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two crimestories
Flann, the Púca
“Hitler!” He called this
out every time we ran into
each other at the rubbish
bins. At this point, I could
actually count on him
popping up whenever I
carried out the garbage. It
was as if he automatically
materialized as soon as I
opened the back door to
the courtyard area. “He’s
the reason I went to France
and Belgium!” I nodded
amiably. “I haven’t gone
abroad since then.” By this
part of the conversation, I
had dropped off my trash
and was on my way back
inside. “I’m ninety-five,”
landed before I could
slip through my kitchen
door. And I’d always lob
back: “Congratulations!
Keep it up, and take a trip
sometime. Maybe Italy.”
He would then jerk his
thumb to the left: “Our
Flann here doesn’t like
to go so far.” This was
followed by a shrug and
raised eyebrows, a sigh
and a thoughtful nod.
I would nod back and
disappear into my kitchen.
Every time.
Early on, I made the
mistake of actually asking
him questions. Why do
you bring up Hitler? Why
don’t you travel? Why
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