英文原作：科爾姆·託賓 翻譯作者：葉航
攝影：Todd Hido，《紐約客》
1
她保證這次去爬山一定很容易。
“即使對你來說也是一樣不會很難的，”她說。
“爬山得要多久？”他問“是一個小時、兩個小時或者三個小時。”
“差不多兩小時左右吧？”
“好吧。”
兩週前，在他們最後一次去雷斯角車站時，保羅告訴傑拉爾丁，他要收拾行李準備離開美國了。並且說，她可以來愛爾蘭看望他。總之，他們應該為此做一點計劃了。
“我回國可能會先去你爺爺奶奶家，他們真的很想見到你。你到愛爾蘭來的話那就太棒了。”
“他們從未來過美國，這太令人傷心了，”傑拉爾丁說。“他們本來可以隨時來的，他們也說過他們會來的。”
“我想或許是因為沒錢，而且也太遠了。”
他們離斯廷森海灘還有一兩英里。如果他們這樣慢悠悠地走路，她回城就會很晚了。所以，他必須考慮準時送她到車站。
傑拉爾丁一想到媽媽在等她，她就會緊張起來。
“不要發簡訊說你會遲到，希望你不要晚回家。”
這句話一年前曾兩次出現在傑拉爾丁的手機上，現在已成為保羅和他女兒傑拉爾丁在週六下午開車出行時常說的口頭禪，這也是對傑拉爾丁母親的一種輕蔑嘲諷。
傑拉爾丁沉默了，保羅意識到他不應該說他父母沒有錢，因為傑拉爾丁會為此擔心，其實這根本也不是事實。傑拉爾丁現在快十二歲了，保羅早就在心裡承諾過永遠不再跟她撒謊。
“我和媽媽談過你離開的事，”傑拉爾丁說，“她認為如果你不離開，你可能會被驅逐出境。”傑拉爾丁說這話的時候用的是她那種成熟、負責任的語氣。
“斯坦也說，”她繼續說道“移民局會檢查各種各樣的人。”
保羅也沒有說他希望想去看看傑拉爾丁繼父斯坦。
“我可以來看你嗎？”傑拉爾丁問道。
“去都柏林？那當然，當然，你當然可以去。你去看我一定是非常愉快的旅程。爺爺奶奶也非常想看到他們的孫女。”
“你上次說過，”她打斷道，“在你走之前我可以提一個願望，我問了媽媽，她也說我可以提出一個願望，但要在合理的範圍內。”
“她也同意你提個願望嗎？”
“是的，她也同意。但我覺得她不是真心的。或許她實際上並不同意。她說我必須停止要這要那的。可是，我只想要一個，並沒有要太多。有時我真討厭她。”
傑拉爾丁交叉雙臂說著。
如果這是一次平常的出遊聊天，保羅會告訴傑拉爾丁不應該恨她母親。不過，現在他覺得什麼也不說反而有一種莫名的高興，女兒成熟了。
“但我認為她總會答應我的，”傑拉爾丁繼續說道。
保羅知道她在等他問那個願望是什麼。
“媽媽說如果你被捕了，移民局可能會來找她。”
“他們不能怎麼著她，她是美國人！”
“如果他們來找她，看她能不能幫上忙，我是想給你找個律師。”
“也許她會幫忙。”
“你那是做夢。”傑拉爾丁回答。
她開始拿出手機，注意力集中地向下滑動。他知道她曾經說過，和他在一起的時候她會盡量不玩手機。她甚至還跟他說，如果玩手機惹惱了他，就提醒她把手機收起來。可是，這次他很高興讓她安安靜靜地玩一會兒，她可以做她想做的事。
當他們到達索薩利托小鎮並走向大橋時，天已經黑了。她把手機放回口袋裡。
“我想要的是這個，”她說，“我想讓你和我還有媽媽和斯坦一起去爬一次塔姆山。我們經常去那裡，那裡有個旅館，可以住一晚。你知道那個地方嗎？”
傑拉爾丁說話時又一次模仿著大人的口吻。保羅心想傑拉爾丁是不是也這樣對斯坦說話。
“想不起來了。”保羅回答傑拉爾丁問他知不知道那個地方。
“那是一間小屋，是徒步旅行者睡覺的地方，我們要爬到山上去。”
她還告訴他爬山大約需要多長時間。
保羅問她“是單程上去的時間？還是包括下去的時間？”
“包括上去和下來的時間。從山頂看下去你可以看到一切。我敢打賭你一定能看到那些橋。”
“都看得到嗎？”
“一共五座橋，也許更多。是不是還有一個？”
“你媽媽會同意嗎？”
“首先需要你的同意。”
“好吧，經歷了這些之後，他們在花盆下找到了一把備用鑰匙。”
插畫作者：Maddie Dai
“為什麼不能就你和我兩個人去呢？”
“這就是重點。我希望我們所有人都去，就住一晚。”
“你想讓我做什麼？”
“你得先同意。”
“我當然同意。”
當她再次伸手去拿手機時，保羅想到了一些事情。
“你必須向你媽媽說清楚，這是你的想法，只是你的想法，而且說你是花了很長時間才說服我同意的。”
“嗯，確實如此。”
保羅一回到公寓就給桑德拉發簡訊，直接告訴她他決定返回愛爾蘭，而且越快越好。
一分鐘之內，他就得到了她慣常的回覆：“簡訊已收到。”
第二天，我收到了傑拉爾丁的簡訊：“你告訴媽媽，你真的想和我們三個人一起去徒步旅行。”
然後，幾乎立刻，桑德拉又發來一條簡訊：“這是你的主意嗎？”
他很想回答“沒有”，然後就此打住。然後他又想，是不是最好什麼都不回覆，假裝沒有收到她的簡訊。但他知道他現在就應該解決這個問題，趁傑拉爾丁和桑德拉都在打電話的時候回覆。他想知道斯坦是不是站在他們面前。
他讀了一遍簡訊，然後才發過去。他不想表現得太友好。“是傑拉爾丁說她希望我們一起去徒步旅行。在我收拾回國的行李之前，我們一起做這麼一件事。如果你和斯坦願意的話，我很樂意去。”
2
週日是他最忙的一天。雖然他自稱是水管工，但他實際上從未獲得過執照，也缺乏這方面的專業知識。但是，他可以修補漏水；可以更換墊圈；可以使用烙鐵；可以處理大多數型別的閥門；還可以安裝新水龍頭。他還有自己的疏通管道的方法。如果有更復雜的事那就留給別人去做。現在他已經戒酒了，所以如果有緊急情況，他可以立即出發。他不需要做廣告，他曾經服務過的人總會把他的電話號碼傳給其他人，他可以隨時接聽灣區任何地方的電話。
他走進狹小的浴室，照了照鏡子。他應該在回國前去理一下發，或者在去徒步爬山之前理髮，修修眉毛啥的，還應該多刮刮鬍子。自從他和努阿拉·佈雷斯納赫分手後，幾乎沒有人來過這間公寓。努阿拉過去每週四晚上都會在奧克蘭他經常光顧的一家“灰狗賽道酒吧”（Greyhound Track ）唱歌。起初，努阿拉實際上聲稱自己喜歡這種狹窄、雜亂的空間，公共汽車和卡車經過時窗戶會嘎嘎作響。
最後，她告訴他，然後告訴酒吧裡其他願意聽她說話的人，她之所以離開保羅回到梅奧那裡，是因為保羅的公寓太糟糕了——糟糕的床單、扁平的枕頭、舊扶手椅上堆放的衣服、陳腐啤酒的味道。“這種事已經過去了，”她說“家裡沒有一個女人還過著那樣的生活。”
是的，很快他的生活也就不會像現在這樣了。他必須開始清理清理他住的公寓，把大部分東西裝進袋子裡，然後扔到某個地方。他甚至有一個幾乎不帶行李回國的想法，只帶著藏在口袋和襪子裡的現金。他應該給桑德拉留一些現金，讓她以後給傑拉爾丁，但他擔心她可能會責問他，是不是隻想利用女兒來保證這些錢的安全。
兩天後，桑德拉發來簡訊說：“18 號徒步行程已安排。”然後傑拉爾丁發來簡訊說他可以在九點來接她，然後他們會在停車場與桑德拉和斯坦碰面。
他想，他現在需要的只是給斯坦發一條簡訊，告訴他自己多麼期待與他見面。
即使他沒有明確說明，他們也一定意識到，他在美國已經用簡單的旅遊簽證待了三十多年，一旦離開，他就不能再回來了，可能永遠都不能。他已經確保更新了護照，但那是他的愛爾蘭護照。他問過幾個朋友，他在美國有個女兒會不會有什麼不同的結局，但大家都認為不會的。
有一次，在疫情即將結束之際，戴利城舉行了愛爾蘭人聚會，他和其他人一起詢問愛爾蘭領事是否可以為他們的身份做些什麼。他看到，領事非常謹慎，不給他們任何希望。
如果傑拉爾丁想見他，那就必須傑拉爾丁來愛爾蘭了。甚至傑拉爾丁也可以在美國護照之外再辦一本愛爾蘭護照。
他有時會責怪桑德拉在傑拉爾丁小的時候沒有讓他陪伴她的生活，但仔細想想，他知道那是他的錯，而且只能是他的錯。他應該在得知桑德拉懷孕後立即給予支援，包括定期的經濟支援——即使她明確表示不想見他或不想讓他在身邊，那是因為他酗酒太厲害了。不過，也許這不是問題的癥結所在。
他總是想著回國，他的生活一點都不穩定，一點保障也沒有。在沒有人關心非法移民的時代，她幾乎已經適應了沒有合法證件的日子。但當他得知自己即將成為父親時，他想是不是應該立即改變一下自己的狀況，桑德拉是不是可能會考慮嫁給他。
在他見到桑德拉的最後一晚，也就是她生孩子的前一個月，他本應該有一個目標：讓她相信他會幫助她。但是，就在他出發去餐廳見桑德拉之前，他接到了一個電話，是一位獨居生活的女性老客戶，要他幫忙急修水管。這是他不能忽視的一個老客戶。而且，當他到達與桑德拉會面的餐廳時已經遲到很久了，此時，他更不應該再接那個女人的電話。因此，桑德拉氣得甚至不要保羅開車送她回家。事後，桑德拉再也沒有回覆保羅的任何簡訊。保羅也就不再給桑德拉發信息了，大概有四年多，他再也沒有見過桑德拉。
保羅環顧了一下公寓，在浴室裡，他先扔掉一些沒用的剃鬚刀和舊的洗髮水瓶子。他在想是不是要清理一下浴室的瓷磚，不過，他想洗不洗也沒關係，他可以從清單上劃掉浴室了。
他手裡拿著一個黑色塑膠垃圾袋，開始清空廚房的櫥櫃。一些盤子和餐具或許可以送到舊貨店，還有一些傢俱也一樣。但誰會想要這些垃圾呢？他應該在幾年前買新東西，他應該把那些褪色的，甚至快要掉落的海報重新張貼好。
他環顧四周，覺得不用再做任何他不會執行的計劃了，這幾乎是一種解脫。他會把能清理的東西都清理乾淨，收拾好他需要的東西，然後在去機場的路上告訴房東他要走了。他也不想從房東那裡拿回押金。房東甚至可能會向下一個租戶（某個技術工人）收取四倍於保羅支付的租金。
3
他或許是美國現存年齡最大的非法移民，不過，他終於可以不用一直待在這裡了。假如再待下去以後的情況可能會更糟，直到移民局來驅逐他時他無助為止。他低聲對自己說，不敢再想下去，他必須停止這些胡思亂想，即使這是事實，他走了那也已經與他無關了。所以，還是下決心離開這裡回國。他身體健康，父母會歡迎他回家的，他的姐妹和她們的家人也會歡迎他回國。
如果他在這裡繼續酗酒或者在酒吧裡偶爾吸食一些不至於坐牢的毒品，那樣，情況可能會更糟。事實上，他本可以繼續假裝傑拉爾丁不存在，即使她長大了。他也許會是和傑拉爾丁同住一個城市卻從未謀面的父親。他也可能會是一位在大街上與傑拉爾丁擦肩而過的老人。如果他沒有被柯萬（Sean F. Kirwan ）救下，所有這些事情可能都會發生。保羅嘲笑“拯救”這個詞，他的朋友們也一樣，他們也在某種程度上都被柯萬拯救過。
柯萬來自愛爾蘭的韋克斯福德鎮外，他可能是灰狗賽道酒吧的老闆，也有可能只是這個酒吧的經營者。柯萬看待顧客的眼光與看待員工的眼光是一樣的，他說：“我不僱傭失敗者，不僱傭投機者，也不僱傭斯旺林巴爾的任何人。”
如果顧客有來自愛爾蘭的人，柯萬會像招待親戚一樣熱情款待他們，為他們提供酒水和最好的餐桌。當然，如果來訪的是一群非愛爾蘭人，柯萬也會熱情招待他們，他強調灰狗賽道酒吧不會存在偏見。如果一個人獨自喝酒，柯萬會確保他不會受到打擾。
有一天，當柯萬來到保羅身邊坐在酒吧凳上時，他給保羅看了一張照片，保羅感到很驚訝。他說：“一名來自巴利夏農附近的年輕人被發現死在奧克蘭機場附近的一間公寓裡。他已經死在那裡大約一週了。”
“你認識他嗎？”
“不。”
“我不想只籌集資金把他的遺體送回家，雖然這很容易做到。但我想知道這裡是否還有其他人仍然像他們一樣獨自生活著。有許多人回國了，或者在這裡定居有家庭了。但有些人仍然獨自一個人生活、打工，我希望我們應該確保這些人的能安好。只是想了解一下這些人。”
“你是說我嗎？”
“是的，有可能說的就是你。”
他拿出一支圓珠筆，在啤酒杯墊上寫了六個字母：“ SIMIBA ”，是“Single Irish men in the Bay Area”的簡稱。也就是灣區的單身愛爾蘭男人”的英文速寫。
“你怎麼知道我是單身？”
“你看起來就像單身。”
保羅伸了個懶腰，打了個哈欠。
“我想和你以及其他幾個人安排一次會面，”柯萬說道，他再次向保羅展示了那張照片，以確保這種事情不會再發生。”
保羅沒有回應。
“我自己就是韋克斯福德人，”柯萬說道，他走近我，彷彿要說些保密的話，“你可能知道，你媽媽也是那裡人，對吧？”
“是的。你怎麼知道的”
“現在你不用怕麻煩了吧，”柯萬打斷道。“給我你的電話號碼，我會發簡訊給你。你能贊助一點錢來參加這個人的葬禮嗎？儘可能多一的。”
接下來的一個月裡，保羅一直忽略了柯萬發來的私人簡訊和群發訊息，直到一天晚上，當他走近灰狗賽道酒吧時，他的手機響了一下，是柯萬的簡訊。他給柯萬回了簡訊，然後他們在酒吧見面。
“我不能在這裡待太久了，”保羅說。
“我也是，那邊那個男人也是，他的朋友也是。我們誰都呆不了多久，”柯萬回答道。
“關於我的母親”保羅說，“你怎麼知道她是哪裡人的？”
“我只是想引起你的注意。這是一個很有靈感的猜測。其實我並不知道她是哪裡人。”
“是你編造的啊？”
“當壓力來臨時，我就有力量。”柯萬像演藝圈裡的某個人一樣對保羅張開雙臂。
“我正在嘗試召集那些獨自一人從愛爾蘭來到這裡的人。”
“好吧，那我就這樣了。”保羅說，但後來才意識到他不該說這些。
“我需要你的幫助，”柯萬說。
“你聽起來像個牧師。”
“我差點就當了牧師，但這不算什麼。那個年輕人的死讓我很受打擊，僅此而已，我也保證僅此而已。”
一週後，保羅來到灰狗賽道酒吧樓上的會議室開會，發現柯萬和另外四五個人在一起，其中有兩個人他好像有些面熟。
“我馬上就得走了，”保羅說。“我不知道我在這裡幹什麼。”
“我以為還會有更多，”柯萬說。“我期待更多。”
他開始向大家發表演講，概述自己對回國的感受。
“你能不能說清楚點？”一個操著克里郡口音的男人打斷道。“如果我想聽佈道，我會去做彌撒。”
在接下來的幾個月裡，越來越多的男人參加了每週一次的會議。儘管柯萬無法切入主題，他們還是像玩牌的人一樣，分成四人一組，其中一人說，並談論了工作和醫療保險以及移民和海關執法局 (ICE)和國稅局 (IRS) 的問題。還有一些人想組建一支樂隊，將鄉村音樂和愛爾蘭傳統音樂融合在一起。甚至還有人想組織五人制足球比賽。他們中的一些人提到了女朋友，但沒有人提到邀請任何女性參加這些會議。
柯萬似乎已經贏得了從一個小組轉到另一個小組的權利，但他往往不說話。不允許喝酒。他們待了兩個小時，然後都鬆了一口氣，終於可以分開了。其中兩人從事技術工作，一人是會計；兩人是兼職調酒師、兼職歌手和演員。其餘的人似乎都做任何能賺錢的工作。
一天晚上，會議即將結束，柯萬悄悄地加入了保羅的團隊，保羅告訴同伴們，他有一個女兒。他們中沒有人回應。如果他們中有人說了哪怕一句話，或者以任何方式表示驚訝，他肯定不會再說什麼了。
“至少我認為是這樣的，有人告訴我，我的女朋友即將生一個女孩。”可是，沒人問他問題。他心想，就到此為止吧。不要再跟他們說了，他甚至沒有說出桑德拉的名字，但他又覺得他需要繼續說下去。
“我從未見過這個女孩，我經常想起她。她已經四足歲了。她可能在灣區的某個地方。”
柯萬抬頭看著他，與他對視。他希望柯萬現在就當著其他人的面告訴他應該怎麼做。但柯萬沒有說話，不久之後，大家就散開了。
保羅一回到家就上網檢視能否找到桑德拉。
當他找到她時，他非常小心。在給她上班的辦公室發電子郵件之前，他已經去理了發並整理了公寓。當他沒有收到回覆時，他打了電話，當他無法接通電話時，他等待著。在他的電子郵件中，他試圖明確表示他不想從她那裡得到任何東西。
一天晚上，他在酒吧裡給柯萬打了電話。
“你在喝酒，”柯萬說“你不喝酒的時候我們可以聊聊嗎？”
第二天晚上，當他們見面時，柯萬聽取了他的詳細情況。
“給她寫封信，”柯萬說。“把信打出來。確保第一段寫上你最想對她說的話。你需要讓自己聽起來像一個生活井然有序的人。”
“然後呢？”
“向她解釋一下，你的母親來自韋克斯福德，你不會受到任何傷害。”
保羅大笑。
一個月後，他沒有收到桑德拉的任何訊息。但後來他收到了一條簡訊，上面寫著“收到信”。他把簡訊拿給柯萬看，柯萬建議保羅不要著急。
他說：“你已經成功了一半。”
起初，桑德拉讓保羅來到她與其他人合住的伯納爾高地的雜亂房子裡。週六有幾個小時，他可以和傑拉爾丁一起玩，一起看她螢幕上的比賽。傑拉爾丁四歲半，似乎很喜歡叫他爸爸，告訴他她接下來想做什麼。就像她把他的到來當作一週中正常的一部分一樣，她對他的離開並不大驚小怪。一週後，她能夠繼續談話，或者繼續他們玩的遊戲，好像時間幾乎和過去一樣。
桑德拉一直躲著他，經常讓住在房子裡的另一個人來迎接他並送他出去。後來，他開始帶傑拉爾丁去公園，然後他被允許開車帶她出去玩。其實他知道他被桑德拉嚴密監視著。如果他有一次遲到或沒有按時送她回來，或者他嘴裡有一點啤酒味，桑德拉就會干涉他和女兒的見面。
之前，在他和桑德拉最後一次見面結束的時候，當時她已經懷孕了，桑德拉告訴他，她受夠他了。現在看來也許桑德拉對他的看法並沒有什麼改變。
當桑德拉和一個叫斯坦的男人同居並結婚時，保羅透過簡訊得知了這一訊息，她的簡訊語氣很輕快。
很快，斯坦就成為傑拉爾丁和保羅日常談話中的人物。
保羅的手機裡有一張傑拉爾丁的照片。他希望能夠多見見她。但至少她住在城裡，每週六開車 20 分鐘就到她家。而且至少傑拉爾丁很開心，她可以擁有一切讓她感到舒適的東西。
保羅不再參加每週的會議，但柯萬仍與他保持聯絡，只要他碰巧在 灰狗賽道酒吧，就會和他聊天。他們討論了柯萬對愛情的追求以及他對 Grindr （一種社交交友軟體）的沉迷。
他說：“我不能在酒吧裡一直開著這個應用軟體，但有一天我忘了關掉它，當我看的時候——那是星期四，大約七點——Grindr 上有五個人在 灰狗賽道酒吧，你能想象嗎？”
“有一段時間我使用過其中一款應用軟體。”保羅說“就是那種直男的。我不知道該貼什麼照片，所以我貼了一張愛爾蘭航空噴氣式飛機的照片。但我還是遇到了幾個女孩。她們中有些人很友善。”
“五個傢伙在愛爾蘭體育酒吧裡！我看著照片，假裝我在吧檯後面有一些緊急簡訊要發。”
“然後你做了什麼？”
“其中兩個是單獨行動的，一個為我工作，一個和一群來自蒂珀雷裡郡的吵鬧傢伙在一起，還有一個我從來沒有見過。”
“是一位失蹤已久的人。”
“現在你開始說話了，如果你想找點什麼，這是一個很難找到的城市。”柯萬說。
“我想我知道你的意思，”保羅回答道。
4
就在保羅第一次被允許開車帶傑拉爾丁外出的時候，灣區住宅區的浴室和廚房開始安裝一種新型的面盆和水槽配件。但這些配件很容易漏水，保羅能輕易修好這些漏水。尤其是當他找到一種可以輕易更換一個簡單的墊圈後，保羅的電話就被傳開了。每天有四五個電話打來，後來越來越多。每個打電話的人似乎都知道該怎麼做。他們可以在一小時內等到他，他會接受支票，但如果他們用現金支付，他也會更高興。因為他知道他最有可能需要什麼工具和配件，所以在預期漏水來自通常的源頭的情況下，他很快一次就能解決問題。這樣，也沒有人反對付給他高於市場價格的報酬。
插畫作者：Roz Chast
有幾次，一家大型建築公司聯絡了他。他們一開始就叫他去工作。感覺就像是去他熟悉的某個地方的普通電話。但是，當他到達時，他看到一群人在等他。
“你們想看看洩漏點嗎？”其中一個人問道，引來一片笑聲。他不知道他們來自哪裡。
幸虧他沒有離車太遠，他儘快地逃離了他們。
還有一次，他接到一個帶有奇怪字首的號碼，這讓他起了疑心。接電話時，一名女子給了他一個毫無意義的地址。儘管如此，他還是跟她說了他的聯絡地址——如果她確認需要維修的話，他會在一小時內趕到，可以接受支票或現金。那人沒有回電話，但幾天來，同一個號碼不斷髮來緊急訊息和簡訊，要求他點選連結。當他第一次點選連結時，他收到了美國國稅局的警告，稱他們正在調查他的案件。他很慶幸自己使用的是廉價手機，國稅局不容易跟蹤到他。
疫情爆發後，似乎懂技術的斯坦每週都會為保羅和傑拉爾丁安排 Zoom 影片見面。只有一次，在長達一小時的 Zoom 影片進行半小時後，保羅才看到斯坦，當時他正穿過房間，很快就閃開了。他看起來比保羅想象的要年輕。他穿著西裝打著領帶，似乎是一個有正式工作的人。
一天早上，保羅接完早班電話回來後，把賺到的錢裝進一雙新襪子裡，然後把襪子和其他裝滿現金的襪子一起放在抽屜裡，然後他決定給在都柏林的母親打電話，告訴她傑拉爾丁的事。他知道，先聯絡他的一個姐姐可能會更明智，但他不想聽她們的建議或勸告。
“你有個女兒真好，”他的母親幾乎心不在焉地說。“那麼，她什麼時候出生的？”
“她快八歲了。”
“她是美國人嗎？”
“她和她的母親住在一起，她的母親是美國人。”
他聽到母親正在做健身。
“我想你和那女孩的母親應該沒有結婚吧？”
“是的，我們沒有結婚。”
“她叫什麼名字？”
“你問她母親還是我女兒？”
“現在我讓你父親接聽電話。他在另一個房間裡，他至今仍然認為必須要擦拭進入家裡的每個包裹，但我知道事實並非如此，那些病毒是在空氣中傳播的。如果你能告訴他我是對的，並讓他相信你，我將非常感激你。”
保羅的母親沒有再提及他的女兒。
在疫情的最後幾個月裡，他的母親、父親以及他和傑拉爾丁有時會在加州時間早上十點透過 Zoom 影片見面。傑拉爾丁和保羅的母親很容易接受這種新媒介，傑拉爾丁展示了她創作的新畫作，而他的母親則展示了她自疫情開始以來讀過的一堆書。
“當這一切都結束後，”保羅的母親對傑拉爾丁說，“我們可能會跨越大西洋進行一次短途旅行——當然距離不遠——然後親眼見到你。”
“‘In the flesh’的意思是‘親自’，”保羅插話給傑拉爾丁解釋道。
“她知道這意味著什麼，”保羅的母親說。
“我得問問媽媽和斯坦，”傑拉爾丁說。“不過那太好了。”
大選後的一個晚上，保羅去了灰狗賽道酒吧，在那裡他遇到了也正在酒吧的柯萬。
“他們不會驅逐我的”柯萬說“我一到美國就和一個漂亮的當地女孩結婚了。我一直很感激她。但你呢？如果他們看到你走在街上，他們會當場把你驅逐出境。沒辦法，你看起來就像個非法移民。你為什麼不結婚呢？看在上帝的份上，我們之所以要和美國人結婚？其實他們沒有其他什麼用。我可以幫你找一個願意娶你的人，因為你粗獷的外表和你現在所有的這一切一定會有人和你結婚的。”
“我不想和任何人結婚。”保羅說。
“你有多少錢？”
“這正是我想問你的。你見過有人擁有一大堆錢，卻不知道該怎麼處理它們嗎？”
“裹在襪子裡？”
“你怎麼知道的？”保羅有些驚訝。
柯萬張開雙臂，彷彿在尋求掌聲。
“別再胡說八道了，”保羅說道。
柯萬喝著咖啡，環顧四周。
“你積蓄了多少？”他問。
“對我來說意義重大。”
“您有銀行賬戶嗎？”
“差不多。我存的錢足夠支付賬單。我把收到的支票存入銀行，其他的就是現金。”
“你的客戶一定很討厭你。現金交易在國內可能管用，但這裡的人不喜歡。最終會適得其反。這裡的人喜歡假裝聖潔，背地裡卻喜歡做壞事舉報你。如果移民局（ICE）或其他任何人發現你在打黑工，他們就會給你戴上那種金手鐲把你帶走。他們會在你被關押期間到你的公寓，然後你就可以和你的那些現金說再見了。”
“是他們會偷它嗎？”
“不，不是那樣。當他們還在數錢的時候，你就已經在去機場的路上了，或者他們可能用什麼新方法送你回家。”
“你覺得好笑嗎？”
“我認為你應該自己多瞭解一點法律知識，在他們把你趕出去之前帶著現金離開這裡。”
“你認為他們是認真的嗎？”
“是的，在第一個月左右，他們會做秀。”
“如果我試圖離開美國，我會在出境途中被拘留嗎？”
“不會的。不過，你一旦離開，就再也回不來了。”
“我十八歲的時候就來了。”
“所以，你是在這裡長大的。”
“我有個女兒在這裡，我告訴過你。”
“也許未來某位總統會對愛爾蘭水管工及其美國女兒的困境採取溫和同情態度，但這需要一段時間。”
5
在計劃徒步旅行的那天早上，當保羅看到斯坦陪著傑拉爾丁上車時，他立刻意識到後座上擺滿了生鏽的工具和剩餘的管道。他真希望自己能把車清理乾淨。保羅開啟車門下車迎接他們，斯坦和傑拉爾丁一走近，斯坦就和他握手。
“有地方停車，”斯坦說，“但經常停滿。如果你先到那裡，試著看看能不能為我們保留一個車位，如果找不到車位，就給我們打電話。”
他讓保羅感覺到，在停車問題上他並不完全值得信任。
“我們會盡力而為，”保羅說。
“我想在你走之前看看你的公寓，”他們上路後，傑拉爾丁說道“但媽媽說我不可以去你的公寓。”
“公寓空蕩蕩的，”保羅說“我把大部分東西都已經扔掉了。”
快到馬林岔路口時，車內一片寂靜，保羅有一瞬間以為自己是出去工作呢，於是努力回憶要去的地址。他從來沒有這麼早就和傑拉爾丁在一起過。
就在 穆爾海灘（Muir Beach） 觀景臺前，他們找到了一個停車位，並在不遠處又找到了一個車位。保羅從後備箱裡拿出靴子，費了好大勁才換上。
“我想你以前從沒徒步過，”傑拉爾丁說“徒步距離不長。”
“你得幫我，”他說。“如果你發現我落後了，也許可以放慢速度。”
“你打算什麼時候出發回國？”
保羅轉身背對著她，沒有為這個問題做準備。他不想說他週一要飛往都柏林。他在美國還有兩天時間。週二晚上，他就要在都柏林老房子的舊臥室裡睡覺了。他住了二十多年的公寓將空無一人；他把公寓收拾得整整齊齊的計劃已經完全放棄了。沒有人會猜到他為什麼留下這麼多雙看起來從未穿過的襪子。他心想著，一定要檢查每一雙襪子，以防裡面還卷著零散的鈔票。
保羅覺得很奇怪，這麼多年過去了，他還是經常認為美國人的行為舉止很像愛爾蘭人。因此，他推測等斯坦和桑德拉到達並停車後會說些什麼，斯坦一直在保留對保羅汽車狀況的評論。他以為斯坦會走近保羅已經賣給柯萬作為給新男友的驚喜的汽車，看看裡面的東西。斯坦會說這輛破車急需清洗，桑德拉可能會冷冷地說男人永遠不會改變。但斯坦什麼也沒說。他只是笑了笑。桑德拉也似乎沒有注意到他的車。
明天見到 柯萬時，他會或許問他這些問題，他想知道愛爾蘭人是否還會侮辱對方的汽車，或者曾經有過這種行為？這是不是他想象出來的問題？這是他在美國最後一天，不想喝酒。
斯坦解釋說，他們打算透過一條穿過穆爾森林的小徑攀登，儘管這會花更長的時間，因為坡度更平緩。總的來說，他說，如果他們走得慢一點，但不要太慢，只停下來野餐一次，天黑前他們就能到達旅館。
“五點半天就黑了，”他說。“我查過了。”
保羅注意到斯坦非常認真地履行嚮導的職責，並意識到傑拉爾丁從未提到過斯坦的工作。剛才，斯坦走在前面，看起來像個官員。保羅想，如果這個斯坦和移民和海關執法局、國稅局或某個更危險的組織有聯絡，那他真走運。或許他是那種會在其他人出去做圍捕非法移民的艱苦工作時留在辦公室的人。
“哦，我忘了告訴你了，”傑拉爾丁說，“我的揹包裡有兩罐你喜歡的檸檬汽水。”
“格里，你是最棒的，”保羅說。“你……”保羅還沒說完。
“別叫她格里，”走在前面的桑德拉插話道。“你知道她的名字。”
傑拉爾丁突然停了下來。她轉過身，看著保羅，抬頭望向天空。
“我有一個可愛的名字，”傑拉爾丁說，然後低聲說，“或者說曾經是，直到現在。”
“你們得趕緊走，”斯坦在他們上方的懸崖上喊道。
傑拉爾丁一直緊跟著保羅，他們沿著一條陡峭蜿蜒的小路出發。很快，桑德拉和斯坦就消失在了他們的視線中。
當傑拉爾丁看到保羅氣喘吁吁時，她說道：“我覺得返回時會容易得多。”
他決定不問她，既然如此，他們為什麼選擇這件外套。當她大步向前時，他注意到她是多麼強壯，她的腿變得多麼長，她走起路來是多麼自信。他真希望自己帶了一件不同的外套，因為他們爬得越高，空氣就越冷。
“你在美國是非法移民嗎？”傑拉爾丁問道。
“是的，我就是。這對我來說是個很好的描述。”
“那你有健康保險嗎？”
“有點兒。”
“如果您真的病了，您會怎麼做？”
“我會回到愛爾蘭。”
“但這不是你現在回去的原因吧？”
“你真是一個成年人了！”
“你不可以現在去愛爾蘭，然後夏天再回來度假嗎？”
“是的，我不能這樣。”
她把他們的午餐野餐安排在一片平坦的地方，從那裡可以看到下面的海景。
“我喜歡和媽媽還有斯坦一起來這裡，”傑拉爾丁說。“但我更喜歡和你一起去雷耶斯角。”
柯萬曾建議他，回家後他應該儘快搬出都柏林，遠離父母的家。
“回家會讓人精神崩潰。別把氣撒在你父母身上。離開都柏林。中部地區是個好地方。天知道那裡漏水多不多。他們需要水管工。”
“我其實並不是一名水管工，”保羅說道。
“你為什麼不一回家就開始訓練呢？”
“我快五十歲了。”
“斯坦很好，”傑拉爾丁在野餐後收拾東西時說道。“你不必擔心他。”
他想知道傑拉爾丁對桑德拉和斯坦是否也用這種語氣，聽起來像個成年人。
“斯坦看上去人不錯，”保羅說道。
“他有時會播放奇怪的音樂。而且都是黑膠唱片，所以佔用了很多空間。”
“沒有人是完美的。”
“你真的這麼認為嗎？”
他覺得傑拉爾丁想讓他多說一些關於斯坦的事情。他必須小心了。
“而且，吉米，你可以擔任守門員。”
插畫作者：Maggie Larson
“我認為你和斯坦、桑德拉在一起很合適。”
她夢幻般地低頭看著水面。
“問題是，如果你的母親從愛爾蘭過來，我的意思是，如果她決定過來，我不知道她會留在哪裡。”
“好吧，也許你應該先來愛爾蘭。”
“我需要愛爾蘭護照嗎？”
“如果你想的話可以辦一本。不過美國護照就夠了。”
當保羅和傑拉爾丁到達旅館時，斯坦和桑德拉已經打開了一瓶白葡萄酒並坐在露臺觀景點。
“你想聽好訊息還是壞訊息？”斯坦問道。
“什麼壞訊息？”傑拉爾丁問道。
“好訊息是，這個地方和以前一樣美麗。保羅，我真不敢相信你不知道。我們預留了一小時在廚房的時間。我記得帶了我們做一頓美味的義大利麵所需的一切，還有我自己的自制香蒜醬，我已經拿好了松子。”
“他們只給我們訂了兩間房，”桑德拉打斷道“這是個壞訊息。”
“沒辦法！”傑拉爾丁說。
“一間有一張雙人床，”斯坦說，“另一間有兩張單人床。那間有陽臺，但一月中旬在陽臺上睡覺可不方便。”
斯坦聽起來就像一位客戶在列舉他想要修復的東西。但保羅明白，他想說的是，這裡沒有保羅的房間。他也知道他不能讓傑拉爾丁失望，他必須找個地方住。
他們坐在那裡，看著最後一縷陽光灑在平靜如鏡的海面上，高大的樹木陰影越來越深。當保羅環顧四周時，他注意到似乎向城市延伸出了第二條視野。一片薄霧籠罩著可能是金門大橋的地方，但很難確定。他很想回去叫傑拉爾丁，這樣他們就可以在他的手機上找到一張地圖，上面清楚地標出了大橋的位置，然後看看從這裡是否可以看到其中的一座大橋，甚至是海灣大橋。
但他不會打擾他們三個人。預訂房間的是斯坦或桑德拉。他們可以自己解決。他不會主動找另一個地方睡覺。他突然想到，他和斯坦共用有兩張單人床的房間也許更合理。他希望斯坦和他一樣為眼前的窘境而感到尷尬。
當他回來時，斯坦獨自一人在露臺上，雙腳擱在木欄杆上。他轉過身，指著酒和一隻備用的酒杯。
保羅並沒有費心告訴他，他不想碰這些東西。他站著看著斯坦的後腦勺。他想，他接聽的每個客戶的電話都是這樣的。如果他遇到像斯坦這樣的人，那就會有些困擾。他所做的工作會受到批評；工錢不會給得很好，而且會有一種“我比你好得多”的暗示。
“這裡就是天堂，”斯坦說道。
“是的，非常好，非常棒。”
當桑德拉和傑拉爾丁再次出現時，桑德拉靠在欄杆上，面對著他們。
“傑拉爾丁說她想和保羅合住一個房間，”桑德拉說。
“真的嗎？”斯坦問。
“這是我的特別出遊，”傑拉爾丁說。“所以我可以決定。你和媽媽住一間房，那間只有一張床。我和爸爸住在另一間房，那間有兩張床。”
保羅想知道桑德拉是否曾經聽過傑拉爾丁如此自信地叫他爸爸。
露臺上漸漸變冷，他們就進屋了。很快，斯坦就忙著煮一大鍋水來做義大利麵。桑德拉和傑拉爾丁找來一塊西洋雙陸棋棋盤，開始下棋。他試著跟上節奏，但傑拉爾丁下棋速度太快了。
斯坦來找保羅說他需要幫忙切沙拉用的生菜，但保羅沒有理會他。最後，桑德拉贏了一局，去了廚房，留下傑拉爾丁給保羅講解如何猜雙陸棋的賠率，以及什麼時候最好不要冒險。
他們和另一組人同桌吃飯。吃完義大利麵後，桑德拉站起來說她要再去問一次是否有空餘房間，但她很快回來說沒有變化。斯坦開始和旁邊的一群人交談，發現其中一對夫婦的女兒和他上的是同一所高中。
“你出去散步，”他說，“然後你遇見了一個你認識的人。”
“但你並不真正認識他們，”傑拉爾丁說。
“我們現在知道了，”桑德拉插話道。
大家商定保羅和傑拉爾丁會收拾桌子、洗碗。收拾好桌子、洗碗後，他們穿上外套，出去和其他人一起欣賞海上的殘月。斯坦的手機一直盯著夜空，和一個坐在桌邊的男人一起試圖辨認出幾顆星星。
“我又冷又累，”傑拉爾丁低聲對保羅說。“我們可以進去嗎？”
他陪著桑德拉和傑拉爾丁來到有兩張單人床的房間。傑拉爾丁翻遍了包，找到了牙刷和牙膏，然後去了走廊盡頭的衛生間。現在，多年來保羅第一次發現自己和桑德拉單獨在一起，桑德拉正忙著撫平傑拉爾丁床上的毯子。
當她最終站起來面對他時，她笑了，好像他們之間從來沒有發生過任何問題。
“傑拉爾丁通常很快就睡著了，”她說。“她這樣真是太好了。”
保羅希望傑拉爾丁能快點回來。
“這是一個好地方，”他說。“我以前不知道有這麼個地方。”
“我們喜歡來這裡。”
他很高興不再說話。他看得出，他們倆都不想開始大討論。但房間很小，他感到很尷尬。他發現自己虛偽地笑了笑，然後撓了撓頭。桑德拉坐在傑拉爾丁的床上。
保羅走出去，站在小陽臺上，遺憾自己想不出辦法讓他們之間的關係變得不那麼緊張。
傑拉爾丁回來後，桑德拉吻了她，道了晚安，然後離開了房間。保羅也悄悄地走了出去，讓傑拉爾丁換上睡衣，然後回到露臺上，露臺上已經沒有人了。斯坦肯定已經睡覺了。
他看著遠方的風景，月光下，大海閃閃發光，遠處一片漆黑，但當他聽到聲音時，他擔心斯坦甚至桑德拉可能要來找他，於是，他沿著走廊走進浴室。
當他回到進房間時，傑拉爾丁似乎已經在睡覺，他儘可能安靜地關上了門。儘管如此，當她聽到他的聲音時，她還是轉過身來。
保羅低聲說道：“很抱歉吵醒了你。”
“我想說晚安，但我不知道你去了哪裡。”
“我就在附近。”
“明天早上你一醒來一定要叫醒我，”她說。
幾乎立刻，她又睡著了。保羅感到很累。當傑拉爾丁在睡夢中發出輕輕的嘆息聲時，他去關燈，以免打擾她。他站著看著她。他想，她現在多麼完美，就像她在路上走在他前面時一樣。
他可能再也不會在美國見到她了，他會懷念她在這裡的生活。但她會來愛爾蘭——他確信她會這麼做的——也許在未來幾年，當她真正有了自己的生活，有了自己的孩子，甚至有了丈夫時，她會來探望他的。
他脫下鞋子，穿上外套，踮著腳走到露臺，關緊身後的門。起初，由於露臺背對著大海，他什麼也看不見，但後來一片雲散開，他覺得他能看見一些星星，甚至在下面更遠的地方有一些燈光，但他不知道它們是什麼。
早上，他們就可以看到一兩座大橋，如果從這裡看不到，也可以從其他露臺或陽臺上看到。他們可能得等到霧散去。他會從這個有利位置向傑拉爾丁展示他曾經工作過的一些地方，告訴她他開車沿著綠樹成蔭的大道前往新公寓、舊平房或更大的郊區住宅的經歷。還有那些等著他、急切地想要修好漏水的水龍頭的人。他會向她描述這些人。他知道她喜歡這樣。
他的腦海裡浮現出更多基層世界的景象。想到三十年來他去過多少家，用過多少水龍頭，多少洗衣機，他不禁笑了起來。他想，這幾乎不重要。總得有人來做。回國後他就不會再想這些事了。而且，如果他現在能睡一會兒，他會在早上想點別的事情，確保自己醒來後叫醒傑拉爾丁，就像傑拉爾丁要求他做的那樣。
刊登於2025年3月10日印刷版，標題為《五座橋》。
科爾姆·託賓是《長島》等書籍的作者
附件：英文原文：
Fiction：Five Bridges
ByColm Tóibín
March 2, 2025
She promised that the climbing would be easy.
“Even for you,” she said.
“How long?”
“An hour. Or maybe two hours. Or maybe three.”
“Give or take?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
Paul had told her two weeks earlier, on their last outing to Point Reyes Station, that he was leaving, packing up. She would be able to come to Ireland to visit him, he said now, and they should start making plans for that.
“I’ll be at my folks’ house, at least at the beginning, and they really would love to meet you in person. It’ll be great when you come.”
“It’s sad they never came here,” Geraldine said. “They could have visited anytime. They said they would.”
“No money, I suppose, and too far.”
They were still a mile or two from Stinson Beach. If he took the slow way back into the city, they would be late. He had to be careful to drop her off on time. She would grow nervous at the thought of her mother waiting.
“Don’t text to say you’ll be late. Just don’t be late.”
This, which had appeared twice on Geraldine’s phone a year earlier, had become a mantra for Paul and his daughter, a way of lightly mocking Geraldine’s mother, during these trips in his car on Saturday afternoons.
As Geraldine fell silent, Paul realized that he should not have said that his parents had no money. Geraldine would worry about this, and it was not even true. She was almost twelve years old now, and he had resolved a while ago never to tell her anything that wasn’t true.
“I spoke to Mom about you leaving,” Geraldine said, “and she thinks you might be deported if you don’t.”
Geraldine was using her adult, responsible tone.
“And Stan says,” she continued, “that they’ll be checking on all sorts of people.”
He held back from saying that he hoped someone would check on Stan.
“Would I come to see you on my own?” she asked.
“To Dublin? Yes, I suppose. Yes, you would. It would be a lovely journey. They treat young girls with great respect—”
“You said the last time,” she interrupted, “that I could have one wish before you go and I asked Mom and she said yes, I could have one wish, within reason.”
“That’s just like her, isn’t it?”
“To agree, yes. But not really. She didn’t actually agree. She said I had to stop asking for so many things. But I just want this. I hate her sometimes.”
She folded her arms. If this had been a normal outing, Paul would have told her that she shouldn’t hate her mother. Now he could wallow in the luxury of saying nothing.
“But I think she will say yes,” Geraldine continued.
He knew that she was waiting for him to ask what the one wish was.
“Mom said if you were arrested, they’d probably come looking for her.”
“But they couldn’t! She’s an American!”
“They’d come looking for her to see if she could help. I mean to get lawyers for you.”
“Maybe she would help.”
“In your dreams,” Geraldine replied.
She took out her phone and began to scroll down, her attention focussed. She tried, he knew, not to do this too much when she was with him. She had even asked him to tell her to put the phone away if it annoyed him. He enjoyed leaving her in peace this time. She could do what she wanted.
It was dark by the time they reached Sausalito and made for the bridge. She put her phone back in her pocket.
“What I want is this,” she said. “I want you and me and Mom and Stan to go to Mount Tam. It’s where we often go. There’s a sort of hostel. Do you know the place?”
Once more, she was mimicking an adult voice. He found himself wondering if she did this with Stan, too.
“Not sure.”
“It’s a lodge, a place for hikers to sleep. It’s a climb.”
She told him how long the hike would take.
“To go up or go down?”
“Both. You can see everything from up there. I bet you can see the bridges.”
“All of them?”
“All five, maybe more. Isn’t there one more?”
“Is your mother going to agree to this?”
“I need your agreement first.”
“Why can’t you and me just go?”
“That’s the point. I want all of us to go. Just one night.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Agree.”
“I agree.”
As she reached again for her phone, he thought of something.
“You must make clear to your mother that this is your idea and your idea only and that it took a lot of time to convince me to agree.”
“Well, it did.”
As soon as Paul got back to his apartment, he texted Sandra to let her know directly from him that he had decided to go back to Ireland, and sooner rather than later.
Within a minute he got her customary response: “Txt recvd.”
The following day a text came from Geraldine: “Tell mom u really want to go on the hike with us 3.”
And then, almost immediately, another text from Sandra: “Was this your idea?”
He was tempted to reply “No” and leave it at that. And then he wondered if it might be better not to reply at all, to pretend he hadn’t received her text. But he knew he should resolve this now, reply while both Geraldine and Sandra were on their phones. He wondered if Stan was standing over them.
He read the text over before he sent it. He did not want to appear too friendly. “Geraldine said she wants us all to go on this hike. Just one thing we do together before I pack up. I am happy to do it if you and Stan are.”
Sunday was his busy day. Although he called himself a plumber, he had never actually got a license and lacked the finer knowledge of the trade. He could, however, fix a leak; he could replace a washer; he could use a soldering iron; he could deal with most types of valves; and he could put in new taps. He had his own way of unblocking pipes. Anything more complicated he left to others. Since he had stopped drinking, he could set out immediately if there was an emergency. He didn’t need to advertise; people he’d worked for passed on his number to others. He could be depended on to respond to a call from anywhere in the Bay Area.
He went into his tiny bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror. He should get a haircut before he went home, or even before he went on a hike. And get his eyebrows tidied up. And he should try to shave more often. Almost no one had been in this apartment since he had split up with Nuala Breathnach, who used to sing on Thursday nights at the Greyhound Track, the bar in Oakland that he frequented. At first, Nuala had actually claimed to like this cramped, cluttered space with windows that rattled when buses and trucks went by.
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In the end, she told him, and then anyone else in the bar who would listen, that the reason she was returning to Mayo was the state of Paul’s apartment—the awful sheets, the flat pillows, the pile of clothes on the old armchair, the smell of stale beer.
“That sort of thing is over,” she said. “There isn’t one fellow at home who’s still living like that.”
Soon he would not be living like that, either. He would have to begin clearing out the apartment, put most of what he had in bags and take them somewhere. He liked the idea of travelling back with hardly any luggage, just the cash he had saved hidden in pockets and in socks. He should leave some cash with Sandra to give to Geraldine in the future, but he worried that she might ask him if he was just using his daughter as a way of keeping his money safe.
“Hike bookd for Stday 18th” came from Sandra two days later. And then a text from Geraldine to say that he could collect her at nine, and they would meet Sandra and Stan in the parking lot.
All he needed now, he thought, was a text from Stan to say how much he was looking forward to meeting him.
They had to have realized, even if he had not spelled it out, that, having been in the United States for more than thirty years on a simple tourist visa, once he left he would not be allowed to return, probably not ever. He had made sure to have his passport renewed, but it was his Irish passport. He had asked a few friends if it would make a difference that he had a daughter in America, but everyone thought not.
Once, toward the end of the pandemic, when there was an Irish party in Daly City, he had joined others in asking the Irish consul if there was anything that could be done about their status. She was careful, he saw, not to give them room for hope.
Geraldine would have to come to Ireland if she wanted to see him. She could even get an Irish passport in addition to her American one.
He sometimes blamed Sandra for not including him in Geraldine’s life when she was little, but, when he considered it, he knew that that was his fault and only his fault. He should have offered Sandra support, including regular financial support, as soon as he knew she was pregnant—even after she’d made it clear that she didn’t want to see him or have him around. He was drinking too much. But maybe that wasn’t the problem.
He was always contemplating going home; nothing about him was stable or secure. Being undocumented at a time when no one bothered much about illegal Irish people had almost suited him. But he should have changed as soon as he learned that he was going to be a father. Sandra might even have considered marrying him.
The last night that he had seen Sandra, a month before she was to have the baby, he should have had one aim: to make her believe that he would help her. But, just before he set out to meet her at a restaurant, a job came up that he couldn’t ignore, an old client living on her own. And, when he got to the restaurant late, he should not have taken another call from this woman.
In the end, Sandra would not even let him drive her home. She did not reply to texts or messages. He stopped sending them. He did not see her again for four years.
He looked around the apartment. In the bathroom, he would begin by throwing out some useless razors and old bottles of shampoo. Maybe he would clean the tiles. Or maybe he wouldn’t, he thought. It was fine. He could cross the bathroom off his list. With a black plastic garbage bag in his hand, he began to empty the cupboards in the kitchen. Maybe some plates and cutlery could go to a thrift shop, and some furniture. But who would want any of this rubbish? He should have bought new stuff years before, and he should have had the posters framed, the ones that had not fallen down or faded. It was almost a relief, he felt as he looked around, not to have to make any more plans that he would not carry out. He would clean up what he could, pack the little he needed, and let the landlord know he was leaving when he was on his way to the airport. He would not stick around to get his deposit back. The landlord could probably charge the next tenant, someone in tech, four times the rent that Paul had paid.
It could be worse, he whispered to himself, and then resolved that he must stop saying this, even though it was true. His parents, who were in good health, would welcome him back home, as would his sisters and their families. He would not stay here until he was helpless when they came to deport him, the oldest living illegal immigrant in America.
It could have been worse, too, had he gone on drinking or found some drug that would have spared him the trouble of sitting in bars. He could, indeed, have continued to pretend that Geraldine didn’t exist, even as she got older. He could have been the father living in the same city who had never once been in contact. He could, as an old man, have passed her on the street.
All these things might have happened had he not been saved by Sean F. Kirwan.
He scoffed at the word “saved,” as did his friends who had also been rescued in some way by Kirwan.
Kirwan came from outside Wexford town and either owned the Greyhound Track or ran it as though he owned it.
Kirwan watched his customers in the same way that he watched his staff: “I don’t hire losers and I don’t hire chancers and I don’t hire anyone from Swanlinbar.”
If a customer had relatives visiting from Ireland, Kirwan made a fuss of them, with drinks on the house and the best table. If a group of people who weren’t Irish came in, Kirwan danced attendance on them to emphasize that the Greyhound Track had no prejudices. If a man was drinking alone, Kirwan made sure that he was left in peace.
Paul was surprised one day when Kirwan came and sat beside him on a barstool.
“There’s a young fellow from near Ballyshannon was found dead in a flat he had out near the airport in Oakland. He’d been there for a week or so.”
He showed Paul a photograph.
“Did you know him?”
“No.”
“I don’t just want to raise money to send the body home. I can do that easily enough. I’d like to know if there are others here still living on their own like that. A lot of fellows went home or settled down. But some are still living on their own, working for themselves. I think we should make sure they’re O.K. Just check in on them.”
“Do you mean me?”
“I could mean you, yes.”
He took out a Biro and wrote six letters on a beer mat: “simiba.”
“Single Irish Men in Bay Area.”
“How do you know I’m single?”
“You look single.”
Paul stretched and yawned.
“I’d like to organize a meeting with you,” Kirwan said, showing him the photo again, “and a few other fellows to make sure this sort of thing doesn’t happen again so easily.”
Paul did not respond.
“I’m from Wexford myself,” Kirwan said, moving in close as though to say something confidential, “as you probably know. Your mother is from there, isn’t she?”
“She is. How did you—”
“Don’t bother now,” Kirwan interrupted. “Give me your number and I’ll text you. And can you give me something toward this guy’s funeral? As much as you can.”
Paul ignored the personal texts and group texts he received from Kirwan over the next month, until his phone pinged one night when he was close to the Greyhound Track. He texted Kirwan back and they met at the bar.
“I can’t stay long,” Paul said.
“I’m the same, and that man there is the same, and his friend, too. None of us can stay long,” Kirwan replied.
“My mother,” Paul said, “how do you know where she’s from?”
“I was trying to get your attention. It was an inspired guess. I have no idea where she’s from.”
“You made it up?”
“When the pressure’s on, I have the power.”
Kirwan spread his arms out like someone in show business.
“I’m trying to gather together fellows who are here on their own.”
“Well, that’s me summed up,” Paul said, before realizing that he should have said nothing.
“I need your help,” Kirwan said.
“You sound like a priest.”
“I was nearly a priest, but that’s hardly an accusation. I was hit hard by that young fellow dying, that’s all. I promise that’s all.”
A week later, Paul went to a meeting in an upper room at the Greyhound Track to find Kirwan with four or five others, two of whom he vaguely recognized.
“I have to go in a second,” Paul said. “I don’t know what I’m doing here.”
“I thought there’d be more,” Kirwan said. “I was expecting more.”
He began a speech to the group outlining his own feelings about home.
“Would you get to the point,” a man with a Kerry accent interrupted. “If I want a sermon I’ll go to Mass.”
Over the next few months, more men came to this weekly meeting, where, despite Kirwan’s inability to get to the point, they organized themselves into groups of four, like cardplayers, as one of them said, and talked, about work and health insurance and the problems with ice and the I.R.S. There were also a few who wanted to start a band, a mixture of country music and Irish traditional. There was even one who wanted to set up five-a-side football games. A few of them mentioned girlfriends, but no one spoke about inviting any women to these meetings.
Kirwan seemed to have won himself the right to move from one group to another, but he tended not to speak. No drinking was allowed. They stayed for two hours, and then they all appeared relieved to get away from one another. Two of them worked in tech and one was an accountant; two were part-time barmen, part-time singers and actors. The rest, it seemed, did anything that paid.
One evening, as the meeting was coming to a conclusion and Kirwan had quietly joined Paul’s group, Paul told his companions that he had a daughter. None of them responded. If one of them had said even a word, or expressed surprise in any way, he was sure he would have said nothing more.
“At least I think I do. They told my girlfriend that she was going to have a girl.”
No one asked him a question. He would leave it at that, he thought. Tell them nothing more. He hadn’t even said Sandra’s name. But he found himself needing to go on.
“I’ve never seen the girl. I often think about her. She must be four. She’s probably in the Bay Area somewhere.”
Kirwan looked up at him and held his gaze. He wished Kirwan would tell him now, in front of the others, what he should do. But Kirwan didn’t speak and, before long, the group broke up.
As soon as Paul got home, he went online to see if he could locate Sandra.
When he did find her, he was careful. He had his hair cut and tidied up the apartment even before he e-mailed her at the office where she worked. When he received no reply he called, and when he could not get through to her on the phone he waited. In his e-mail, he had tried to make clear that he was not looking for anything from her.
One evening, from a bar, he called Kirwan.
“You’re drinking,” Kirwan said. “Can we talk when you are not drinking?”
The next evening, when they met, Kirwan listened to the details.
“Write her a letter,” Kirwan said. “Have it typed. Make sure the first paragraph has what you most want to say to her. You need to sound like someone who has your life in order.”
“And then?”
“Explain to her that your mother is from Wexford and there’s no real harm in you.”
Paul laughed.
He heard nothing from Sandra for a month. But then a text came that said, “letter recvd.” He showed it to Kirwan, who advised Paul to do nothing hasty.
“You are halfway there,” he said.
At first, Sandra let Paul come to the rambling house she shared with some others in Bernal Heights. For a few hours on Saturdays, he could play with Geraldine and watch games on her screen with her. She was four and a half and seemed to enjoy calling him Dad and telling him what she wanted to do next. Just as she took his arrival as a normal part of her week, she made no fuss at his departure. She was able to take up the conversation, such as it was, or the game they had been playing, a week later, as though very little time had passed.
Sandra avoided him, often letting one of the others who lived in the house welcome him and see him out. Eventually, he began to take Geraldine to the park, and then he was given permission to take her on a trip in his car. He knew that he was being closely observed. If he had once turned up late or failed to bring her back on time, or if there was even a whiff of beer on his breath, Sandra would have intervened. At the end of their last meeting, when she was pregnant, she had told him that she had had enough of him. Perhaps her opinion of him was still the same.
When she moved in with a man called Stan and married him, Paul found out by text, the tone brisk.
Soon, Stan became a figure in Geraldine’s normal conversations.
Paul had a photograph of Geraldine on his cell phone. He wished he could see more of her. But at least she was in the city, just twenty minutes’ drive from him each Saturday. And at least she was happy and had everything she needed to make her comfortable.
Paul stopped going to the weekly meetings, but Kirwan kept in touch with him and spoke to him if he chanced to be at the Greyhound Track. They discussed Kirwan’s search for love and his addiction to Grindr.
“I can’t keep the app on in the bar, but one day I forgot to turn it off and when I looked—it was a Thursday at about seven—there were five guys in the Greyhound Track on Grindr. Can you imagine?”
“I had one of those apps for a while,” Paul said. “The straight one. I didn’t know what sort of photo to put up, so I put one of an Aer Lingus jet. But still I met a few girls. They were nice, some of them.”
“Five guys in an Irish sports bar! I looked at the photos, pretending I had some urgent texting to do behind the bar.”
“And then what did you do?”
“Two of them were on their own, one was working for me, one was with a loud group of fellows from Tipperary, and the other I never found.”
“The long-lost one.”
“Now you’re talking. It’s a hard city if you’re looking for something,” Kirwan said.
“I think I know what you mean,” Paul replied.
Around the time that Paul was first given permission to take Geraldine out in his car, a new type of fitting for basins and sinks began to be installed in the bathrooms and kitchens of housing developments in the Bay Area. As those fittings began to leak, Paul’s number circulated, especially once he sourced a good washer that could easily replace the dud. Four or five calls a day came, and then more. Every caller seemed to know the drill. They could expect him within an hour, and he would accept checks but would also be happy if they paid in cash. Because he knew what tools and fittings he would most likely need, in the expectation that the leak came from the usual source, he would generally solve the problem in one visit. No one objected to paying him more than the going rate.
A few times, he was contacted by one of the large construction companies. They began by calling him out on a job. It felt like a standard call to an area he knew well. But, when he arrived, he saw a group of fellows waiting for him.
“Do you want to see the leak?” one of them asked, to general laughter. He could not tell where they were from.
He was lucky that he had not stepped too far from his car. He got away from them as quickly as he could.
Another time, he grew suspicious when a number came up that had a strange prefix. When he took the call, a woman gave him an address that made no sense. Nonetheless, he told her what he had told all of the others—he would, if she confirmed, be there in an hour and could accept check or cash. She did not call back, but for days urgent messages and texts came from that same number, requests to follow a link. When he clicked on the link the first time, he got a warning from the I.R.S. saying that they were on his case. He was glad that he was using a cheap phone; he could not easily be traced.
When the pandemic came, Stan, who seemed to understand the technology, set up Zoom calls every week for Paul and Geraldine. Only once, half an hour into an hour-long Zoom, did Paul catch sight of Stan, who was crossing the room and shied out of the frame very quickly. He looked younger than Paul had expected him to be. He was wearing a suit and tie, like someone with a real job.
One morning, after Paul came back from some early calls, putting the cash he had earned inside a new pair of socks that he placed at the back of a drawer with other cash-filled socks, he decided to phone his mother in Dublin and tell her about Geraldine. It might have been wiser, he knew, to have informed one of his sisters first, but he didn’t want advice or remonstrations from them.
“It’s nice you had a girl,” his mother said almost distractedly. “Now, when was she born?”
“She’s almost eight.”
“And she’s American?”
“She lives with her mother, who’s American.”
He heard his mother gathering her strength.
“I don’t suppose you and the girl’s mother are, by any chance, married?”
“No, we’re not.”
“What is her name?”
“The mother or the girl?”
“Now I’m going to put your father on. He’s in the other room and he still thinks that you have to wipe down every package that comes into the house. But I know otherwise. It’s in the air, this thing. I’d be grateful if you could tell him that I am right and make him believe you.”
She made no further reference to his daughter.
In the final months of the pandemic, his mother and his father and he and Geraldine sometimes met on Zoom at ten in the morning California time. Geraldine and his mother took easily to the new medium, Geraldine showing new paintings she had made and his mother showing the pile of books she had read since the pandemic began.
“When all this is over,” his mother said to Geraldine, “we might take a little trip across the Atlantic—sure it’s no distance—and see you in the flesh.”
“ ‘In the flesh’ means ‘in person,’ ” Paul interjected.
“She knows what it means,” his mother said.
“I’d have to ask Mom and Stan,” Geraldine said. “But that would be great.”
The night after the election, Paul went to the Greyhound Track, where he found Kirwan, who joined him at the bar.
“They won’t deport me,” Kirwan said. “I got married to a nice local girl as soon as I arrived. I was always grateful to her. But what about you? If they saw you coming along the street, they’d deport you on the spot. You look illegal. There’s nothing can be done about it. Why don’t you get married? Why else do we have Americans, for God’s sake? What else are they for? I could even find you a fellow who would marry you. For your rugged looks and all that.”
“I don’t want to marry anyone.”
“How much money do you have?”
“That’s what I wanted to ask you. Have you ever met anyone who has a load of readies and needs to know what to do with them?”
“Wrapped in socks?”
“How did you know?”
He put out his arms, as though seeking applause.
“Stop talking shite,” Paul said.
Kirwan sipped a coffee and looked around.
“How much in readies?” he asked.
“A lot for me.”
“Do you have a bank account?”
“Just about. I keep enough money in it to pay the bills. And I lodge the checks I get. Otherwise, it’s cash.”
“Your customers must resent you. That cash thing might work at home, but people don’t like it here. It’ll backfire, eventually. The people here prefer to be crooked while pretending to be holy. And if ice or whoever finds you on a job, putting in one of your famous washers, they’ll take you away. And they’ll visit your apartment while you’re being held, and you can say goodbye to your cash.”
“They would steal it?”
“No, not that. But while they were still counting it you would be on your way to the airport or whatever new way they might have of sending a fellow like you home.”
“You think it’s funny?”
“I think you should take the law into your own hands and get out of here, cash in suitcase, before they put you out.”
“You think they’re serious about it?”
“In the first month or so, yeah—they’ll do it for show.”
“If I tried to leave the country, would I be detained on the way out?”
“No. But, once you left, you would never get back in.”
“I came when I was eighteen.”
“You grew up here, so.”
“I have a daughter here. I told you.”
“Maybe some President in the future will soften up on the plight of Irish plumbers and their American daughters, but it will take a while.”
When Paul saw Stan accompanying Geraldine to his car on the morning of the planned hike, he was immediately aware of all the rusting tools and leftover pieces of piping on his back seat. He wished he had cleaned out the car. He opened the door and got out to greet them, shaking Stan’s hand as soon as he and Geraldine approached.
“There’s a place to park,” Stan said, “but it’s often full. If you get there first, try to see if you can hold a place for us, or call us if you can’t find a spot.”
He made Paul feel as if he could not entirely be trusted on the matter of parking.
“We’ll do what we can,” Paul said.
“I wanted to see your apartment before you go,” Geraldine said once they were on the road, “but Mom says I can’t.”
“It’s pretty bare,” he said. “I’ve thrown most things out.”
For a second, close to the turnoff for Marin, Paul, in the silence of the car, thought that he was out on a job and tried to remember the address. He had never been with Geraldine this early in the morning.
Just before the overlook for Muir Beach, they found a parking space and secured another spot not far away. Paul got his boots from the trunk and struggled as he changed into them.
“I don’t think you’ve ever gone hiking before,” Geraldine said. “Not a long hike.”
“You’ll have to help me,” he said. “Slow down, maybe, if you see me lagging behind.”
“When are you actually leaving?”
He turned away from her, not prepared for the question. He did not want to say that he was flying to Dublin on Monday. He had two more days in America. On Tuesday night, he would be sleeping in his old bedroom in the family house in Dublin. His apartment, where he had been living for more than twenty years, would be empty; his plan to leave it tidy had been fully abandoned. No one would ever guess why he had left behind so many pairs of socks that looked as though they had never been worn. He must be sure, he resolved, to check every last one in case there were stray banknotes still curled up inside.
It was strange, he thought, how often, even after all these years, he expected Americans to behave like Irish people. Thus, he presumed that Stan had been saving his comments on the state of Paul’s car for now, when he and Sandra had arrived and parked. He expected Stan to approach the car, which Paul had already sold to Kirwan as a surprise for his new boyfriend, and peer in at its contents. Stan would then state how urgently this jalopy was in need of cleaning, and Sandra might remark dryly how men never change.
But Stan said nothing at all. He just smiled. And Sandra did not seem to notice his car.
He wondered if insulting each other’s cars was something Irish people still did. Or had it ever been? Was it something he had imagined? He would ask Kirwan when he saw him tomorrow for his final non-drink in America.
They were going to climb using a trail through Muir Woods, Stan explained, even though it would take longer, because the incline was more gradual. All in all, he said, if they took it slowly but not too slowly and stopped only for one short picnic, they would be at the hostel before dark.
“It will be dark at five-thirty,” he said. “I checked that.”
Paul noted how seriously Stan took his duties as guide, and realized that Geraldine had never mentioned what kind of job Stan had. Just now, marching ahead, Stan looked like an official of some sort. It would be just his luck, Paul thought, if this Stan had some connection to ice or the I.R.S. or some even more menacing organization. He was the sort of guy who would stay in the office while others went out to do the tough work of rounding up the offending immigrants.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Geraldine said, “that I have the Limonata you like in my knapsack. Two cans.”
“Gerry, you are the best,” Paul said. “You—”
“Don’t call her Gerry,” Sandra, who was just ahead, interjected. “You know what her name is.”
Geraldine stopped dead. She turned and looked at Paul, raising her eyes to heaven.
“I have a lovely name,” Geraldine said, and then whispered, “or I did, until just now.”
“You guys need to get going,” Stan shouted from a bluff above them.
Geraldine remained close to Paul as they set off up a steep winding path. Soon, Sandra and Stan moved out of sight.
“I think the other way up is much easier,” Geraldine said when she saw Paul out of breath.
He decided not to ask her why, in that case, they had taken this one. As she strode ahead, he noted how strong she was, how long her legs were becoming, and how confidently she moved. He wished he had taken a different jacket as the air became colder the higher they climbed.
“Are you a complete illegal in America?” Geraldine asked.
“Yes, I am. That is a good description of me.”
“Do you have health insurance?”
“Kind of.”
“What would you do if you got really sick?”
“I would go back to Ireland.”
“But that’s not why you are going back now?”
“What an adult you are!”
“And you can’t just go to Ireland now and then come back in the summer for a vacation?”
“That’s right.”
She set out their lunch picnic in a flat area that had a view of the ocean below.
“I like coming here with Mom and Stan,” Geraldine said. “But I prefer going to Point Reyes with you.”
Kirwan had advised him that when he got home he should move out of Dublin, away from his parents’ house, as soon as he could.
“Going home is shell shock. Don’t take it out on your mother and your father. Get out of Dublin. The midlands would be a good place. Plenty of leaks there, God knows. They need plumbers.”
“I’m not really a plumber,” Paul said.
“Why don’t you train as one the minute you go home?”
“I’m nearly fifty.”
“Stan is good,” Geraldine said as she tidied up after their picnic. “You mustn’t worry about him.”
He wondered if Geraldine used this tone with Sandra and Stan, too, sounding middle-aged.
“Stan seems nice,” Paul said.
“He plays weird music sometimes. And it’s all vinyl, so it takes up lots of space.”
“No one is perfect.”
“Do you really think that?”
It seemed to him that Geraldine wanted him to say something more about Stan. He would have to be careful.
“I think you and Stan and Sandra are great together.”
She looked dreamily down at the water.
“Problem is, if your mother ever came over from Ireland, I mean if she ever decided she should, I don’t know where she would stay.”
“Well, maybe you’ll come to Ireland first.”
“Would I need an Irish passport?”
“You could get one if you wanted. But an American passport would do.”
By the time Paul and Geraldine reached the hostel, Stan and Sandra had opened a bottle of white wine and were sitting at the lookout spot.
“You want the good news or the bad news?” Stan asked.
“What’s the bad news?” Geraldine asked.
“The good news is that this place is as beautiful as ever. I can’t believe you didn’t know it, Paul. We have our time in the kitchen reserved in an hour. And I remembered to bring everything we need for a great spaghetti with my own homemade pesto. I get the pine nuts—”
“They only booked two rooms for us,” Sandra interrupted. “That is the bad news.”
“No way!” Geraldine said.
“One has a full bed,” Stan said, “and the other has twin beds. That one has a balcony, but you can hardly sleep on a balcony in the middle of January.”
Stan sounded like a client listing what he wanted fixed. But what he was saying, Paul understood, was that there wasn’t a room for Paul. He also knew that he could not let Geraldine down. He would have to stay somewhere.
They sat and watched the last rays of sunshine fold out on the calm, glassy ocean as the shadows deepened in the tall trees. When Paul went to look around, he noted a second vista that seemed to open toward the city. There was a haze over what might be the Golden Gate Bridge. It was hard to be sure. He was tempted to go back and get Geraldine so they could find a map on his phone with the bridges firmly identified and then work out if one of them, maybe even the Bay Bridge, might be visible from up here.
But he would leave the three of them alone. Stan or Sandra had made the booking. They could sort it out. He would not offer to find another place to sleep. It occurred to him that it might make sense for him and Stan to use the room with the twin beds. He hoped that Stan viewed the prospect with the same revulsion as he did.
When he returned, Stan was alone on the deck with his feet up on the wooden railing. He turned around and pointed to the wine and a spare glass.
Paul didn’t bother telling him that he didn’t touch the stuff. He stood and looked at the back of Stan’s head. It was always the same, he thought, in every house whose call he answered. If he was greeted by a guy like Stan, then there would be some difficulty. The job he did would be criticized; the payment would not be ready. And there would be an undercurrent of how-much-better-off-I-am-than-you.
“It’s paradise here,” Stan said.
“Yes, it’s great, it’s nice.”
When Sandra and Geraldine reappeared, Sandra leaned against the railing, facing them.
“Geraldine says she wants to share a room with Paul,” Sandra said.
“Really?” Stan asked.
“This is my special outing,” Geraldine said. “So I can decide. You and Mom are in one room, the room with one bed. And Dad and I are in the other, the room with two beds.”
Paul wondered if Sandra had ever heard Geraldine call him Dad before as confidently as this.
When it grew cold on the deck, they moved inside. Soon, Stan was busy boiling a large saucepan of water for the pasta. Sandra and Geraldine found a backgammon board and began to play. He tried to follow the game, but it was too fast.
Stan came to say that he needed help to chop the lettuce for the salad, but Paul ignored him. Eventually, Sandra, having won a game, went to the kitchen, leaving Geraldine to explain to Paul how to guess the odds in backgammon and when it was best not to take a chance.
They shared a table with another group. Once they had finished the pasta, Sandra stood up and said she would go and ask one more time if an extra room had become available, but she quickly came back to say that there was no change. Stan began to talk to the group beside him, finding that the daughter of one of the couples had gone to the same high school as he did.
“You go out for a walk,” he said, “and you meet someone you know.”
“But you don’t really know them,” Geraldine said.
“We do now,” Sandra interjected.
It was agreed that Paul and Geraldine would clean up the table and do the dishes. When that was done, having put their coats on, they went out to join the others and take in the waning moon over the ocean. Stan had his phone focussed on the night sky and, with a man who had been at the table, was trying to identify certain stars.
“I’m cold and I’m tired,” Geraldine said to Paul in a low voice. “Can we go in?”
He accompanied Sandra and Geraldine to the room with the twin beds. Geraldine rummaged through her bag to find her toothbrush and toothpaste and went to the bathroom down the corridor. Now, for the first time in all the years, Paul found himself alone with Sandra, who made herself busy smoothing out the blanket on Geraldine’s bed.
When she eventually stood and faced him, she smiled as though there had never been any problem between them.
“Geraldine normally goes to sleep fast,” she said. “She’s great like that.”
Paul hoped that Geraldine would hurry back.
“This is a nice place,” he said. “I didn’t know it existed.”
“We love coming here.”
He was happy to say nothing more. Neither of them, he saw, wanted to begin a big discussion. But the room was small and he felt awkward. He found himself smiling weakly and then scratching his head. Sandra sat down on Geraldine’s bed.
Paul went out and stood on the small balcony, sorry that he could not think of a way to make things less strained between them.
When Geraldine came back, Sandra kissed her, wished them good night, and left the room. Paul slipped out, too, so that Geraldine could change into her nightclothes, returning to the deck, which was now emptied of guests. Stan must have gone to bed.
He took in the scene below, the ocean all bright and glistening in the moonlight and then everything dark beyond, but, when he heard sounds, he worried that Stan or even Sandra might be about to join him. He edged down a corridor and into one of the bathrooms.
Geraldine appeared to be sleeping when he came into the room, and he closed the door as quietly as he could. Nonetheless, she turned when she heard him.
“Sorry if I woke you,” he whispered.
“I wanted to say good night, but I didn’t know where you’d gone.”
“I wasn’t far away.”
“Make sure you wake me in the morning as soon as you’re awake,” she said.
Almost immediately, she was asleep again. Paul felt tired. When Geraldine made a soft, sighing sound in her sleep, he went to turn off the lamp in case it was disturbing her. He stood and looked at her. How perfect she was now, he thought, as he had when she had walked ahead of him on the trail.
He would probably never see her again in America; he would miss her life here. But she would come to Ireland—he was sure she would want to do that—and perhaps she would make visits in years to come when she had a real life of her own, her own children, a husband, even.
He removed his shoes and put his coat back on and tiptoed to the balcony, closing the door tightly behind him. At first, since the balcony was facing away from the ocean, he could see nothing, but then a cloud cleared and he thought he could make out some stars, and even farther down below some lights in the distance, but he had no idea what they were.
In the morning, they would be able to see one or two of the bridges, if not from here then from one of the other decks or balconies. They might have to wait until the fog cleared. He would show Geraldine from this vantage point some of the places where he had worked, tell her about the journeys in his car down leafy avenues to new condos or old bungalows or bigger suburban houses. And the people waiting for him, desperate to have a leaking tap fixed. He would describe some of these people to her. He knew she loved that.
More images of the world below came into his mind. He smiled at the thought of how many houses he had visited over thirty years, how many taps, how many washers. It hardly mattered, he supposed. Someone had to do it. He would not put a thought into it once he got home. And, if he could sleep for a while now, he would think about something else in the morning and make sure to wake Geraldine once he himself had woken up, as she had asked him to do.
Published in the print edition of theMarch 10, 2025, issue, with the headline“Five Bridges.”
Colm Tóibínis the author of books including“Long Island.”