Chapter 19: And the Prize for Best Poetry Collection Goes to…
Award shows. Glamourous people. Happy, excited people. Happy until the awards are given out. Then three-quarters of those at the event become glum, while the other quarter are striving to appear gracious. Seated next to me was one of four nominees for Best Poetry Collection. To put together his tuxedo, Daniel had bought a second-hand jacket that came close to matching his trousers; a decent dress shirt (new); and a bow tie, also second hand, that no amount of YouTube videos could teach him to knot correctly. Fortunately, I have dextrous fingers and an aptitude for considering puzzles in three dimensions. Bow tie securely fastened, Daniel looked perfectly handsome alongside me at Table 5 of the MacHenries.
For my part, I wore my one ball gown: a faux-satin, poison green, pointelle maxi dress that provided a complementary colour to the deep red of my hair. Thin shoulder straps, sleeveless, with a hint of transparency, it was a dress that drew looks towards me: unconscious second takes; interrogatory predatory looks; admiring and approving encouragement. I was satisfied. One should either be a work of art or wear a work of art. Or both.
‘You know the MacHenries are thirty-two counties, right?’ Daniel was on his third champagne, having already inhaled two very full lines of speed. ‘There are only three poetry awards that are all-Ireland. So if I were to get a MacHenry, I’ll have the lot. Only Heaney ever achieved that.’
‘Since vanity helps the successful poet and destroys the failure, I appeal to your inner self to hold such thoughts in check and prepare yourself for disappointment.’
‘You’re right, of course. We’re here to enjoy ourselves. Even to be nominated is an honour.’
‘Co-incidentally, given that you’ve switched to the language of a PR executive, isn’t the young man approaching us the journalist from my court case?’
I knew perfectly well that this was the same person as the purple ends of the reporter’s shoulder-length hair were quite memorable. Daniel looked at him and nodded.
‘Sorry to intrude, Ms Sweetwater, but could I ask you a couple of questions?’
Unattended or abandoned desserts were being cleared away by predatory hotel restaurant staff. On the stage, a well-dressed technician was testing the microphone.
‘We only have a minute,’ I pointed out. ‘And you’ve already asked me one.’
‘Hah, hah. So I have. Well, let me cut to the chase. Do you think your participation on the DreamAds programme has contributed to the phenomenal success of We Will Meet Again?’
The lady on my left, here for having written a surprisingly bloodthirsty biography of Danton, looked up sharply. ‘Are you the artist of that heart-rending painting?’
I allowed her a nod and a momentary glance. It was rude of her, though, to have interrupted, and my attention immediately returned to the journalist who had asked a most insightful question. ‘The DreamAds technology is an existential threat to the being who underlays the waking personality. DreamAds has the potential to annihilate that symbiotic species entirely, and, as a result, emasculate humanity, turning us into dour, libido-less, worker-drones. At the present time the technology can be resisted by an alliance of the two main components of the mind. With Cyn Sweetwater having helped me escape the confinement planned by DreamAds, I was able to assist her compose We Will Meet Again. That painting would not have existed without my struggle with the technology. Be clear in your journalism on this point: I am not crediting the painting to DreamAds; rather I am asserting that in overcoming the prison of DreamAds I have awoken to a most unusual state, conducive to art.’
The young man had hurriedly produced pad and pen and mumbled my words back to himself as he wrote in shorthand. ‘Fascinating, thank you very much.’
‘Sorry to interrupt,’ it was the woman to my left again; her book about Danton was open and a pen was in her hand. ‘I know it’s the wrong way around,’ her laugh was weak, ‘but would you sign my book please?’
Under her name, I wrote, To Natalie, My dining companion at the MacHenries, Celine.
‘Celine?’
‘It’s complicated. Celine is the artist in question.’
‘Not you?’
‘I am Celine. Cyn Sweetwater is available for more linear if sometimes overly blunt and hurtful conversations. Would you like me to fetch her?’
Natalie looked at me with concern. Hers was an attractive face, of the equine form. With long, wavy dark hair, she evoked the female figures of Ancient Greek pottery.
‘You should talk to Daniel. He’s a poet and a wonderful lover in need of more women in his life. If there was an Olympic medal for sexual performance, Daniel would win gold for Ireland in the pairs, threesomes, and foursomes categories. You might not approve of open relationships, but there’s an honesty to them that causes far less havoc than affairs of the kind that probably ended your own marriage.’
Whether Natalie’s incredulous expression arose from her dismay at the meaning of my words or my intuition – there were a hundred clues, ranging from the obvious empty seat beside her to the subtle mark on her wedding finger – that she had recently become single, I congratulated myself on successfully utilising words for communication with another mind.
‘Furthermore,’ I went on, ‘neither of you will win an award tonight. Yet the evening might be a memorable one were you to leave together and enjoy yourselves in the aftermath of the party.’
‘How do you know who has won?’ asked Daniel.
This was less easy to put into words than to simply understand. ‘Though they act the part of a distant god uninterested in the affairs of mortals, as afterwards right well this will be proven, the judges reveal more than they intend when they come to use their eyes. Though a foretelling of their decisions is not intended, their approving glances on the winners fall, while quick, fickle and evasive is the look they bestow on all those who must leave with disappointment.’
‘Christ,’ said Daniel and gave a disconsolate sigh.
‘Is she right?’ Natalie asked him. ‘I don’t see the judges behaving any differently towards us. They are not really looking at anyone.’
Daniel followed her gaze to the judges’s table, then shrugged.
Our nearest dinner companion added in a low voice, ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but the way your partner speaks is odd and so is what she’s saying.
‘I think her every word is beautiful.’ Daniel held my hand for a moment. Then he leaned forward so as to meet Natalie’s eye. ‘It is not often that the source of creativity and love is able to flow so freely and constantly through a mind. And she does it without any drugs. Cyn has been practicing. It’s like meditation, only she connects inwardly to her unconscious and channels it. Consider yourself fortunate that she’s at your table.’
A glass was tapped with knife of metal, until all conversation stilled. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ a confident male voice filled the room from all directions. The lighting on the stage backdrop changed, displaying the names of sponsors. ‘Please welcome your compère for tonight, columnist for the Irish Times and host of the Arts Show on Radio One, Ms Una Ivers!’
Onto the stage walked a woman in a scarlet gown, waving to us as we applauded her. Having arrived at a lectern placed somewhat to the right of the stage, Una Ivers looked over her spectacles at the audience and behaved exactly as an AI version of herself would have: welcomes; tributes to Irish literary creativity; thanks. That is, until reality broke through with an anecdote I enjoyed very much.
‘I told my teenage son where I was going tonight and why I would be home late. And I said to him that it was helpful to set the right tone for the evening if I began by telling you all a joke. So, he’s given me one for you: Why do Santa’s elves love Drake?’
Pause. Good timing.
‘Because he’s a great rapper.’
Laughter. ‘Honestly, a risky one for our generation. I don’t know about you, but I had to look up Drake.’
I was laughing. Natalie was looking glumly at her uneaten dessert, but because she still held a spoon in her left hand, the nearby staff had to wait, like magpies ready to swoop.
Daniel was waving to a friend at Table 6 and had missed the joke. I would tell it to him later. For a poet, he was surprisingly appreciative of a bad pun.
Una Ivers worked her way steadily through the awards, the large screen behind her showing the covers of the books mentioned along with headshots of the writers. As the winners made their short (predictable) speeches, the proportion of excited audience members steadily diminished (it was best to receive your award early, when the applause was genuine).
A man in a tuxedo approached our table. ‘Ms Sweetwater. We would like to invite you to the top table. Everyone would be thrilled to meet you.’
‘Go ahead,’ said Daniel, noticing that I was not inclined to move.
‘Thank you,’ I addressed the shadowy messenger, ‘but I’m happy here. A happy clapper.’
Hermes cloaked his ill-humour with a smile, thinking I could not see the surprise and annoyance in his eyes. ‘Perhaps you might join us later. Ryan has expressed an interest in commissioning one of your works.’
The trickster left on his return journey; several celebrity heads from the table in question turned to watch and their emissary gave them a shrug.
‘Why didn’t you go?’ asked Natalie.
‘Tonight, they would be my friend. Tomorrow, they would pass me in the street without a glance. Here is love and warmth and witty conversation.’ I patted Daniel’s arm. ‘My love.’
Natalie blinked. Pale blue, tired eyes. ‘Weren’t you just trying to set me up with him?’
‘Love loves to love love. You love a certain person. And you love another. And they love you. Daniel loves your justification of the guillotine.’
‘Oh, you read my book?’ Natalie addressed him directly.
‘I did.’ Realising that more was called for, Daniel gave her his full attention. ‘It was refreshing to read a book that does not impose modern morality on historical politics. One that judges them in their own terms. Terms that were harsher than ours.’
‘Exactly!’ some colour had come to Natalie’s pale cheeks. She was perhaps a little conservative for Daniel. A well-read woman with strong opinions, however, was a potential match. I got up.
‘Scootch up. Bathroom for me.’ This to Daniel. And to Natalie: ‘Be nice to him, my Danton. Be nice to each other. No matter how you push the thought aside, it hurts not to be able to deliver your prepared acceptance speech.’
I was in no hurry to return from the bathroom and as I meandered through the tables, Martin Doherty, TD, saw me and immediately stood up and hurried to me. If Daniel had managed to make wearing a tuxedo appear natural, Martin had failed the same test. A shirt that was too big had several horizontal folds across his chest, the cuffs were undone where they protruded from the arms of his jacket. Unfamiliar with the invention of cufflinks, Martin had evidently just stuffed them into the jacket with back folds that had come undone. His bow tie was imbalanced and so much so that I felt an impulse to retie it for him.
‘I saw your painting in The Sackville Gallery. It’s a masterpiece.’ He waited.
‘Thank you,’ I said at last.
‘It’s going for auction on Saturday?’
‘It is.’
‘I have put an emergency motion down that the state provides sufficient funds for the national gallery to buy it. Would you consider withdrawing it from auction and ensuring it stays in Ireland?’
‘I would, but Julien who has the rights to sell the painting would not. He sees this as a once-in-a-career moment and has spent all week promoting the sale.’
Matin nodded. ‘I thought that was probably the case. We’ll see. There might be cross party support. The painting is remarkable. Everyone can see that.’
A round of applause for a speech began, soon falling off in volume. As I went to move on, Martin put a hand on my arm and moved his head close to mine, so that he could say in a quiet voice. ‘And is everything all right with Amanda? Can I help you at all? Perhaps that public meeting?’
Amanda. The car. ‘We haven’t been talking. She wanted me to murder Neo and I refused.’
‘Murder! Bloody Hell!’
‘We entered Neo’s dreams instead. Trying to turn the technology against him.’
‘And how did that go?’
Had Cyn answered the question, she would have said that entering Neo’s dreams had been a waste of time. Not I though. I had sensed Neo’s inner being. And it had sensed me.