An Island for Two

By Stefano Paolocci

The daily adventures of the volcanic Aidan, told in the first person with humorous verve, transform into an intelligent portrait of that Ireland that, though not forgetting its wounds, wishes to begin hoping again, without violence and without prejudice.

We are in Derry (Londonderry), Northern Ireland.

It’s the summer of 1994; three young painters decide to commemorate, with a beautiful mural, the anniversary of the famous battle between Catholics and Protestants that took place in 1969 among the streets of the Bogside district.

Aidan, who at school is the worst one when it comes to arts subjects, would like to somehow weasel his way into participating in the enterprise, but he’ll have to settle for a funny and poetic surrogate. In the meantime, he discovers that, in the small world that surrounds him, it is well worth the trouble to truly care for one another.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BadPress
• Release date: Jan 27, 2019
• ISBN: 9781547520527

Book preview

An Island for Two

Stefano Paolocci

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Translated by John James O'Donnell 

An Island for Two

Written By Stefano Paolocci

Copyright © 2018 Stefano Paolocci

All rights reserved

Distributed by Babelcube, Inc.

www.babelcube.com

Translated by John James O'Donnell

Cover Design © 2018 Photo by Kat Smith

Babelcube Books and Babelcube are trademarks of Babelcube Inc.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

To my grandparents, to their stories

Two sides to every question, yes, yes, yes...

But every now and then, just weighing in

Is what it must come down to, and without

Any self-exculpation or self-pity.

Alas, one night when follow-through was called for

And a quick hit would have fairly rankled,

You countered that it was my narrowness

That kept me keen, so got a first submission.

I held back when I should have drawn blood

And that way (mea culpa) lost an edge.

A deep mistaken chivalry, old friend.

At this stage only foul play cleans the slate. 

From Weighing in by Seamus Heaney

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Wounds must be cleaned out and examined before they will heal.  It’s the unexamined wound that festers and finally poisons.  Our work shows the wounds. It’s not graffiti. This is not anger-fuelled immature destruction of private or public property: This is real art done by the people and for the people.  That’s what makes it authentic. That’s what gives it meaning in a world  where meaning has all but been destroyed by ambition and the greed for  money.

Taken from an interview of Tom Kelly, one of the Bogside Artists (http://www.bogsideartists.com) [http://www.bhag.net/lit/litkellw/litkellw_derr.html]

Chapter 1

Ma told me that a face like mine had never been seen since Eirinn was nabbed by their cousins the Sasana. That day we took four thrashings while playing at home and Da, while bringing me back from the stadium, the only thing he could ask me was ... have ya a light? I was only eight years old, he shoulda known that I still didn’t smoke.

Anyway, this is my face this morning, the last day of school. I was also dressed up much better than usual. Of course my being all spruced up is that of a child with two parents who, both during this early summer, as well as during the rest of the seasons, are obliged to fight against the beeping of the alarm and the Doire traffic. Therefore, I’m showin’ off, in order: my shirt-tail outside my trousers, the last bite of breakfast that I’m still chewing, and I’ve the same pair of pants that I wore yesterday.

Don’t worry, I’ll change ‘em tomorrow.

Instead what won’t change, is my frown.

If, like that game in the magazines where you must link up with a pencil a series of dots to reveal a hidden picture, someone wanted to solve the dilemma of my long face, the solution would be very straightforward: a single line running from the crescent-shaped shadows under my eyes to Tweenkins and to arrive on a papier mache’ brush named Wonky, twisted.

Easy.

Obvious.

But as I said, my parents chase the clock and dodge the traffic, so the puzzle will remain unsolved this year or simply cataloged under the category of he’s growing up, that container into which they’ve stuffed my silences for a couple o’ years now. 

In this sea of silence and automobiles, the first to abandon my rudderless ship will be Da: the shipping company where he works is only a couple of traffic lights from our house. Just long enough to light a cigarette, gather Ma’s insults, let off some steam with me and with my already unravelling hairstyle:

Come on Da! Close the window as you’re messin’ my hair!

Now, now: what’s this, you already startin’ to buzz around the birds at the girl’s school?

There isn’t a girl’s school for two counties ... Da

Our Aidan knows that well, eh Brid? But Ma is so busy dodging double-parked cars and so furious with the clock that she doesn’t even reply.  He remains waiting for a few seconds, hanging there like a sausage, then with full force he