TransAtlantic by Colum McCann Page B

apparent above the small line of trees at the end of the garden.
    —So how do you find our country, Mr. Douglass?
    Douglass was surprised at the forthrightness of her question. He wondered if she was interested in the courage of honesty—that the countryside had shocked him, that he had seldom seen such poverty, even in the American South, that he found it hard, even now, to understand.
    —It’s an honor to be here, he said.
    —An honor for us to receive you. And your journey was pleasant?
    —We traveled the back roads. There was much to see. Some beautiful places.
    In the silence she drifted towards the window. She looked out to the garden where the light continued to climb, agile against the trees. He could tell there was something more she wanted to say. She fingered the edge of the curtain, wrapped one of the threads around her finger.
    —There is a hunger afoot, she said finally.
    —Certain parts of the journey were bleak, I must admit.
    —There is talk of a famine.
    He looked at Isabel again. She was thin and ordinary, certainly not pretty. Her eyes were a sharp green, her profile plain, her bearing natural. No jewelry. No fuss. Her accent was genteel. She was not the sort of woman likely to open the windows of a man’s heart, yet there was something about her that daubed the air between them bright.
    He told her of the dead child he had seen on the road. He noticed the words move into her face, inhabit her: the road, the raft of twigs, the dropped coin, the roof of trees, the way the light had fallen around them as they drove away. The story weighed her down. She wrapped the fringed thread so tight that the top of her finger was swollen.
    —I will send someone out to see if they can find her. On the road.
    —That would be kind of you, Miss Jennings.
    —Perhaps they will help her bury the child.
    —Yes.
    —In the meantime, you should rest, Mr. Douglass, she said.
    —Thank you.
    —And later you must permit my sisters and me to show you around. There is much in Cork to be proud of. You’ll see.
    He could hear the rest of the house stirring, the floorboards above them creaking. He bowed slightly, excused himself, went into the hallway. He was tired, but there was work to do: letters, articles, another attempt at a preface. His book was going into a second printing. It was an exercise in balance. He would need to find the correct tension. A funambulist. He would not pander any longer. He trod the stairs, entered his room, unfolded his pages to edit them. Took out the barbells. Rested his head against the side of the writing desk. Lifted the barbells. Began, all at once, to lift and read, lift and read.
    Within moments he heard a clicking of hooves outside the window. Isabel was riding out the gravel road. From his high window he watched her go until her coat of royal blue became a speck.
    THE CARPETS WERE lush. His pillows freshly laundered. His hosts had cut new flowers and put them in the window where they nodded in the breeze. A Bible had been placed on the bedside table.
The Crace and Beunfeld Bird and Wildlife Guide. Charlotte, A Tale of Truth. The Vicar of Wakefield. The Whole Booke of Psalmes, with the Hymnes Evangellical, and Songs Spirituall
. At the roll-top writing desk, he found an inkwell, blotting paper, blank journals.
    It was a relief to be back to privilege again: the journey through the countryside had agitated him.
    Famine
. The word had not occurred to him before. He had seen hunger in America, but never a countryside threatened with blight.The smell still clung to him. He poured himself a deep bath. Soaped his body. Put his head in under the water, held his breath, sunk deeper. Even the noises of the house itself were a balm: he could hear laughter echoing up through the rooms. He climbed from the water, wiped the steam from the window. It was still a surprise to see the rooftops of Ireland. What else lay out there? What other ruin?
    The sound of leaves falling.
    Quieter than rain.
    He