Chapter Text
I arrived in Dublin in the early days of spring, just about 6 years ago. My father had been offered a better position within his company—something along the lines of plantation director, or of that sort.
He worked for a company that produced food for airlines, his role being that of an industrial engineer. I can’t explain exactly what his work entailed, but he often sent us photographs: a great white helmet clamped over his head, a thick protective suit enveloping him in the sweltering heat of August, smiling broadly, with tiny salted beads of sweat sliding down either side of his forehead. At night, when he came home, I would try on the shoes he wore in the factory. They were metal, heavy, absurdly too large for the feet of a child. I would walk from the wardrobe to my parents’ room—one, two, one two—the clanging of the shoes ringing against the floor.
I’d lean in the doorway, legs crossed, the heavy shoes dangling from my ankles by their thick laces, waiting for my parents’ reaction, their eyes still fixed on their books. When they finally noticed me, they would give a small, feigned laugh, and I would do whatever ridiculous thing came to mind just to keep them laughing. It had always been that way—me, hungry for their attention, willing to do anything for the small prize of a smile.
When we arrived in Dublin, I was entering the first stage of adolescence. I was still adjusting to the changes in my body—the swelling of my breasts, the acne, the curves and legs of a woman who wasn’t quite one yet. It wasn’t easy. I had to leave my few friends behind, and though my English was fluent enough to manage in class, the thick Irish accent was difficult. Understanding the people around me took an effort much to big for me. My mind had to dissect every word, every expression, and translate it into French.
Now it’s been a long time, and I don’t miss Toulouse. I’ve never felt a strong connection to my country or my culture; perhaps that’s why I can’t imagine going back. Nothing ties me to France anymore—the few friends I had back home drifted away over time. The messages grew fewer, farther apart, and by the time we started university, contact ended completely. I know Anaïse went to study at the Sorbonne in Paris, and Iman got some sort of internship at her uncle’s company.
The only family I have lives here—my mother and father. Though, fortunately, I don’t really live with them anymore. My father has taken early retirement and they’ve bought a house in Bray—a half-hearted attempt to reconnect with nature, to “feel the wind, the salt air, spend time on the beach, you know?” In reality, the weather in Bray is dreadful—like the rest of this island—and they spend most days shut indoors, watching the latest Netflix series and going to church.
I stayed in Dublin, naturally. I’ve never got along particularly well with my parents. We’ve never been close, though we’ve tried. They put it down to my being a difficult young woman (and, in their view, always having been one) while I think it’s because they’ve never made any real effort to forge a proper relationship, to get to know me. I grew up in a Christian household, a rather closed one. In France, that wasn’t so common—or at least not outside my circle, which was made up of my parents’ church friends and my own friends from the same convent school.
I never really understood what my relationship with God was supposed to be—if I even had one at all. But, as always, I kept my pretty mouth shut and accepted everything my parents taught me was right, eager to please them. Church every Sunday (and daily prayers, oas expected of a child of god), skirts never shorter than a hand’s breadth above the knee, always home before half-past six, and never—never—being alone with a boy.
Even now, living alone in a student residence in The Liberties, not much has changed. Sometimes I go to a touristy pub in Temple Bar with my friends, or we stop by The Pavilion Bar—the pub on Trinity College campus—after a late class if they feel like having a drink. But I tend to avoid it. I know my parents wouldn’t approve, and though I’m independent enough now, something about it still feels wrong. Sometimes I’m tempted—to stay for a couple of drinks, to flirt back with some young, handsome student—but I know I shouldn’t. Call it Christian guilt or call it prudishness, but I can’t seem to live the university life in its purest form.
I’ve just begun my second year of university. I study Classics—Latin, Greek, literature, all those dead languages and bodies of knowledge that any adult would tell you are useless, a perfect recipe for eternal unemployment, a straight ticket to the nearest Intreo Centre. I don’t mind much, truth be told. My parents didn’t either; they were simply glad I was at university, and especially at the prestigious Trinity College, where I could be surrounded by wealthy young people from good families with big, fat trust funds. It meant they could rub shoulders and show off their precious daughter—a pretty enough girl, a good student, a devout Christian, violinist in the choir at Saint Teresa’s Church and in her university’s student choir. A complete triumph.
Things have been going well lately. Functioning, at least. I take my medication without fail, my grades are good enough, and I almost never miss choir practice at the church. I don’t go because I enjoy it. In truth, there are very few things I actually enjoy, but I go because I know it’s what I’m supposed to do. It’s the path that’s been clear to me for some time, and I don’t have the energy to even consider another possible way of living. I’m content to settle. To please my parents, to follow a simple, steady routine. When I first moved to Dublin, my life felt somewhat unmoored, and I have no wish to revisit the chaos of that time.
That Tuesday, class had ended early, and I went for lunch at the Thai place a couple of minutes away, on Pearse Street. I ordered one of the cheap meal deals. It was already late September, which meant the monthly allowance my parents gave me was beginning to dwindle, and though my occasional hours spent sorting and cataloguing books in the university’s Berkeley Library brought me a bit of pocket money for when we went out (a cost I preferred my parents not to know about), it was still sometimes difficult to make it to the end of the month. Inflation in Dublin has become disastrous; a damned chicken fillet roll at Spar costs nearly six euros, and having a couple of gin and tonics in one night means having to cut back expenses for an entire week.
It was a grey day, with the light, fickle rain so typical of Irish weather. I sat on the terrace of the fast-food Thai restaurant, my thick wool sweater pulled over my dress, which—though long—was made of a thin fabric, far too summery for the early autumn weather. I could feel my socks damp inside my Mary Janes, my nose red and runny from the cold. Even after years in this city, I still haven’t gotten used to the climate. I’m still caught off guard when hail suddenly pelts down, or when the sun appears in an instant, and I tend to regret not taking my jacket when I leave the house.
I watched people hurrying down Westmoreland Row, the usual traffic jam at that hour leading toward Merrion Square, everyone leaving work at the same time, heading home or out for drinks with colleagues, eager to escape the unpleasant Dublin weather. My lips felt swollen from the (oddly) spicy pad thai, and I had no desire to move from my seat. The air was clean, and I found myself enjoying the rain that, out of habit, I usually cursed.
It was one of those slow days, without any notable event. I had drunk tea in the morning at a campus truck with Aislinn, and attended class as per usual, making the effort to pay attention—which, as customary, hadn’t been much of a success.
I walked down the street to Merrion Square. Tourists drifted in and out of Oscar Wilde’s house, and easels had been set up in the garden of the National Gallery, the drawings now wet, the paint streaked. I went into the park and sat beneath a tree, where the ground was less damp. I checked my phone. Two missed calls from Sophie, and a couple of messages asking if I was going to The Pavilion later.
I replied with a short text.
“don’t think so, I’ve got choir this evening. if it doesn’t run late, I’ll drop by after xx”
We both knew the chances of me going were fifty-fifty. I did enjoy a drink and listening to good music with the girls, but lately my mother had taken to showing up from Bray without warning, waiting for me outside Saint Teresa’s, talking about the latest excursion with her church friends and assuring me she had cooked a wonderful dinner waiting for me in Bray.
Sometimes I tried to get out of it, inventing an excuse about a project I had to work on, but then I’d see the suspicion in her eyes, the questions sharpening, more insistent, more constant. That’s the problem with living only half an hour away from your parents.
It was around three when I fell asleep beneath the tree. Certainly, it wasn’t the wisest choice—dozing off with all my belongings scattered about me in the middle of Dublin—but it happened. My eyes were heavy, and since I had arranged to meet Aislinn that morning I’d had to rise earlier than usual to catch the 74 bus into campus, and now I was dying of fatigue.
— — — — — — —
When I opened my eyes I realized it was a quarter to six, and I should have been at Saint Teresa’s fifteen minutes earlier. I grabbed my leather bag from the ground, checked quickly that my phone and wallet were still inside, and hurried off toward the church. Fortunately, it was right beside Trinity, so all I needed was a few minutes of quick walking to arrive. Even so, I could already see in my mind Sister Saoirse’s disapproving look.
Luckily, I had thought to leave my violin at the church before class, so I didn’t need to stop by the residence first—a trip that would have cost me twenty-five minutes there and back. Had I arrived that late, I knew Sister Saoirse, who directed the choir, would have refused to let me join, and when she saw my mother she would certainly have remarked upon my irresponsibility.
Despite her being a bossy, middle-aged woman with a great fondness for scolding choir members—especially the younger ones—I had a certain affection for her. She always brought some sweet thing from the bakery beside the church, and when she saw a young girl looking sad she would wrap her in a warm embrace.
When I reached Saint Teresa’s Street the rain began, hard and sudden. My hair was already soaked, the strands of fringe plastered across my eyes. I rushed into the church, the doors left open for any visitor who wished to observe the choir rehearsing (though apart from the odd elderly man with time to kill, no one ever came in).
As I entered, silence fell. All voices and instruments cut off at once with the sound of my bag falling to the floor, the heavy thud of books echoing against the stone. I bent quickly to gather them up, shoving the weighty volumes, the lipstick and pens, back into the bag. Everyone was still watching me, Sister Saoirse standing at the front of the choir, arms folded.
“Sorry!” I exclaimed, rushing to my place on the platform and pulling my violin from the cabinet where we always stored our instruments for short periods. Though I had never felt any particular fondness for my violin—as other musicians often did—I knew it had cost my parents a small fortune years ago, and I certainly could not have afforded one myself with my meager savings.
“You’re very late, Lilou.”
I positioned myself before the score, tucking the violin into the hollow of my neck, my chin resting against the chinrest.
“Whenever you’re ready, we’ll start again with *Be Thou My Vision*.”
I nodded, cleared my throat, and prepared the bow. As the choir was small, I was the only violinist. I began the melody alone, eyes closed, my hand holding the bow delicately, wrists moving in subtle motions. Soon the other instruments joined in—the piano, the flute, the viola—and then the strong voices of the choir. Most were children, but there were a few older men who devoted their free time to the church, balancing out the otherwise overwhelmingly soprano sound.
I swayed slightly, moving with the rhythm, eyes half closed. At moments the pounding of heavy rain could be heard beneath the music. Cold drops trickled from my fringe down to my lashes, hanging there like tiny diamonds.
Playing the violin was one of the few things I truly enjoyed. I had little interest in the church, and I didn’t play to contribute, but more to please my parents. Still, it was an excuse to play, to disconnect, to breathe deeply. And the pieces we played weren’t particularly demanding—certainly nothing compared to the ones I had tackled as a teenager, back when I still competed at national level.
Now it was simply an escape, a brief reprieve.
We went on to "The Old Rugged Cross", to "How Great Thou Art" half a dozen times, and then circled back to finish again with "Be Thou My Vision". My feet ached from standing, but I disliked playing seated. I preferred the freedom of movement, the ability to let my whole body sway as I drew the bow across the strings.
I heard someone enter through the main doors. I didn’t bother opening my eyes at first, nor did I feel any unease at playing in front of strangers. When I have the violin in my hands, my head clears and my fingers grow deft. I disconnect completely from every sense but hearing, and I feel no shame unless I play badly. By the time we reached the end of the hymn, only the viola remained, accompanying the voices. I lowered the violin, letting the instrument and bow hang loosely from my hands, and opened my eyes with lazy reluctance.
At the back rows of the church a tall figure leaned against one of the columns. It was a man, gracefully thin and unusually tall, leaning in a careless way, long legs crossed at the ankles, arms folded. He wore a brown jacket with a hoodie underneath, the hood pulled up, which made it even harder to see his face. Still, I could make out the outline of a reddish beard, a pale, milk-white skin.
As the hymn ended, the man left the church. He walked with his hands deep in his pockets, each step long and deliberate, as if he had come only to watch and vanish again. A moment later he was gone, the sound of the rain rushing in to fill the silence he left behind.