By Ed Walsh

1

On Sunday I went up to the cemetery at Saint Balthasar. I go about once a month, whenever I can. As is usual, I took the metro out to the old funicular which runs up to the west gates, up and down about twenty times a day. It is over one-hundred years old and the last one in the city, but until I first came her some four years ago I had never used it, in fact barely knew of its existence. On this occasion I was with Marianne, who I have been seeing for a while but who had not been out there with me before. Even before we went, I had a feeling that Marianne and I would not last long together. And after she asked me that question I was pretty sure.

In this, the western part of town, it is the place to be as far as the dead are concerned. Here lie the great and the good; the actors and the writers, the musicians are there, and a few politicians; those with some connection to the area, who were either born or died in the adjoining streets, or lived in the area for a while between those events. They are placed among the ordinary people, and the sightseers take photographs in front of their memorials.

Ottaway is out there near the east fence. He has a big black slab of a monument in the shape of a book, engraved with a golden quill-pen and the titles of his plays: Sophocles at the Close of Play, Adoration Blue Horse, Darkness, and the othersare listed vertically.I cannot imagine anybody still puts them on. That said, I’m not much a theatre-person. I have accompanied Marianne to a couple of productions, but have betrayed my apparent enthusiasm by sleeping for long periods.

And Barley Sikes is out there. I don’t suppose many people remember him now, but Barley Sikes was one of those variety-type acts whose lame jokes and dance routines would I’m sure be an embarrassment to younger people now. His catchphrase was Oh Go On Then, If You Really Must, which should tell you all you need to know. It is engraved on his headstone along with his top-hat. I’ve never seen anybody at his grave but he always seems to have fresh flowers, so somebody must still care enough.

Madellin Katz is there also. So far as anybody knows she had no connection to the place other than being murdered by her Greek lover in room 92 of the Wisdom-Hely Hotel, the entrance to which is opposite the north gate. At the time, people protested about her getting a plot at such short notice and for so insubstantial a reason when there are hundreds on the waiting-list. Those in charge of such things said it was good for the area, having so many famous people lying there, bringing in so many visitors. Somebody told me that people pay extra to be in room 92.

Anyway, when I took Marianne along on Sunday I did what I usually do. From the stall at the bottom of the funicular I bought flowers, a sponge, a small bottle of cleaning fluid and a chamois. At the top, we made our way toward the east side. There, Marianne sat on a nearby bench, lit a cigarette and read her book while I set to work. I turned the dying flowers out of their urns – the ones which I had placed there on my previous visit – and arranged the ones I had just bought. I cleared the headstone of dust and dead insects. I picked up the leaves which had blown in from the hedges, and with my hands I smoothed the gravel. I said a silent prayer for them. I said their names out loud, all three. Then, I washed my hands and I joined Marianne on the bench.

It is a nice spot, high up there on the hill. I looked out over the chimneys and the churches stretching away out to the ring-road, and beyond that to the low hills in the south. I listened to the sirens and the horns, the shushing of hydraulic brakes, all carried up on the warm air like experimental music. Things don’t appear to be so chaotic from up here. Maybe that is why there is a waiting-list.

It was mid-afternoon and the temperature was way up. On our way back we took an outside table at Garcia’s, directly over the road from the west gate. As we waited for our beers, Marianne looked back across the street to the cemetery, as if realising where she had just been. ‘Tell me again,’ she said. ‘Who were those people?’

2

She had come into the hospital with heart disease; nothing specific, nothing that could be fixed, just a general deterioration brought on by age. She was eighty-nine and otherwise fit and alert. But her heart had had enough and they could do nothing other than to make her as comfortable as her condition allowed.

Her coming in coincided with Avis Lavigne’s new idea, which was to take the life-stories of some of the older patients. Oral histories she called them. Avis Lavigne was head of gerontology and was keen to make a name for herself by doing something new, something that nobody else had thought of, not in the Saint James’ Hospital at least. She said that listening to what those dying people had to say would validate their lives and tell us something about the times we lived in. Validate; it was the kind of word that Avis liked. She left not long after that.

Me, I am now the head of the health department’s legal team, but back then it was my job to take patient’s details and to advocate for them if they needed any advocacy. And Avis wanted us advocates – there were three of us – to record their stories. Not every patient wanted to take part, or understood what it was we were after – even we weren’t too sure about what it was we were after. Some, their families were against the idea. My guess was they didn’t wish to see skeletons come tumbling out of the closet at the last, and who could blame them.

Anyway, it was through Avis’s idea that I got to know Johanna Durand. She was more than happy to tell her story, if only to alleviate the boredom of long days spent without visitors.

I knew from her skin and accent that her origins were not in the city. What she told me on that first occasion was that, although she had lived here for almost seventy years, she had been born in a village in the north of Algeria. She and her husband had married there. Then the war for independence began. I am missing things out here, because I was with her about two hours that first time and she did a lot of talking, as if it was an opportunity she had been waiting a long time for. Anyway, first her brother was killed and then their village was ransacked and burned. Soon after that, and with not many better options, they came to this country. It took them about two months to get here. They walked all the way up from the south coast and begged for food along the way.

When they got here, with the help of a charity they found accommodation in one of the streets in the Saint Balthasar district. In that part of the city there are still quite a few such people; people come here the hard way, reluctantly and from far places; places which students are now being told about in their classes; places where bad things happened, and for which we are learning to blame ourselves.

‘We had not been to another country before,’ she told me during those first two hours. ‘We had barely been twenty miles from our village. There were hills to our north and east. We could see them but I hadn’t been to them. I had not seen a train or a television.’

‘How did you get by in those early days?’ I asked her.

I asked the question because I was aware that things were not made easy for such people. Our parents’ generation distrusted them and had not made their lives easy. I had even heard my own dear parents make mildly derogatory remarks, and my parents were kind people. The unkind people broke windows and waved flags.

‘We were luckier than most,’ she told me. ‘Some of our neighbours were barely literate. They spoke the language in a strange accent, if they spoke it at all. Some of them found it too hard to bear. I don’t know what became of them. But me and my husband, Youness, we were not without education. It was basic, but we had enough to give us a chance. Also, Youness was a baker. He was a good baker too, and within a few weeks of our coming here he had work.

‘So,’ I asked. ‘How did you get on with your neighbours?’

‘We barely knew them. We lived quietly, Mr Franke. Do I call you Mr Franke, yes? The world barely knew we were there. We went to our work, we came back. We were quiet people. I think we should maybe have made more noise, at least let people know that we existed. But we didn’t, and there is nothing we can do about it now. This will be a quiet end to a quiet life. And I am tired now Mr Franke, do you mind?’

I left her to sleep, and went back a few days later. I knocked quietly and entered. I didn’t think she had heard me because she didn’t look round. She was staring out at the rain.

‘I grew up in sunlight,’ she said, without turning from the window, as if she knew that it was me in the room. Then she turned and said, ‘Where were we?’

‘You were telling me that you have lived quietly,’ I said.

‘Yes, too quietly. Because when I am gone, which we know will be soon, there will be no one to remember us. It will be as if we had never lived. Me, my husband, our boy, gone and forgotten as if we had never walked upon the earth.’

‘Your boy?’

She had not previously mentioned a child.

‘My Chafik.’ After the poet, she said, as if I should have heard of such a person.

‘I may have misunderstood. I assumed you were without relatives. We have nothing on the record. Does Chafik not visit you, Mrs Durand? Does he know you are here? Do we need to contact him?’

I was guessing that a son would now be in his sixties. Maybe living in another city. Maybe she didn’t wish to trouble him. Maybe they were estranged. She was silent.

‘Mrs Durand?’ I prompted.

‘Please,’ she said ‘Could I ask something? Could we have no more Mrs Durand. Call me Johanna. No one has called me Johanna since my husband died. I’d like to be Johanna again for my remaining days.’

‘As you wish,’ I said. ‘Johanna it is.’

‘Again please, the name.’

‘Johanna.’

‘That is so good of you, Mr Franke. Thank you.’

‘And Chafik?’

‘Yes Chafik, our son. As I told you we lived quietly, but he eventually brought some small noise into our lives. As he went out into the world he brought some of the world back to us. We went to his school open-days. His teachers spoke to us. They told us he was a bright boy who could do great things in the world. He brought friends to the apartment. Youness would give them the bread and cakes he had made. Chafik wore the type of clothes his friends wore. He listened to their music. Youness was a player of the oud. You know the oud, Mr Franke? It was one of the few things we could carry with us when we had to leave. When he played, it was the sound of home, and in those first years it would cause me to weep. And he used to complain about the new music our boy and his friends listened to, said it was just noise. But I knew that he was pleased really. Pleased that our boy was becoming a part of the city, fitting into a world where we would never fit, not properly, no matter how long we lived here. It meant that our grandchildren when they came would have the chance of a good life. That was what we hoped, that the Durand name would be carried on in the city and maybe become known, maybe printed in the newspapers, or heard in serious conversations.’

‘And now?’ I asked.

‘He took up rugby,’ she said, as if that explained something. I thought her mind might be wandering.

‘Rugby?’ I repeated.

‘Do you play that game, Mr Franke?’

I told her I played at school, reluctantly and not since.

‘They said he had an aptitude, and where that came from was a big mystery to us. We could not have imagined such a game. Chafik was small, but he was also fast. They placed him into the school team. The school team Mr Franke, which is for the better players.’

‘I see,’ I said, although I didn’t.

‘We never understood it at first,’ she told me. ‘It hardly seemed like a game, more like a war but without the weapons. Of course we went to his games, and through him we started to feel a part of something, cheering the team on, drinking coffee and brandy with the other parents. It seemed that, through our son, we too were becoming a part of the city. Then that last time…’

She seemed to lose her thread. She stared out at the rain again.

‘That last time?’

‘I am tired now, Mr Franke. Do you mind? Can we continue at another time?’

‘Yes, of course,’ I said, and left her to sleep. I hoped that the other time would be soon. It would have to be soon, because she seemed to be weakening.

A few days later, a Friday, I went back. I switched the machine on and played her last words from our previous meeting.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘If you are still interested, let me tell you what happened before it is too late. You see, in that game they were piled on top of each other. I was used to such a sight by then, all of them shouting and clawing at the ball. To tell you the truth, I had started to find it exciting. That time though, the time I am now telling you about, it was a fine day, the sun was shining. When the ball emerged, they rose and chased after it as I had seen one hundred times before. I still see them, the young men running and shouting.’

She drifted again. I supposed that rugby players were running across her line of vision.

‘They were running?’

‘Yes, I am sorry. They all got up and ran you see, all chasing after the ball. All except our boy. Chafik remained where he was, lying with his face to the grass. He wasn’t moving, but nobody seemed to notice. My husband ran to him while the game continued in another part of the field. But, even if he knew how, there was nothing he could do to bring him back. You see, he couldn’t take the weight of all those boys and his neck had been broken. Our boy was gone from the world, just when he was getting to know it. I stayed behind the line. I hardly dared to breathe. Do you have children, Mr Franke? Am I allowed such a question?’

I told her I had no children.

‘Then you will be spared such a thing. Our son was gone from us. We received some small compensation from the authorities. Youness didn’t wish to take it. He said it was an insult to our boy’s memory. But we were compliant people, so we took it and didn’t complain. It has paid for our headstone. And soon my husband was gone from me. It was all too much for him to bear. His heart was broken. And very soon from now I will also be gone. I am the last of us. There is no one to carry our blood, to know that we were here. We are not famous people, Mr Franke. We will not be spoken of again.’

She stopped speaking and looked out of the window, as if hearing what she had said for the first time, and realising the truth of it.

‘Do you wish to rest now?’ I asked. ‘Johanna?’

‘Can I ask of you something, Mr Franke?’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Anything you wish.’

‘Might you, I don’t know how to say it, it may sound foolish, but might you…remember us? Maybe remember who we were? Otherwise, there will be no one, it will be as if we had never existed. If I am asking too much then I am sorry, forgive me. I have no right, especially in your own country.’

‘It is your country too,’ I said. ‘And I will remember you.’

‘Will you really? Will you remember our names, Mr Franke? Youness Durand, Chafik Durand, Johanna Durand? Might you save our names from extinction?’

‘I promise,’ I told her. ‘I will remember you,’

‘Thank you,’ she said, and she reached for my hand.

‘But let us put this on our machine also. I, Johanna Durand, who has lived through what I have lived through, am most glad to have been alive.’

3

I was coming into work on the Tuesday when one of the receptionists handed me a letter. From your lady friend she said. My name was written on the envelope. When I opened it in the refectory, a key fell out. The writing was small and neat:

Dear Mr Franke,

The fact that you are reading this letter means that I have begun my journey toward my husband and my son. I know they are waiting for me and I hope to find them very soon. I hear already their distant calls.

I wish to thank you for your companionship during my last days. I hope that I did not waste too much of your time.

My funeral will consist of a short service in the chapel of the Saint Balthasar Cemetery at 3.00 on Tuesday June 14, following which I will be laid with them. If you are free on that day, you are most welcome to attend. At my request it will not be a long service.

The key you hold is the key to our apartment. In a few weeks the landlord will have removed everything. He has my permission to dispose of the contents as he will. Before then, if you are able and find no objection, I would like you to go there and remove our pictures from the wall. It doesn’t matter what you do with them, only I cannot bear the thought of them going to the city incinerator. And please, take whatever you wish from the apartment and keep it, something of us that will continue to exist in the world. I would not like to see my husband’s oud thrown into the fire like an old rag.

Please remember us.

Johanna.

Her address was printed at the bottom of the letter.

I finished early the next afternoon and took the thirteen stops to the Saint Balthasar station. The Durand apartment was at the top of a three-floor block, one of two on the landing. I hoped that no one would come out from the opposite door while I was entering.

The apartment, bereft of its most recent tenants, was so silent that I became aware of my own breathing. I could sense them, her especially. Having been by her bed for those hours, and heard the details of her life from her own mouth, she was more present than Youness or Chafik. I could see her changing the bedsheets, but could not see them in the bed. I could hear her preparing the meal in the kitchen, but could not see them eating it. I knew they had been here though, seated at that table, on that sofa, and listening to that radio.

I saw the photographs that she had referred to, grouped above an old bureau; the veiled bride, smiling shyly beside her new husband. Two older couples in separate pictures whom I assumed to be their parents. A view of a small white village – their village I guessed – taken from a distant hill. A smiling young man with a rifle and a green-and-white bandana round his neck. And then a newer photograph; a kid resembling the man with the rifle, a big grin and wild hair, wearing a dark-blue sports shirt with the white collar turned up, and holding a sports trophy. I studied them for a while, then placed them in the old sports-bag I had brought for the purpose.

Still praying that no one would knock, I looked in cupboards and wardrobes, into drawers and through bookcases. I entered their bedrooms quietly, as if there was a possibility of waking them up. It seemed indecent to look down on Johanna Durand’s perfectly-made bed, but I had to look anyway. I found the oud which had belonged to Youness Durand in a wardrobe. I strummed it with the back of my finger and was startled when the deep sound filled the apartment. I put it in the bag with the pictures.

The boy’s room had his name on a small plaque on the door. It gave the impression of having remained unchanged from the morning of that last match. On the walls he had pictures of rock and sports stars from the time. There were records lined up alphabetically in a plastic rack. I looked through them and they confirmed the fact that, were it not for what happened to him on the rugby field, he would now have been older than I am. I put them into the bag.

I took the trophy down from the shelf above his bed. It was the one from the photograph, inscribed with a rugby ball: Hausmann Cup Winner – Under-13 – Chafik Durand. I had never held a trophy; had never won a trophy to hold. I thought how pleasing it must be to receive a trophy like this; or to have a son like Chafik who would win such trophies. To envisage how it might feel I held it up in the fashion of a winner then, aware of my own foolishness, put it in the bag with the rest of the stuff.

As I was leaving, a man came out from the opposite apartment. He looked at me briefly, but said nothing before making his way down the stairs toward the street. I waited until the building was silent again, then pushed the key through the letterbox.

The next day, I finished at 2.00 and returned to Saint Balthasar, this time to the small chapel at the south-west corner of the cemetery. Apart from the cleric and the coffin-bearers, I was the only person there. I couldn’t tell from the way he was dressed which religion the cleric represented but he said something, a prayer probably, in what I guessed was Arabic. That done, I followed as they carried her the short distance to the grave.

It was in row M, four along from Jonny Gardenia; Jonny Gardenia, who had also died in the Wisdom-Hely some forty years previous. I was a kid at the time, but I remember it being big news, in this city at least, where we like to make everyday matters appear important. He had overdosed on heroin. His fans still, after all these years, leave cigarettes and small bottles of whisky on his grave. I’ve also seen syringes there, balanced on top of the headstone or stuck into the soil. The headstone says: Jonny Gardenia The World’s Greatest Rock and Roll Singer. He wasn’t, but we like to say he was.

And one row north and three to the right is the tomb of Raymond Augustine, who was assassinated on a train coming from the south in 1951. Compared to some, it is a modest affair; his name and dates, not much more. No mention of the offices he held, or the events he was involved in. I see two people there occasionally; one, a very old woman, barely alive herself, and a younger but nevertheless old man. I guess them to be Augustine’s widow and son. They bring flowers. We have seen each other often enough now to lower our heads in acknowledgement.

It took less than ten minutes from me walking into the chapel to watching Johanna Durand being lowered into the earth to lie above her husband. The grey stone which marked their place – which, from what she had told me, had been paid for from their compensation money – had no embellishment; no cherubs, no vines, no verses; none of the usual sweetenings of death; no syringes.

Alone after the cleric departed – he didn’t speak to me, nor seemed to notice my presence – I was unsure of the next move. So, I stood for a while in what I thought was a pose of reflection until I realised that the gravedigger, standing off to the side at a discreet distance, was waiting for me to move. So I went across to Garcia’s for a beer.

The next morning, I paid the people at Saint Balthasar Monuments Headstones and Memorials to inscribe their names and dates in plain lettering, and to have the letters filled with gold. At the bottom of the stone, for an extra two-ninety, I paid for the one word: REMEMBERED.