Chapter 13: The Burren
(Sydney)
It was like driving on the moon. The landscape was barren, volcanic, grey, sterile. We were the only car on the highway, as we drove towards Gleninagh. We stopped at the castle like good tourists, walked around the crumbled base and felt the salt spray from the ocean two hundred feet below us. Or should I be thinking in meters now?
Irina's idea of protection is a cheap flat in a remote fishing village on the coast. I dress in bulky sweaters and loose pants that hide my form as I try to learn Gaelic phrases, to blend in at the market, where I buy fresh fish and bread to feed us. Sark has a job unloading the fishing boats when they come in from week-long trips, exhausted and low in the water, weighed down by the North Atlantic salmon and cod. He helps refueling, too, and getting the boats ready to go out again.
There is a hierarchy here, like everywhere else, and it has nothing to do with the petty government officials that are paid to confer over strong beer in the pubs on their lunch breaks. Sark kowtows to the man who really runs things, one Seamus O'Neil who is rather indebted to Irina, and I try to fit in with the women holding babies on their laps and scolding errant children. I've heard them talking about us, about me, the barren woman with the American accent.
(Sark)
This is an ironic punishment. Send me back to where you found me, Irina. Make me blend in, in the once place I never fit. My hands and my clothes smell like fish, no matter how many times Sydney puts them through the washer. This is what I escaped from, so many years ago. And here I am again, trying not to lose myself, trying not to lose her, most of all.
I see her strained face when no one else is looking. She is horrified by the sexual politics here. Babies and babies and more crying babies. The men drink to forget, bed women to forget the ones they have at home. Pregnant again every spring, changing diapers again in the fall.
But there has been no trouble. No trouble at all.
(Sydney)
He hates this. So do I, but it's nothing personal. He hates this place with far too much familiarity. I peel potatoes at the kitchen sink, no garbage disposal of course, while he grills cod on our tiny balcony. Lemon juice and tarragon for flavor, baked potatoes as a side, and a pint of Guinness to smooth it all over. This is not what I envisioned for our glamorous life on the run. But it's safe. So far.
He makes me put on my nice skirt and drags me out onto the streets in the dark, to the edge, the crashing ocean lit by moonlight.
"Sydney, I don't ever want to lose you."
"Why would you? You won't lose me."
"I barely have you. I want to keep you."
"I'm yours."
"No. You're trapped inside yourself, walled in, and I'm outside waiting for the barrier to come down."
"Like you're any better. You're a glacier, you're ice. Your heart is frozen."
"Sydney, I love you. I love you more every day."
"I—"
The look in his eyes is both expectation and resignation. And pain.
"I wish I could say the same."
"Not tonight. I know it won't be tonight."
Back at the musty flat we tangle in the frayed sheets and use each other to escape. He's still fast asleep when I wake up at four, restless and ragged. I pull on shoes and go running inland, past farmhouses and cows. I can see my breath in the chill air. Another gloomy day awaits.
(Sark)
She's gone when I wake up, alone in the cold, empty flat. I put on water for tea and read yesterday's news at the kitchen table. Saturday: the streets are quiet for awhile. The tea is still steeping when she comes in the door flushed and breathing hard. She showers while I make eggs and toast. The day, like every other, passes slowly. We read the paper, bike for miles along the coast, and drink our pints at the pub while a local band plays near the front. There are people we know: not friends, but they come over to where we're sitting in the corner, greet us as Shannon and Eric, our aliases, and ask how we're doing. We make small talk until they go away.