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I slammed the photo down on the desk, asked,
“Do you seriously think I’m going to let that happen? You’re finished, pal.”
His pipe had gone out and he tapped the bowl against an ashtray, a clay one with the faded letters:
Inishman
He sighed, said,
“Part of my plan was to engage someone’s interest, and I was more than pleased that fate selected you. I hoped you might come to appreciate Synge; few do.”
I sat, faced him, said,
“Sorry. The deaths of two girls obscured my appreciation of literature, and you know what? Synge is a pain in the ass.”
He stood up, enraged, roared,
“You philistine! Synge didn’t develop until late and yet was dead before his thirty-eighth year. Six short years of real creativity, yet he left a body of work without parallel.”
I got as much scorn into my v
