Beneath the Earth by John Boyne Read Free Book Online Page B

Common Prayer in the face of Mary, Queen of Scots. ‘And I am alive,’ he roared then, a blue vein beginning to assert its presence on his forehead. ‘I’m alive!’
    Really, considering that we were only meeting again because I was preparing to bury my mother, I thought the whole performance was a little over the top.
    Later, in the pub, Arthur told me that he didn’t want to know anything about what had happened to me during my years abroad. He asked me not to speak about the friends I had made, the experiences that had changed me or any love affairs that I might have enjoyed. He didn’t even want to hear about my cows and I have many interesting stories to tell about them if people are only prepared to listen.
    â€˜As an artist,’ he explained, ‘as a creative person, I prefer to rely on my imagination. I have memories of the boy you once were, Mulligan, and ideas about the man you might have become. Let’s not spoil the narrative by drizzling reality over it.’
    â€˜Why do you keep calling me by my surname?’ I asked. ‘Why don’t you call me Pierce?’
    â€˜I’ve always hated that name,’ said Arthur. ‘Even when we were children, foraging for adventure like truffling pigs in the woods, comparing penis sizes in darkened glades—’
    â€˜That never happened,’ I said.
    â€˜Even then I didn’t like the name Pierce,’ he continued, ignoring me. ‘There’s something so unbearably common about it. No, I think Mulligan is a far better name. You don’t meet many Mulligans any more.’
    â€˜Well, I don’t want you calling me that,’ I said.
    â€˜Fine, then I shall call you Darling.’
    â€˜No, that won’t work either.’
    â€˜It’s either Mulligan or Darling, darling. You decide. Now would you mind if I swapped seats with you? I prefer to keep my back to the room.’
    â€˜Why?’ I asked, standing up and moving around to his side of the table.
    â€˜The punters, darling,’ he said. ‘Everyone is trying not to look at me but in doing so they’re making me feel very self-conscious. If I have my back to them, perhaps they’ll stop not-staring.’
    â€˜I really don’t think anyone recognizes you,’ I said, looking around at the bar, which was defined by its overwhelming indifference to our presence. Three young men, likely strangers to literature, were watching a football match on the television, their tabletop littered with glasses and empty crisp packets. A few old men were seated silently at the bar, contemplating the ruins of their lives. A woman was typing on a MacBook Air while drinking gin after gin after gin.
    â€˜You have no idea what it’s like to be watched all the time, darling,’ said Arthur. ‘It’s a wonder I’m not a recluse in some luxury hotel suite.’
    â€˜Can you stop calling me darling, please?’
    â€˜Of course, Mulligan. You see, one doesn’t write for fame or glory but sometimes that’s what happens. Consider a packhorse wandering into an untilled field and …’ He stopped and reconsidered the beginnings of his analogy before shaking his head. ‘No, forget that,’ he said. ‘It won’t work. By the way, did you read what Robertson wrote about Clive?’
    â€˜Yes,’ I said. (Naturally, I hadn’t; nor did I have any idea who either Robertson or Clive were. Nor did I care.) ‘Let’s not talk about it. Look, the reason I came to your reading—’
    â€˜Did you enjoy it?’
    â€˜It was fine.’
    â€˜Just fine?’
    â€˜It was very good.’
    â€˜What was wrong with it?’
    â€˜Nothing was wrong with it. The audience seemed to enjoy it.’
    â€˜You were part of the audience.’
    â€˜Well yes,’ I admitted. ‘In a manner of speaking.’
    â€˜You were sitting among them.’
    â€˜But you invited