Walking on Dry Land

DENIS KEHOE was born in Dublin in 1978, where he now lives. He has studied philosophy and European culture, literature and thought. He teaches film studies, media and English. Walking on Dry Land follows Denis Kehoe’s much praised first novel, Nights Beneath the Nation.

Praise for Nights Beneath the Nation

‘Kehoe writes this engaging tale of long-buried secrets with poetic flair’ Gay Times

‘Vivid… a bold and confident debut… This heartfelt tale of love, loss and the possibilities of redemption marks out Denis Kehoe to be a very promising writer indeed’ Attitude

‘This is a remarkable, sharply observed and engaging book which deserves to be well received. Although most of the central characters are gay it is not a gay novel, nor indeed even a book about being gay; it is a book about being alive and being human in Ireland from the 1950s to the present day… the very period is caught in an extraordinary feat of creative memory… Part mystery, part love story, this remarkable first novel has for me echoes of that wonderful Spanish novel Shadow of the Wind. I lived through most of the period described in this book and I can attest to its authenticity – that’s exactly how it was. Read – and grieve – and celebrate’ David Norris, Irish Independent

‘A welcome debut from a new voice’ Alison Walsh, Irish Independent on Sunday

‘Kehoe captures every nuance of a soul in torment… This is the story of a love doomed by social mores. Kehoe paints a shocking and often lurid portrayal of the days when lives were ruined by the subterfuge and hypocrisy that was once the lot of the homosexual community’ Ros Drinkwater, Sunday Business Post

‘This passionately written novel offers a bruised account of repression and loneliness, tempered by flickering instants of beauty and compassion. In places Kehoe writes like a dream, subtle rhymes and nuances drawing the reader towards a latent vein of mystery and eroticism. Complex and spellbinding, it’s a book that intuitively fuses history and imagination, and that’s rare’ Tom Boncza-Tomaszewski, Independent on Sunday

Walking on Dry Land

DENIS KEHOE

First published in Great Britain in 2010 by Serpent’s Tail,

an imprint of Profile Books Ltd

3A Exmouth House

Pine Street

London EC1R 0JH

www.serpentstail.com

This eBook edition published in 2011

Copyright © Denis Kehoe 2011

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, dead or alive, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

eISBN 987 1 84765 659 9

For my good friend Adriana and my sister Susan

‘I think what creates in me the deep sense I have of living

out of step with others is the fact that most people think

with their feelings whereas I feel with my thoughts’

Fernando Pessoa, The Disquiet of Being

Tenho saudades da minha mãe,

Quando penso nela, começo a chorar.

Ficarei assim, ficarei assim,

Ai ai, a minha mãe.

I miss my mother,

When I think of her, I start to cry.

I will stay like this, I will stay like this,

Ai, ai, my mother.

Song sung by soldiers during the civil war in Angola

‘But the camera sees with its own eye. It sees things the

human eye does not detect’

Douglas Sirk

‘For me, texts are death, images are life… We need both:

I am not against death’

Jean-Luc Godard

1

Lisbon: December 2006

ANA LEFT THE HOTEL and walked out onto Avenida da Liberdade. A silent, foggy night: hushed, darkened beneath the elegant Christmas lights. Empty save for the occasional couple walking home with their Bolo Rei in its illustrated cardboard box, tied up with ribbon, held in gloved hands. And the homeless, making their beds in the doorways of grand buildings, or wandering up and down: junkies, men freefalling into old age and the girl with the big eyes who looked like she belonged in an ad or music video, not dying slowly out here on these streets.

It had been a long day and Ana was hungry, tired. The TAP plane hadn’t arrived in Dublin that morning, simply hadn’t turned up, so she’d had to come through Heathrow. Standing for hours behind middle-aged couples off skiing for the holidays, noticing enormous Bangladeshi clans and listening to an Italian girl arguing with an airport worker about how many bags she could take on board with her.

Ana caught sight of her reflection in the glass façade of a building further along, smoothed out an eyebrow and quickly redid her lipstick. Before she turned and noticed the light coming from a restaurant that reminded her of a train, on one of the concrete islands that ran the length of the avenue.

‘Good evening! Is the kitchen still open?’ she asked the lone waiter, who seemed ready to pull into the last station of life himself. He took an exaggerated, myopic look at his wristwatch before he motioned her to a table. Grudging should be a byword for the Portuguese, she thought to herself. No charm, no affability, weight of the world on their shoulders. But enough! She wouldn’t be drawn in, refused to become embroiled in this game of silly, silent recriminations.

The seafood rice arrived soon after she’d ordered it, hot, nourishing, wet. And eating it quickly, hungrily, Ana looked out at this silent city at the end of the world and began to imagine herself as a spy who had slipped in over the waves and would disappear the next morning without anybody knowing she’d been here. Sleeping in an art nouveau hotel, the statues of two gold boys standing sentinel at the foot of the stairs, gliding along these streets and watching every footfall from within this glass box. It felt illicit, delicious.

Because the truth was this was her home, Lisbon. Was where she’d grown up, in any case. Not here in the centre of town, with its uphill, downhill, sardine-smelling, fadowhining, crumbling old bairros but out in Carcavelos. Big houses, a long beach, St Julian’s private English school where Helena had taught and which she had attended.

That smart suburb where she should have been now, spending the night with her father, whose skin had softened and whose workload had lightened lately. Who was all alone now and even sorry for his sins some days. Daddy!

But she couldn’t have handled the trek out to the family apartment: the lying, the not crying. He’d only put his arms around her if she went to see him, wrap her up in his embrace, call her querida, make her dinner, coffee, cut up a cake. Apple of his eye, Ana. And that was why she wouldn’t go, because she loved him despite everything, loved him fiercely, and didn’t have the audacity to lie to him and say she was just going to Angola for a holiday, to spend some time with her brother Tiago. Who had spent the first years of his life in the country and had been back there six already, working as an engineer.

Because what she wouldn’t be telling her father was, I’m going to Luanda to find my mother, real mother, biological mother. You know, the woman you slept with behind Helena’s back, you Lothario of Luanda, you old devil you! The one who pushed me out nine months after you writhed with her and then handed me over. I’m leaving in the morning to search her out and ask her, face to face, one woman to another, exactly what happened, why I ended up here and not there.

Ana paid the bill and, as she was leaving the restaurant, warmed up by the food and the wine, she felt the urge to go for a walk. Saw herself strolling all the way through the Baixa to Praça do Comércio. Along Rua Augusta, past McDonalds, Zara and Louis Vuitton, down the shiny white cobbled street. Through memories of sunny afternoons and tourists moving slowly, backpacks on lobster-sunburned shoulders, with real artists painting, and con-artists fabricating, then hawking, their pictures and postcards of yellow trams and old churches.

Yes, she felt decisive, picturing the river through the arch that leads into the square, that’s what she’d do. Go and take a look at the enormous metal Christmas tree in the praça. Stand on the damp stones, faded yellow buildings all around, with the fog coming in off the water. Just to mark the season in the city.

Lisbon: October 1965

A FRIDAY MORNING, a Miles Davis tune, the cobblestones of Restauradores slick with rain. José de Castro is determined not to slip and fall on his backside, making a fool of himself in front of the early-morning shoppers. He picks his footfall carefully, can afford to move slowly, because he doesn’t have any lectures until this afternoon, the hours before then his to do with as he likes. Could while them away in bookshops, sit in smoky old cafés and talk in code with friends about how to start a revolution in Portugal. Or maybe visit an art gallery, buy a new LP.

He walks past Rossio train station and into Rua 1° de Dezembro, lazily contemplating going to Café Nicola for a coffee, then catching sight of the barber in his shop on the other side of the street. No customers in there yet, just the old man carefully reading his newspaper and a long row of leather chairs, empty. José runs a hand through his hair and thinks he might as well use this opportunity to get a trim.

‘Good morning,’ says the barber as he walks in. And sitting down, as white gown is whipped over him, José catches sight of himself, thinks he doesn’t look too bad for twenty-two: hazel eyes, cheeky grin, brown hair. And his suit: slimline, snazzy, black, trousers lifting at the knee to reveal his pride and joy, slick as a whistle Chelsea boots. So sharp you could cut yourself on them.

While at the same time Helena Fonseca is wandering through Chiado, stepping into shoe shops, bookshops, looking at gloves in the narrow windows of Luvaria Ulisses and thinking she wouldn’t mind another pair for this winter. Eyes drawn to her own reflection, to the dark tweed blazer and skirt she is wearing, the white blouse beneath. Smart, yes, well-cut, yes, but too bloody conservative. You look much too serious, she says to herself.

I wish I could be more like Diana Scott, her mind drifts. A little badder, a bit more risqué. It’s a couple of months since she and two friends from the student residence went to see Darling, gazing at the beautiful, brazen blonde and all her fancy clothes, but the film still haunts Helena. Taunts her with everything she is not. Sometimes she finds herself in the morning, hands on hips, lips pouting, trying to look as devil-may-care as Julie Christie, but always ending up looking more like a schoolteacher than a siren. ‘Well that’s what I am, aren’t I? Or will be.’ She shrugs her shoulders.

As José walks up Rua Garrett, pleased with himself, dusting stray hairs from the sleeves of his jacket. He goes into Bertrand, the old bookshop with its endless rooms, through arches and arches, picking up English novels by Iris Murdoch and Graham Greene, thinking he could spend all morning in here. After half an hour he finally pays for the new edition of Cahiers du Cinéma and decides he’ll have a coffee while reading a few of the articles.

A Brasileira is already busy when Helena walks in, the smell of coffee and the clamour of voices startling her out of her daydream. Most of the marble-topped tables are occupied by students, middle-aged couples and old ladies in heavy, expensive jewellery dragging them towards the grave, but when somebody gets up she heads towards the back, thinking nobody will spot her there.

It’s the line of people stretched the length of the glass counter full of pastries – elbows out, hands tilted, coffees knocked back – that José notices when he enters the same place ten minutes later. He scans for a spot to sit down and glances up at the heavy clock at the back of the café. Begins walking towards it, caught behind the slow, lumbering movements of a man old enough to be his father. Trundle, trundle, trundle; big bear of a thing, but only after a few moments does it dawn on José, everything else receding into the background, why this man is moving at such a pace, why he seems to be taking everything in. Because, sure enough, yes, there they are, the heavy black shoes give him away in a flash. He’s PIDE, the secret police, looking for somebody to terrorise, a victim to play with this morning.

His eyes fall on a young woman nestled into the corner, sitting at the last row of tables, reading a newspaper. Her hair’s dark red and her skin pale, fresh. There’s a packet of cigarettes on the table and as she reaches out to take one she glances up, only then noticing the man coming towards her. Flicker of fear in her eyes.

She looks away from the oh-so-curious stare, cursing herself for being stupid enough to read the banned student newspaper in a place as public as this. Her heart is thumping as she flicks a match, steeling herself to remain calm. But just then there’s a rapid flash of black before her, bright white teeth and the weight of a hand on hers. ‘Tudo bem?’ A kiss on each cheek and the pressure of his fingers above her elbow.

Who are you? What’s going on? Why are you doing this? she thinks as he bundles up the newspaper and fires it back along the floor with a flick of the wrist saying, ‘Would you like anything? I’m going to have a café com leite.’ His eyes hold hers, smile as fixed as a Colgate advertisement, and Helena can’t help but return the expression. Finds it hard to believe this stranger has done this for her, slipped in like Superman and saved the day. ‘I’ll have the same,’ she responds, as José glances around, looking for a waitress.

‘So what do you want to do tonight?’ he turns back to her, failing to find anybody to give their order to, aware of the stare the officer is still giving them. He notices the dark flecks within her eyes and wonders at the false intimacy born of this game they’re playing. ‘Go to the theatre? See if there’s anything on in the cinema? A nice meal?’ he suggests.

‘Perhaps the theatre,’ she replies.

‘Okay, we can see what’s on when we leave,’ he smirks, maybe chancing his luck now.

But Helena gives as good as she gets, can match his performance word for word. ‘And how is your mother?’ she asks.

‘Oh, she’s tremendous,’ he answers after a brief pause, slightly embarrassed. ‘Still obsessed with cooking and Perry Como. I don’t know which is worse; her food or his music.’

She slaps him gently on the sleeve. ‘Now, now, don’t talk like that. I’m sure she’s at home preparing your lunch right now.’

‘That has to be a joke,’ he says. ‘They could get her a job with the Gestapo. This food will make you talk.’

He laughs to himself then and waits a few moments before muttering, ‘Is he still there?’

She looks up and watches the PIDE officer head towards the door. ‘He’s leaving, thank God,’ she says, José turning to watch as the man stares up and down the street, first this way, then that, before walking off into the damp morning.

2

Luanda: December 2006

NIGHT FELL EARLY IN LUANDA, in Angola. That was the first thing Ana noticed as she stepped from the plane into the already dark evening. That and the heat, which didn’t so much hit her as wrap her up in its moist fug, before she went inside and waited to get her passport stamped. Handed her yellow fever card over to the official, if that’s what he could be called, the munchkin money-maker. She’d been warned about him, told he pounced on unsuspecting visitors who forgot, or hadn’t bothered, to get the vaccine. But she wasn’t about to be ripped off as soon as she left the plane, cheated by this place again so casually. So she gave him the little card, unsmiling.

Tiago was waiting for her at the baggage claim, creaking empty belt going round and round, had obviously bribed his way in. He gave her a hug, kissed her on both cheeks and smiled to himself at the linen skirt and crisp blouse she was wearing, her attempt at looking like a forties first-timer in Africa. She wondered if he got the irony of the look, the string of false pearls around her neck, but guessed he probably didn’t. Was likely just thinking here was his crazy baby sister, with her long curly hair swept up into a bun, and how odd it was to see her standing here in the airport in Luanda, curious eyes following her around, trying to figure her out.

‘How’s everything with you?’ he asked.

‘All good,’ she replied, ‘but busy, you know. Teaching a lot and I’ve just finished correcting a tonne of essays. I’ve started a PhD as well. I could do with more time for that.’

‘Oh yeah, what’s it about?’ he inquired.

‘Oh, cinematic representations of women in New York City,’ her words petered out as she recalled her brother’s interests had never really stretched as far as academia. Besides, she didn’t really know what to say about her work, except that she was interested in gender representations created by THE twentieth-century art form of cinema, set in THE twentieth-century city of New York. Identity, fashion, space, modernity… she wondered again if she was just clutching at straws.

‘Was the flight okay? Any dancing on it?’ Tiago’s grin widened as they left the terminal twenty minutes later.

‘No,’ she answered, ‘not today.’

‘You were lucky,’ he said as they pushed past a crowd of young men, all hustle and bustle: baggage carriers, taxi-drivers, shysters. ‘Once I flew here at Christmas and there was a party on board. Couples dancing kizomba up and down the aisle, everybody drunk.’ He shook his head.

Then bent to give a few dollars to a light-skinned woman begging with her baby in the car park, before pushing Ana’s suitcase into the back of the jeep and starting up the motor. ‘How’s Lisbon? How’s Dad?’ he asked and she felt the shame course through her body like ink rising through a stick of celery in a schoolroom experiment.

‘I didn’t see him,’ she responded, looking