The Sadness of Beautiful Things Read online

  Praise for The Sadness of Beautiful Things

  “With a deceitful simplicity and a generously empathetic ear, Simon Van Booy gets to the core of the moment.”

  —Colum McCann, author of TransAtlantic and Let the Great World Spin

  “Simon Van Booy writes wonderful stories that surprise and uplift, that hold our attention all the way with subtle revelations about life in all its astounding contradictions, its sorrows and joys.”

  —Sheila Kohler, author of Becoming Jane Eyre and Once We Were Sisters

  Praise for Simon Van Booy’s work

  “Breathtaking . . . chillingly beautiful, like postcards from Eden . . . Van Booy’s stories are somehow like paintings the characters walk out of, and keep walking.”

  —Los Angeles Times

  “Simon Van Booy knows a great deal about the complex longings of the human heart.”

  —Robert Olen Butler, Pulitzer Prize–winning author of A Good Scent from a Strange Mountain

  “Each of [Van Booy’s] stories has moments of sheer loveliness.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  THE SADNESS OF BEAUTIFUL THINGS

  Simon Van Booy is the award-winning and best-selling author of nine books of fiction and three anthologies of philosophy. He has written for the New York Times, the Financial Times, the Irish Times, NPR, and the BBC. His books have been translated into many languages. He lives in New York with his wife and daughter. In 2013, he founded Writers for Children, a project that helps young people build confidence in their storytelling abilities.

  ALSO BY SIMON VAN BOOY

  FICTION

  The Secret Lives of People in Love

  Love Begins in Winter

  Everything Beautiful Began After

  The Illusion of Separateness

  Tales of Accidental Genius

  Father’s Day

  CHILDREN’S FICTION

  Gertie Milk and the Keeper of Lost Things

  Gertie Milk and the Great Keeper Rescue

  NONFICTION

  Why We Fight

  Why Our Decisions Don’t Matter

  Why We Need Love

  PLAYS

  Hindsight

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street

  New York, New York 10014

  penguinrandomhouse.com

  Copyright © 2018 by Simon Van Booy

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Names: Van Booy, Simon, author.

  Title: The sadness of beautiful things : stories / Simon Van Booy.

  Description: New York, New York : Penguin Books, [2018]

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018018374 (print) | LCCN 2018019579 (ebook) | ISBN 9780525504863 (ebook) | ISBN 9780143133049 (paperback)

  Subjects: | BISAC: FICTION / Short Stories (single author). | FICTION / Literary. | FICTION / Historical.

  Classification: LCC PR6122.A36 (ebook) | LCC PR6122.A36 A6 2018 (print) | DDC 823/.92—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018018374

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_2

  For S.D.S.

  1968–2017

  Contents

  Praise for The Sadness of Beautiful Things

  About the Author

  Also by Simon Van Booy

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Preface

  Epigraph

  A Sacrifice

  The Green Blanket

  Playing with Dolls

  The Pigeon

  The Hitchhiker

  Not Dying

  The Saddest Case of True Love

  The Doorman

  Acknowledgments

  The author wishes to thank his publisher and editor, Patrick Nolan; editorial assistant, Matthew Klise; literary agent and friend, Carrie Kania.

  A Sacrifice was first published in the Irish Times. A version of the The Green Blanket was first published in the Chinese edition of ELLE. The Hitchhiker was commissioned and broadcast by the BBC. A version of The Doorman was commissioned by the Chinese edition of Harper’s Bazaar.

  Preface

  Most of the tales in this collection are based on true stories told to me over the course of my travels.

  —Simon.

  He who binds to himself a joy

  Does the wingèd life destroy;

  But he who kisses the joy as it flies

  Lives in eternity’s sunrise.

  —WILLIAM BLAKE

  A Sacrifice

  Until the fire, nobody much cared for the McCrutchens. They just weren’t used to living in a town. The children were rowdy and unkempt and walked five abreast along the pavement, laughing at the old, and shouting silly things at other people’s children.

  Mr. and Mrs. McCrutchen had been married since they were teenagers. The service took place in a stone church. Maggie was a young bride, even by country standards. Standing barefoot in white, she concentrated on what the priest was saying, without truly understanding.

  The groom’s mother gave her a piece of silver jewelry and she wore it around her neck. The groom arrived with his friends. He wore a gold hoop in one ear. The sleeves of a dark suit fell over his knuckles.

  They rode away on a chestnut horse.

  To be a McCrutchen child meant knowing every detail of the story.

  “It’s just a matter o’ time . . .” their mother would sometimes say when she put them to bed, “before the lot o’ you start falling in love, one by one, like bottles knocked off a wall.”

  They moved to the village of Douglas because the school was known for being good. Mr. and Mrs. McCrutchen dreamed their children might get on in life. But then their house burned down.

  Some said it was a cigarette or an unattended toaster. Others believed it was a candle blown into net curtains by wind.

  There had not been a fire like this in Douglas for thirty years. The street had to be blocked off with orange cones. The neighbors were told to move their cars and stay far back. The McCrutchens bunched together on the glistening tarmac in their nightclothes. Firemen rushed about with hoses and ladders, trying to save the other houses.

  Maggie McCrutchen was crying in front of everybody. The money her husband had given her to get insurance a year before, she had paid to the dentist. Her daughter had crooked teeth and people at school were laughing.

  The children stayed with different neighbors, as no one had room for all seven. The next morning their blackened, dripping things were carried into the street. The Guards put up fences to keep people out. The youngest had left her doll in the panic to escape, so one of the fire inspectors came back after his shift to look for it, but had a new one in his pocket, just in case.

  Then a month after the fire, very early, a fleet of workmen’s trucks drove slowly up the street, then parked outside the charred ruin. The fences came down, and there were workers from Cork, and engineers from Dublin, tramping about in their boots with charts and cameras and special equipment that was yellow and orange.

  The McCrutchens were living in a bungalow owned by the Church, near the quarry—a place empty for years and riddled with damp. But it cost nothing more than regular appearance at Mass.

  When the McCrutchen children heard at school about the workmen and the ladders going up—they thought it was a joke. Eventually, a woman from the building department showed up at the bungalow. Signatures were needed so work could proceed.

  At first everyone thought the Church had called in a favor from Rome, the Pope himself. But one of the workmen on his tea break said it was a neighbor who’d arranged everything through Dublin lawyers as they wished to remain anonymous. All the McCrutchens had to do was pick the tiles, choose the paint, and find carpet with a pattern they liked.

  Dogs who’d barely left the hearth in years were now being dragged around the block several times a day. The hunger for gossip was insatiable. A few neighbors pretended they knew who it was but had been sworn to secrecy. Husbands coming home late from the pub on Friday night woke their wives to confess secret hoardes of euros.

  Eventually someone on the street did find out. A woman called Penny Carr, known for her chrysanthemums.

  This is how it happened.

  About twelve months after the fire, the McCrutchens moved into their rebuilt home. They had a party and invited the neighbors, the Guards, the fire crew, the priest—and even some of the workers. Everyone had to take their shoes off, and the youngest McCrutchen children were charged with arranging them in s
ize order by the front door.

  There was a rumor the identity of the benefactor would be revealed at the party, and so the whole street packed the McCrutchen house, with drinking, eating, singing, dogs, and children running over the new carpet in their bare feet.

  The only person not in attendance was Kitty O’Donnell, who lived at number seventy-seven. She had gotten fairly ill and most of the time was propped up in bed with the television on and something hot to drink.

  Kitty was a local woman who’d grown up in the city of Cork nearby, then moved to Douglas with her husband when they got married. After he died she was alone.

  The day after the McCrutchens’ housewarming, Penny took some cake to her elderly neighbor. They had a nice talk. Mostly things on the news and the weather. The old woman kept patting Penny’s hand.

  “Do you not have many visitors, Mrs. O’Donnell?”

  “Not so much. It’s just me left now.”

  With her husband at work in the day, and their one daughter at college in Dublin, Penny decided to go over again a few days later. She called first on the telephone. Kitty said to use a key under the flowerpot.

  The front room was full of still, gray light that seeped through delicate curtains of lace, now yellow with age. Mrs. O’Donnell said they had been from the time of her wedding. There were photographs of her husband in pretty frames, looking as Kitty remembered him from their long and happy life together. And it had been a good life. Better than most. Kitty knew that and was grateful for it.

  The visits from her neighbor became regular. One day Kitty sat up too quickly and knocked over her tea. The mug didn’t break, but the carpet was wet. Penny got down and soaked as much as she could into a hand towel.

  “It was me, you know . . .” Mrs. O’Donnell said as her neighbor pushed on the stain, “what paid for the McCrutchens’ house.”

  Penny laughed. “You, Kitty?”

  “Aye.”

  “I never would have guessed it was you.”

  “Well, now you know.”

  “You’re the secret millionaire on the street?”

  “That’s right.”

  Penny looked up, wondering if the old woman’s mind was starting to falter. “Where do you keep it then? Under the mattress?”

  “Down in the town, locked up in a bank for safekeeping.”

  When Penny thought the stain was faint enough she stopped rubbing and put the towel on the tray to go downstairs.

  “I’m not joking, Penny. Do you promise to keep it under your hat?”

  “Well, if you’re the secret millionaire, Kitty—at least tell me how you came to have such a fortune. Lottery, was it?”

  “You really want to know?”

  “Aye.”

  “Because it’s a long story and a sad one, so.”

  “I’m all ears, Kitty.”

  “Maybe on your next visit.”

  Penny laughed with some awkwardness. “If you want I can make some lunch and you can tell me after we’ve eaten?”

  Mrs. O’Donnell couldn’t resist. “You afraid I’ll die before you come round again?”

  Her neighbor’s cheeks burned.

  “I’ll be ninety-two in the spring, Penny.”

  “I know, that’s a grand age, so it is.”

  After opening a can of soup, then pouring it into a silver pot to heat, Penny looked around at all Kitty’s things, searching for some clue to her wealth. But the interior of number seventy-seven was like every other home on the street. A sturdy kitchen table. Bills stacked behind a small, battery-operated clock. A bread bin full of little, hard crumbs. A cold fireplace in the sitting room, and a cabinet of ceramic figures painted in old clothes that were supposed to have value.

  After eating the soup and brewing another pot of tea, Mrs. O’Donnell said she was ready. The story began in 1901. A little girl had just been born on a farm outside Douglas. Her name was Celia Riley. She had a nice time growing up, wandering the fields, walking her father to the pub, fetching water in buckets, the smell of green grass in summer, hay in winter. She was fifteen years old when she met someone. A boy, just a little older than herself, from a village in the north of Ireland. He was down helping in the fields, earning money in the warm weather.

  After glancing at each other a few times, Celia and the young man took walks. They weren’t supposed to be alone, but could always find a quiet path outside the village. At the end of the summer the boy went with his brother to fight in France against the Kaiser. They both died in the first week. Why they went, nobody really knew. It might have been the adventure. Or an excuse to see Paris and hear a foreign tongue.

  At first Celia thought it was sickness in her body from the shock of his violent death. She stayed in bed for several days being looked after by her mother.

  Later on, it was clear to her what was happening. She sat her parents down in the kitchen and told them everything, the walks, the soft words, his promises, the brutal but honorable way he died—and lastly that inside her body was all that remained of him in the world.

  Her mother studied the floorboards without moving. Then her father stood in his clean, heavy boots and went to the cupboard. The key was in his waistcoat pocket. Celia thought she was going to be given some money. But he took down his shotgun. Celia’s mother rushed over and put her hands on it, but his mind was made up.

  She was allowed to go upstairs and pack a few of her things. It was hard to see through such wet eyes.

  He waited for her downstairs with the front door wide open, the gun over his arm, the twin barrels like hard, eyeless sockets. She could hear her mother’s voice. A long, low petitioning whisper, then nothing.

  Celia’s father walked her to the edge of the village. People who were out stopped to look.

  * * *

  • • •

  After he had gone back, she sat by the roadside and looked at things without really seeing them. Then her mother came. She sat with her and they held one another. Then they walked the long road into Cork. There was a convent with spiked gates that accepted girls in her situation. After a week, it was all arranged. Celia would carry the child. Then once it was born she would hand it over. The sisters already knew who the parents would be.

  Celia could live at the convent and work for the nuns, but over the years, her mother had saved money from the odd scrap of sewing, and it was used for a ticket to America. There she could forget her mistake.

  * * *

  • • •

  Eight months later, Celia gave birth to a girl. She had worked at the convent all that time and learned to hide inside the person everyone saw and spoke to.

  During delivery, she was allowed to look at the baby, but not hold it, nor touch its face.

  She was lucky, the sister said. Most girls had to stay in the convent and work for the Church the rest of their lives to atone for their sin against Him.

  The voyage seemed to take a very long time. Celia met some nice people on the ship, who gave her advice about what to do when she got to America—what to say to the immigration men, and how to behave.

  Her mother had arranged for work as a maid in a big house in lower Manhattan. She could receive letters from home, but could not send them.

  It was hard work, but there was lots to eat in the evenings when the family went out and Celia could pretend it was her house.

  After a few months, an earring went missing. Celia looked everywhere. The woman said that stealing was like lying to God. Celia didn’t realize she was being accused, and agreed that it was a terrible sin to steal.

  By that time, though, she had made a few friends. One of them lived in a house for girls run by a former schoolteacher, who agreed to give Celia a week or two of lodging until she could find a new situation.

  But without a reference it was not easy. Celia imagined her former mistress discovering the earring, perhaps in the bedding. Then begging her to come back.

  One day she noticed a sign in the window of a restaurant. It was where the Italian section began, but in the evenings, Celia liked to walk all over.