Chandeliers from Abroad
“It never would’ve worked.”
Ben whimpered on Wilfred’s shoulder, making it wet. Wilfred looked at Boniface in despair, making those his last words of consolation.
With great difficulty, Boni drowned any words that would’ve been unhelpful in the cheap liquor of The Jolly Green Man’s beer. It may be cheap, but Boni found it cool, crisp – a respite from Ben’s drivel. He usually got like this after failing with his foreign muses. And yes, foreign, that’s what Ben was into, not that Boni could understand it. They would beguile Ben with accents and airs, strutting about in giggles. Even if they were about as charming as the next English girl, those accents and airs would ensure they appeared to Ben as chandeliers in a room full of Ikea lights.
“She was meant to be everything,” began Ben, trembling. The ‘she’ Ben referred to was Florentia, an Italian, and Boni conjectured girl number eight, though, he couldn’t be sure—there were just that many. Ben was about to continue when he was interrupted.
“You said,” interrupted Boni, or rather interrupted the toilet-tasting beer, which was eliciting lots of new thoughts and words.
“You said that about Nuria. About Paula. About Camille. About Cassiopeia; who, by the way, from name alone should’ve made you wary on approach.”
Even after speaking Boni knew he was starting to be rude. He needed to stick to the beer, stick his head in it, not let his thoughts – though correct – make their way into the conversation. Focus on a non-verbal presence, Boni told himself, Ben was too feeble.
He also had no grounds to be slandering Cassiopeia. They were sitting in an English pub in London, not an Irish one. So what was Cassiopeia to anyone when he was Boniface? He had no grounds.
“You have no grounds,” choked Ben. “None at all!
Then it came.
“Boniface.”
Yes, yes, thought Boni. Take my name and call it silly. Call it whatever you please, but if Cassiopeia is from Europe she can never be silly because Europe is a lovely land, and what is Ireland but a wrong seat at the table of better guests and nicer drinks.
He drained the remaining beer. It just tasted sour now. It came down like a gavel after he’d finished, the table shuddering from the blow. Though Ben’s wine just about made it out, Wilfred’s beer sloshed over the sides and onto his lap. Wilfred sighed, prised Ben from his shoulder, which was also wet, but from tears, then walked himself to the bathroom without a word.
“You’re so mean,” said Ben immediately, whilst looking around for something else to bury his face in.
“Mmhmm,” was the only reply given, and Boni looked at his miserable friend, with his glasses skewed at an angle, and his usual springy black curls rendered lifeless by this Italian tragedy. Ben wasn’t bad looking at all, so it disappointed Boni when he dishevelled himself trailing after these European women, their names on his lips the only thing that stayed.
When he did speak of them, he spoke of them delicately, with tender nostalgia, even if they had laughed at him behind his back and at his efforts.
Either Ben didn’t see it, or he did, and would love them anyway. Even of the few times he did notice it, he called them fair and accurate judgments, said he needed to work on his character.
He was burrowing into his satchel now, stroking the leather straps, then twiddling the buckles. Boni started up again,
“Look Ben. I just don’t like you laughing at me, ay? Makes me feel bad. Then all these girls come around from all those fancy pants Europe places, names like Cassiopeia and the like, and you act as if they are some sort of angels or something. It gets me even more that you forgive them when they chat shite about you.”
Ben looked up from the satchel, looked down again.
“I know, I know. I don’t think they’re much better than you at all, Boni. I just like them so much, you know? Makes me feel as if I’m less boring than I am.” Ben opened up the satchel and waved some of his history notes. Some of his tears dripped on the paper; God he’s so fragile, thought Boni.
“Maybe if I studied maths that would be more attractive. But I like Art, History, Music, Poetry and the rest. Do you think that’s it? I mean I’m drinking wine whilst you two drink beer for heaven’s sake.”
Boni sighed, “Shouldn’t matter about that. You can drink wine like all Arts and Poetry and that stuff and that shouldn’t be a problem. Hell we like you, me and Wilfred. If those girls don’t like it they can get to steppin’. Not much more to it than that.”
Ben nodded, his eyes watery and glassy, but he seemed to be digesting Boni’s words. They’d arrived at The Jolly Green Man at eight to listen to all of Ben’s problems, and now it was around nine forty. The pub was beginning to fill up, and Boni thought he would like the same for his glass, so in a moment he would get a refill when Wilfred came back – probably better not to leave Ben alone. He was starting up again anyway,
“You’re right Boni,” he declared. Boni looked to him, surprised he was agreeing. “These girls... they,” he paused, searched for the words. “They can’t make me whole, can’t define my character. I like wine. Both you and Wilfred know that, like me, love me for it. No, there is not fullness in this wanting and in this self-loathing. Perhaps we can start doing some things together, the three of us, leave this circle behind. I like the lights here, but when one of those girls leaves, those lights become repellent to me. I would rather like them again.”
Ben was looking into the wine glass. All around them the lights were soft, dimmed in the dark haze of slow nightfall, mingling with overlapping conversation: tipsy talk on tongues that tarried on stories not worth mentioning, like Florentia, Nuria, Paula, Camille and Cassiopeia. That name might mean no more than the constellation after tonight, which is how it should be. At least, Boni thought, At least that was how the old Ben was. That was what he loved, these sounds, these lights, the ones here, the feeling they gave. No more chandeliers that glittered then dimmed. Ben, who liked wine because he felt his deep feelings of love resonated with that romantic red, and perhaps everyone else was just beer.
Upon those thoughts, Wilfred reappeared.
“Benjamin! Hustle up! You’ll never guess. I met a group of girls on the way back from the loo and one of them is very pretty but even better: she’s German.”
Boni should’ve protested right then; marched Ben and Wilfred out the pub and saved them all. Instead, the girls, as if on cue, were already at the table and began ushering them toward a different table they had outside, apparently better. Ben was enraptured from the first and his hand left his half-drunk wine glass, gathering his papers into the satchel, and let himself be led by a—unfortunately, though undeniable, thought Boni—stunning brunette named ‘Maria’.
It was like watching Persephone blush after Hades. Boni glared at Wilfred who returned a puzzled face, entirely ignorant to the possible breakthrough that Boni now mourned.
“You coming Boni? What’s wrong?” Wilfred pressed as he picked up his coat, beside him one of the girls glowing, pouting, presiding.
“Nothing. Forget it. I’m getting a beer; I’ll meet you outside. Well done for getting the stain out.”
Wilfred nodded. “Thanks.”
He watched Boni go to the bar with his empty pint, left behind the wine glass, alone, encircled by overhead lights and the people of The Jolly Green Man.