Chapter 32: A Dream of Peace and Beauty
Then indeed Peace had come. Her Cloak of Calm Tranquillity banished the growls of bus and car engines to the distance; her Sceptre of Forgiveness blessed us all and united us as a community. No better place for her to bequeath flowers of empathetic transference to tourists and Dublin residents alike than St Stephens Green, where it was almost balmy and I lay with my head in Daniel’s lap while he read poems to me (Mark Granier, Kerry O’Brien, Orla Martin, and other friends of his).
‘Everything we dream, exists. Loved ones, beyond life, exist within us like candlelight in the darkness.’
‘Oh,’ I thought of Mum. ‘That’s a good sentiment. Who wrote that?’
‘I did. Now I’ve my muse to learn from, I’m changing my beliefs. I’m becoming an idealist.’
‘Wonderful.’ Whether it was Celine’s ability to access moments in time ahead of me or a deeper communication from the universe, I knew that what Daniel said next would be profoundly important. All the birds nearby held their breath to listen. The breeze sank to the ground so as not to disturb the air and even the blades of grass in their thousands were attentive.
‘All it would take is for sufficient numbers of people to imagine a better world and we could make it happen. The problem is, the current opposition systems of thought are unimaginative. Marxism and Liberalism are alternate paths within a shared agri-logistic maze. Somone needs to climb out of the maze and give us a dream of beauty and peace.’
I had been experimenting with the highly original sensation of allowing Celine to flow to the fore of my being and then encouraging her to recede, depending on the cadences of the poetry as delivered by the aural caresses of Daniel’s reading voice. Although he’d lived in north Dublin for over twenty years, as a child he’d been brought up in Dundalk and the touch of northern accent that remained in Daniel’s voice was thrilling, evocative of a sterner man than the one now drawing a heart on my forehead with a pudgy fingertip. I loved the manly quality of that voice and to lie with the sun warming my body while my mind was gliding like an eagle on the soundwaves of his declamations was blissful.
A dream of peace and beauty. With that thought transferred into my mind the Earth began to spin again and the birds to trill.
‘Is Irish closer to the language of birds than English?’ I asked Daniel.
‘Sure, aren’t the words of the silver-tongued bards of ancient Ireland only those of Adam himself, recreating in their every syllable the Garden of Eden and the unity of all living creatures before Babel fell and made every word a snake whose meanings twist and turn with poisonous intent.’
I laughed with delight.
That isn’t true, Celine informed me, rather unpoetically, by letting me hear every one of the birds in the park. Their song was not so much a language as a way of being in the world. A quivering of life at a particular frequency.
‘Ahh now.’ Two words, spoken with disconsolate irritation dispersed Peace as though she were as flimsy as a bubble. ‘Serves me right for looking at my phone.’
‘What?’
‘Musk has scrapped the Consumer Product Safety Commission. There’s a rake of untested products gone straight onto the market and one of them is the DreamAds hood. Neo must have been standing by to launch it. It’s already got a pop-up ad.’
‘Is the CPSC slain? O untimely death. For upon the seas of human endeavour will now sail craft so disjointed as to let the waters of the world in upon them. And yet I feel excited. Wilt not the others who dwell in the unspeaking depths of the human mind become alert to the value of surfacing? What music, what art, what literature, what cinema will fill the world! There is joy to be had in the breaking of the bonds that confine us to work for capitalism.’
‘Oh, hello Celine. You would think that. But I think there’s a dark side to letting the id loose. Remember the room you entered in the DreamAds headquarters? Or Amanda’s id wanting to take over Cyn; beings like Amandus are dangerous.’
With this bitter thought dispersing my drowsy happiness, I sat up and Celine sank down, almost as though I’d caused her to physically roll back down to the depths of my mind.
‘You should warn your followers not to buy the hoods. Let me record you.’ He was already scrolling for his camera app.
‘Do what now?’
‘Say that DreamAds is dangerous. It lets Neo influence your thoughts with his fascist agenda and it releases your id, which has no consideration for the law or your relationships with family and loved ones.’ He pointed the camera at me.
‘While you wait for me to agree to being recorded, you may wish to breathe normally.’
Surprised at the severity of my expression, Daniel dropped his phone.
‘I’m not sure of the truth of that message. But more practically, if you record me here you’d be giving away my location. Don’t forget that I’m a witness in a trial that’s going to damage Neo and my intuition is that he’s got people looking for me. I’m not safe.’
After retrieving his phone, Daniel leaned back against the bench and closed his eyes. ‘Are we just going to lie in the sun and let Neo get into the heads of millions of people? What’s that going to mean for the future of politics? And what’s going to happen when the id inside of everyone is awake?’
Snuggling up to him, putting my head on his warm shoulder and then closing my eyes, I whispered, ‘Into the chamber of death went your lover and she was lucky to get out unharmed. She’s earned a moment in the sun.’ A cool breeze touched my hair and searched for how far it could reach down the gap at the collar of my jacket towards my chest. I pulled my zip fully up. Beneath me, the bench was hoping we would kiss. Three hundred and forty-seven couples had kissed while on this bench and it wasn’t farfetched for the bench to aspire to the five hundred kisses achieved by his sister on the other side of the green.
In a large cluster at the centre of the green, I could sense daffodils with sultry petals cast inviting glances towards those flying insects who had hatched in the early spring.
‘You’re a star Cyn,’ said Daniel, ‘it’s just that I feel a responsibility to humanity in general and the international proletariat in particular, to stop Neo.’
‘I love you Flash, but we only have twenty-four hours to save the universe.’
‘That kind of thing, yeah.’
‘Kiss me at least. Make the bench happy.’
After our lips parted, I said, ‘I’ve had an idea.’
‘The universe is the outpouring of a wormhole?’
‘Not that.’
‘We should move to a quiet spot in the Iveagh Gardens and fool around?’
‘Nor that.’
Daniel sighed and stroked my hair. ‘All the best poems are about the humble bumble bee?’
‘Not that either. My idea is that we should buy DreamAds hoods and use my social media channels to advertise a mass, collective dream, one in which I invite everyone to imagine a world of peace and beauty.’
‘Oh yes. Oh yes. Oh yes.’ Daniel lifted me up to look into my eyes. ‘It needs to be massive, with millions of people participating. Even if just one person dreams of utopia, that is enough to keep hope alive. If millions share that dream though… It becomes tangible.’
‘Everything we dream, exists.’
Too energised to sit still, Daniel sprang from the warm-hearted bench. ‘The best publicity for this would be if you could paint another masterpiece. Something relevant. Something that encourages people to attend your dream. Can you do that?’
Before answering, I turned so that I was flat on my back in the embrace of the bench and once more I closed my eyes to communicate with Celine.
Sound. Touch. Taste. Yes, taste. Tell me, can we paint this? Rich with chard; chicken chilindrón; graus sausage; chiretas; Aragonese casserole; buckwheat crêpes; Kouign-Amann; salted butter caramel; cotriade; kig-ha-Farz; plougastel strawberries; cider and lambig; chouchen; bush of crayfight in Viking sagas; three young pigs and a big bad Roquefort; stuffed artichoked Swiss cheese; and fool’s noodling. All these stimulating tastes were present in my body, rendered more delicious still by the layers of imagination which had brought them into being; the incrustation of experience would otherwise have denied them any existence.
‘I can. It has to be mural. A Guernica for our times. I’m going back to Phibsboro shopping centre. It will take a week though.’
‘Come on!’ Daniel held his hand out towards me.
‘What?’
‘Let’s get permission. They must be in agonies of dismay that they painted over your Woman in Yellow, which would be worth a fortune by now; plus they’ve missed out on all the visitors who would have come to see it. Let’s get them to agree to a new one and you can work properly, without having to hurry or risk it being painted over before it is finished.’
My poet-lover was right. So bidding farewell to the bench, I took Daniel’s hand and we skipped towards Camden Street and the number 19 bus that would take us to Phibsboro.
Ascending the levels of management hierarchy at the Phibsboro shopping centre was like having to beat four levels of Donkey Kong. Even the bland, undecorated concrete stairwells spoke to me with voices filled with deterrence. Fortunately, I had a magic hammer: my name. And in time, with the sparse, electronic beep music of the game playing constantly in my thoughts (thanks Celine but that’s enough) Daniel and I were eventually shown into a meeting room on the executive suite level.
Polished wooden table, curved ends, slightly more ellipse than circle. Teal carpet, thin and cheap. Windows the length of the wall on two sides, rectangular in shape, with thin, metal frames. Interesting patterns as the angle of the afternoon sun created parallelograms of light blue on the floor. Male with grey hair, grey suit, and grey mind sitting to my left. Daniel to my right. My right-hand man. Modern interactive screen on the wall showing Desdemona Faraday of Ares Capital in her car, pulled over at the side of a busy road.
‘What’s this about, Ms Sweetwater?’ her voice was genuinely curious.
‘I want to paint a mural on the side wall of Tescos. Where Woman in Yellow was.’
‘Why?’
‘Karma. A return to where it all started. Publicity. Art. Lots of reasons.’
There was a slight tremble to the image as she blinked. Was it her car, rocking in the wake of a lorry passing by? No, it was an unsteady hand. She’s wetting herself, laughed Celine and I was very tempted to whisper that thought to Daniel.
‘Who will own the mural when it’s complete?’ Ms Faraday asked.
‘You can have it. Just promise it will be visible to the public for two months minimum.’
‘We can do that.’
‘Ms Faraday?’ Greystone raised his hand.
‘Go ahead, Tom.’
‘It’s an interesting proposal, to be sure. But we would have to think about possible crowds and the insurance side of things as well as the disruption. Our clients may be unhappy.’
‘That’s a good point.’ She fucking hates him. ‘After this meeting I want you to ring Andy Coates in IBL and explain the situation and update our insurance. And then contact our clients with the positive news that later this year the centre is going to be attracting significant increased footfall.’
‘Will do.’ He drew a football on his notepad, as if making himself a reminder. Then, with Ms Faraday moving her attention back to me, added a goalpost around it.
The finance CEO said, ‘I’ll have our solicitor send on an agreement. To recap: you will be given permission to paint a mural on the north wall of Phibsboro Shopping Centre. We will have full ownership of the mural, with the proviso that it is visible to the public for at least two months after completion.’
Daniel leaned inwards, almost touching me, although she would have been able to see him perfectly well. ‘We’ll need you to arrange supplies of paint, brushes and scaffolding.’
‘Tom. Make a note of everything Ms Sweetwater needs and have it delivered. Assign one of your maintenance crew to her. Anything else?’
Greyface raised a hand again.
‘Tom?’ The fangs that she had managed to conceal until now were visible.
Seemingly untroubled by how that one syllable left the screen and bit into him, Greymouth said, ‘Ms Sweetwater might have a hostile agenda. We took the court case against her. She’s known to be an anarchist. This might be a ruse to mock us. And she also paints lewd, unsavoury and…,’ he looked at me, ‘with all due respect, repulsive paintings.’
‘Jesus,’ muttered Daniel, shaking his head.
‘Well, Ms Sweetwater, are you planning an act of revenge?’ said the voice from the wall.
‘Not in the least. There’s something magical about returning to that location. A journey completed, one that will help the world discover me and my story.’
‘So you’d have no difficulty signing a warranty to the effect that our contract becomes void and we have the authority to paint over the mural at any time, should your work be incompatible with our values.’
‘I’m happy to sign a warranty. I’m well aware that young children will be walking past the mural. And I want them to enjoy it.’
The head of the finance company who owned the centre was satisfied. ‘Then we have an agreement. I would shake hands with you if I could,’ she smiled. ‘I look forward to seeing your mural in due course. Bon voyage, Ms Sweetwater.’
With the call ended, my attention returned to the meeting room with the uncompassionate functionary, who, full of desolation and antipathy, asked for an email address to which he could send the documents. I gave him one I’d created while on the bus for just this purpose.
After leaving the building, Daniel and I strolled arm-in-arm around to the wall where Woman in Yellow had been painted over by grey, all-weather masonry paint. I could feel her though, still languorous but missing the enjoyment of attracting the stares of passers-by.
‘Is it going to be good?’ asked Daniel.
‘I can’t wait to start.’ Of course it was going to be good. As the ancient Greeks understood, however, gods, demons, dryads, naiads and spirits of all kind hated boastfulness in humans, I could not therefore answer Daniel directly, not while so many of them were listening. My answer would be visible on the wall soon enough.