I looked at Bill there behind the wheel and I knew what he was doing. Louis Armstrong had taught me how to drive. Stop when you see the cotton, Pops. But I hadn’t driven since I’d lost the leg. I didn’t know if it could be done with wood. I hadn’t really wondered, until now.
Now.
I let that sink. I’d map the trip. I’d remember the street names and distances. I’d no idea where I was. It was just more fuckin’ palm trees.
—What time is it? I asked.
—Ten-abouts, said Bill.
I felt the car turn. Another avenue of trees.
—Where are we going? I said.
—Studio.
I saw the sign now. I was on Washington Boulevard, in Culver City. This was the start. I’d keep jabbing at that all day, keeping it awake.
—Were you there that time? I asked him.
—That time?
—The time in the desert, when your boss found me.
—No, he said.—No, sir, I wasn’t.
—But you heard about it.
—Yes, sir.
—How long ago was that?
—Must be a year.
—Yeah.
—More than a year.
—It’s hard to keep track, I said.
—You been busy.
—There you go.
We turned off the street. We stopped for a guy in a uniform, under some kind of an arch. He wasn’t a real cop but he had a Webley in his holster. I lifted my fedora so he’d see I wasn’t hiding.
The toy cop nodded and we moved again, slowly. We went between two high warehouses. People on the narrow street got out of the way, as if they knew the car. I took it all in. We turned another corner, into thick shade and, suddenly, there wasn’t a sinner.
They’d brought me here to shoot me - memory poked me in the back.
I didn’t get out of the car.
Bill opened his door.
—You okay, Mister Smart?
I listened for the slap of shoe leather, metal sliding over metal.
—Mister Smart?
—Okay, I said.
I got out of the car. The heat, even in the shade, pulled at my face and shirt.
No one was going to whack me; I was fine. I followed Bill to a black metal door. There were two caged lightbulbs right above, green and red. The green one was lit. Bill grabbed the door and pulled it back. He waited - he wanted me to go in first.
I grabbed him - I got a hold of his jacket. He was my shield and I was tucked in right behind him. I pushed him in ahead, through a black heavy curtain.
I was back in the fuckin’ desert.
I let go of Bill and made my way through a loose gang of men in blue uniforms. I stopped. I was standing on sand but there was solid ground beneath it. There was a cactus and tumbleweed, not tumbling, and some scrawny-looking sage and creosote brush. It was a little square of the desert, under a high roof and heavy lights.
A lad with a cap picked up a cactus and moved it a foot to the left. He bent down and hid its base with handfuls of sand. There were men and girls rushing about, over the sand and around it. There were more men way up at the overhead lights. There was coffee somewhere; I could smell it. There were rifles and guns all over the shop, leaning against a flimsy-looking wall, or lying on the floor beyond the sand. But no one there was going to shoot me.
There was another guy in front of me.
—The hat’s wrong, he said.
—What?
He looked up at the lights, and at me again.
—Wrong century, my friend, he said.—We did not conquer the West a-wearing felt fedoras. The gangsters are on Stage 11.
His hands came up, and he pushed my chest. I grabbed his wrists.
His life was saved by an accordion. Someone was playing The Minstrel Boy.
Some men picked up a horse trough and carried it away. And I saw Ford. The black lenses were staring at me. He was sitting well back in a canvas chair; the bottom half of his face was hidden by one of his knees. His chair was on the sand, and the Sterne woman had a chair beside his. I couldn’t see his eyes, but he was sober. He was wearing the slouch hat I’d taken from his house.
I let go of the twerp and walked towards Ford, over the shallow sand. He broke the gaze; he said something - he threw words over his shoulder. The lad I’d seen with the cactus came running from behind a dusty black drape, with another canvas chair. He put it beside Ford’s, made sure it sat nicely in the desert. The accordion still played The Minstrel Boy. Then it changed, and I was listening to a song that had never been written.
—The bold Henry Smart, said Ford.—Sit down.
I didn’t have a choice; I thought I was going to fall over. The accordion played on. And Ford joined in.
—THE HEART OF A FENIAN—
HAD THE BOLD HENRY SMART.
He nodded, once, and it stopped. I saw the accordion player, another small guy sitting on the back of some kind of a wagon, off the sand. He smiled across at me.
Jack Dalton had sung that song, the night we met and he brought me into the Irish Republican Brotherhood. That was in 1917, and five years later I found out that there’d never been a song. (—You wrote it yourself, you fuckin’ eejit. It was only ever a couple of lines.)
—Where did you hear that? I asked Ford.
—I told you once, he said.—I was there.
—It wasn’t a real song, I said.—Only a few lines.
—Great lines, he said.—The heart of a fucking Fenian. We’ll be using it. This is going to be your picture.
I nodded at the little desert in front of us.
—This?
—No, he said.—Fuck this. This is just a job of work. A Western. What’s it called again, Meta?
—Fort Apache.
—Fort Apache. That’s it. And I’m almost done with it. A few more bits of business and it’s someone else’s. The wedding.
I remembered. I’d told him about the wedding, and the photograph.
—Tell me a bit about the gal.
—My wife?
—That’s the one. The Miss O’Shea.
—She’s dead, I said.
—Get past that, he said.
He was looking straight at me. There was no brutality in what he’d said.
—She was a looker?
—Yeah.
—Great, he said.—That helps. Hair red?
—Brown.
—Close, he said.—And maybe it won’t matter. Brown is red in black and white. What she do?
—She was a teacher.
—The schoolmarm, he said.—Goddamn. There’s no escape. He laughed quietly.
—And she was a rebel.
I nodded.
—Handy with a gun.
—Yeah, I said.—She wore—
I stopped. I knew he’d like this. I suddenly knew: I was writing my own story.
—Two bandoleers, I said.—Across her chest.
—Got that, Meta?
—Bandoleers.
—Schoolmarm with a chest, he said.—This helps.
He kicked the sand at his feet. It filled the air, drifted and fell slowly.
—All this shit costs money, he said.—We’ll have to deal with the goddamn producers. But they’ll know it. Chests and bullets will make ’em a buck. You don’t mind me talking this way?
I shrugged.
—No.
I couldn’t help it; I’d sunk back in the canvas chair, so my head was level with his.
—She was older than me, I told him.
—She cook?
—We had a bike, I said.
—You ate a fucking bicycle?
—No, I said.—Listen.
But he obeyed a different voice.
—We’re ready, Coach.
I didn’t see who spoke but Ford stood up.
—We’ll talk, he said.—Stick around a while. Write bicycle, Meta. And give Henry the story.
He looked at me again.
—Read the story, he said.—See wh
at you think.
He stepped onto the sand, and the lad with the button accordion started playing Bringing in the Sheaves. He followed Ford as he walked to the far side of the desert.
A magazine fell into my lap. The Saturday Evening Post. It looked old; it was dry around the edges. The cover was a painting of a sailor, some sort of an officer, with white gloves and binoculars. He was a coastguard; the badge was in a bottom corner. He held onto the rail of a boat and there was an iceberg right behind his head.
I looked at Meta Sterne.
—You’ll love it, she said.
She looked at her notes.
—Your wife’s first name, she said.—I didn’t catch it.
—She didn’t have one, I told her.
—No?
—No.
Ford shouted.
—Give me the wind!
I heard a motor to my right, and a giant propeller I hadn’t noticed turned reluctantly, then became one noise, and sand rushed across more sand, and men with cloths across their faces pushed against the wind, pushed the sand back onto the desert with wide brushes.
I put my weight on the leg; I gripped both arms of the canvas chair and stood up.
There was another man in front of me. He was tall, and thin, in another of those blue uniforms. He had a careful moustache and a tiny piece of beard right under his bottom lip. He wasn’t smiling but there was something relaxed and honest about the way he stood. His eyes - I’d seen them before. They reminded me of someone I’d once known.
—How are you? he said.
He had to shout.
—Grand, I shouted back.
—Good, he said.—I’m glad to hear that.
He held out his hand. It took me a while to cop on: he wanted me to shake it. It was a long time since I’d done that. His hand was the size of my own, dry and strong.
He let go.
—We never got a chance to do that the last time we met, he said.
—No.
I heard Ford roar.
—Where’s Hank?
—Good to see you looking so well, said the man in front of me. He turned, and walked back across the sand.
—Who’s that? I asked Meta Sterne.
—That’s Henry Fonda, she said.—Hank.
—He’s the fella that found me.
—That’s right.
He’d been Wyatt Earp in My Darling Clementine. He’d walked off the set for a slash and found me dead in the heart of Monument Valley.
But that wasn’t why I knew him.
I looked in the mirror. The Saturday Evening Post was on the bed, with the coastguard and his iceberg. TRIAL BY WATER. I still hadn’t opened it. The window shade was down; the sun was a dull square patch behind me.
I looked back at the old man. I made him move his mouth. I pushed the face closer to the glass. The skin was dry; the old lad’s white beard was breaking through. I closed one eye. I could see the skin clearly. The holes, and grey creases.
It was the 7th of November, 1948. I was forty-seven. But the date on the Saturday Evening Post was the 11th of February, 1933. That made me thirty-one.
No, it fuckin’ didn’t. The pages were dry and cracking, like my skin.
I looked at my face again. The 7th of November, 1948. The next day would be the 8th. I’d look in the mirror and I’d see the same face. I’d know who I was looking at.
I stood back and looked again.
The eyes. I knew where I’d seen them before. On Henry Fonda. His eyes had reminded me of someone I once knew. Henry Smart. I went back into the glass. I stared. The eyes were old and worn. But they were still blue. Still killers.
—Did you read that story yet?
—No.
—You can read.
—I know I can read.
We were in a room with a big desk and three chairs. Layers of cigar smoke had been drifting under the ceiling for years. There were pictures, big photographs from films - horses and hats. Henry Fonda and other people I hadn’t seen.
It was the 27th of November.
Ford was behind the desk. There was no doubting that. My side looked exactly like his but he was the man behind it, facing the door. There was a third chair, and a man sitting in it. He had a handful of paper, and a pen that was too big for the hand holding it. Ford didn’t introduce us and I didn’t introduce myself.
Meta Sterne was in another room, behind me. The door was open and I knew she’d be listening and taking her own notes.
—So, said Ford.—Why haven’t you read the story?
I stared into the black lenses. I could see blacker eyes behind them.
The story frightened me. But I wasn’t going to tell Ford that. I hadn’t written it, so it had nothing to do with me. There was an ambush hidden inside that Saturday Evening Post. I wasn’t going to touch it.
But the meetings were different. I came to his meetings and felt myself being put together.
The other man coughed.
—That a real cough? said Ford.
—Yes.
—I doubt that, said Ford.
He looked away from me.
—But it worked, he said.
He looked back at me.
—Read the story, he said.
I said nothing; I might have nodded.
—I gotta see this bicycle, he said.
I’d been telling him about the bike I’d commandeered and made my own, and me and Miss O’Shea up on it, cycling towards the post office.
—Well, there’s me, I said.
—Right.
—And there’s her.
—Great.
I opened my arms, to accommodate the woman on the crossbar. The man beside me was scribbling fast.
—She’d made a frame for the Thompson gun, I said.—On the handlebars.
—She sing? said Ford.
—On the bike?
—On the bike, on the john. It doesn’t matter. Did she ever sing?
I didn’t know.
—I think so, I said.
I couldn’t remember if Miss O’Shea sang, if she’d ever sung. I couldn’t hear her. It was a sudden hole, a pain that had been there all the time. I could see her. For the first time in years. I could see her eyes. I could see her laughing when I was a child sitting at a desk, and years later, when I was a man, three minutes before I fell beneath the crawling train. I was watching my own broken film, and Ford was watching me.
But I couldn’t hear her.
My children were there too. Saoirse and Rifle. Their big grins and tears. The frowns and voices, snot and singing.
It was there now - I could hear it, getting louder.
—We’re in the money, I said.
—What? said Ford.
—She sang that one, I said.—We’re in the Money. Rifle pulled his head back and roared it up to the sky, and Saoirse and Miss O’Shea sang along beside him. I could only hear two voices. But she’d sung as well. I could see her now, striding along, swinging her arms, between my daughter and my son.
—We’re in the Money, said Ford.—It was one of those Depression tunes, right? ’33, ’34?
—Round about then, said the man beside me. Ford’s elbows came off the desk. I saw him sit back and sink.
—So, he said eventually.—You’re on the bike. Henry?
—Yeah.
—You’re on the bike.
His voice was soft now.
—Yeah, I said.
I couldn’t hear her voice.
—She sang that one, I said.—We’re in the Money.
—But not in the war, said Ford.—Not in 1920, back home in Ireland.
—No.
—Later.
—Yeah.
—We’ll get there, he said.—You’re on the bike. You’re flying.
—Yeah.
—Downhill.
I didn’t know, but I made it feel like that. I could feel the pedals under my feet - two feet. I could feel the effort in my legs. I could smell her hair and her jacket and the
smoke and damp from her mother’s house, and the sods she’d slept on the night before.
—She’s, what? said Ford.—Gripping the tommy?
—No, I said.—The handlebars.
—As you cycle into town.
I could feel her there. I rested my chin on her shoulder. We were riding into Ballintubber on market day, to rob the post office. She held the handlebars. I held the Thompson gun and pedalled.
—What are you going past? said Ford.—You’re going faster than anything else on the road, right?
—A couple of jaunting cars.
—Great.
—And a cart, I said.—With those churns. Going to the creamery. The creamery’s important. They burnt it down later - the Black and Tans.
—Later, said Ford.—Night time.
—Yeah.
—They doused it, he said.—Sent it up in flames.
—Because of us, I told him.—They burnt it down because of what we’d done earlier.
—Right, he said.—How was she dressed?
—We shot a cop.
—Irish?
—Yeah, I said.—The police were Irish - the normal ones.
—We’ll make him English, said Ford.—Keep it simple.
—We wanted them to do it, I said.
—What?
—Burn the creamery, I said.—The reprisal came after what we’d done. That was the whole point of it. We knew they’d run amok.
—The Black and Tans.
—That’s right, I said.
—The Tans were Limeys.
—And Scottish and Welsh.
—We’ll stay with English.
—We hit them, I said.—And they came back later and took it out on the town.
—You’re on the bike, he said.—Dust.
I shrugged.
—There must have been, I suppose. It wasn’t paved or tarred or anything.
—Dirt track.
—Not dirt, I said.—Not like here. There was grass down the middle.
—Got that? said Ford.
—I grew up in Wyoming, said the guy.—I’ve seen some grass. He looked up and smiled.
—They got rebels like Henry in Wyoming? said Ford.—The Wyoming Republican Army?
—No, said the guy.—But I haven’t been back in a long time. Who knows what’s brewing there right now.
—Nothing much, is my guess, said Ford.
I could hear the anger, just behind his teeth. He sank further into his chair. He was angry with me; I was sure of it. But he was staring at the man with the pen.