, a television program that you want to share, and it makes you miss the person who’s gone terribly and then it’s not grief at all, it’s more a sort of bitterness at the world for taking them away from you. I think of Bastiaan every day, of course. But I’ve grown accustomed to his absence. In some ways it was more difficult to get used to his presence once we started going out.”

Maybe there were no villains in my mother’s story at all. Just men and women, trying to do their best by each other. And failing.

you.” I stared at him and felt the tears forming in my eyes. “Do you know how much I’ve missed you?” I asked him. “It’s been almost thirty years. I shouldn’t have had to spend all that time on my own.”

The years apart will feel like nothing compared to what we have before us.”