The Night Swimmer: A Novel

The Night Swimmer: A Novel

Matt Bondurant

Language: English

Pages: 288

ISBN: 1451625308

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


An “evocative and often lyrical” (San Francisco Chronicle) novel about a young American couple who win a pub on the southernmost tip of Ireland and become embroiled in the local violence and intrigue.

The Night Swimmer, Matt Bondurant’s utterly riveting modern gothic novel of marriage and belonging, confirms his gift for storytelling that transports and enthralls.

In a small town on the southern coast of Ireland, an isolated place only frequented by fishermen and the occasional group of bird-watchers, Fred and Elly Bulkington, newly arrived from Vermont having won a pub in a contest, encounter a wild, strange land shaped by the pounding storms of the North Atlantic, as well as the native resistance to strangers. As Fred revels in the life of a new pubowner, Elly takes the ferry out to a nearby island where anyone not born there is called a “blow-in.” To the disbelief of the locals, Elly devotes herself to open-water swimming, pushing herself to the limit and crossing unseen boundaries that drive her into the heart of the island’s troubles—the mysterious tragedy that shrouds its inhabitants and the dangerous feud between an enigmatic farmer and a powerful clan that has no use for outsiders.

The poignant unraveling of a marriage, the fierce beauty of the natural world, the mysterious power of Irish lore, and the gripping story of strangers in a strange land rife with intrigue and violence—The Night Swimmer is a novel of myriad enchantments by a writer of extraordinary talent.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

she said. He’s the one who is out and about. She would gesture to the open sea. This is my world, right here. After a few visits, hours spent blasted by the ocean, the golden sea unfurling before us, I could tell that I was changing, that the vista was altering my perspective of everything else. I became more aware of the distances all around us. The spaces above me, the vast skies and the headlong rushing sensation of a planet spinning through space. And the spaces below, the depths of the

clinked together lightly like wind chimes. I don’t understand, I said. It’s for the children of the sea, Ariel said. The ones who passed through. She was beaming, her wide face open and glowing. You’ve seen them, out in the water, on your swims. You’ve been close to them. Who? Lost at sea, Ariel said. All thems that are lost. *  *  * That afternoon on the long finger of Blananarragaun I scrambled down the black rock, crabbing myself through the boulders to where the swells dashed their

dishwasher when the pub filled up in the afternoons. He started selling Highgate’s cheese, using it on our toasted sandwiches. Its salty, earthy taste was unmistakable, but I’m not sure if our patrons enjoyed it. We still did a smaller trade than the rest of the pubs, but it didn’t take much to break even. I don’t think Fred or I ever thought of this enterprise as a way to make money, but we needed a cushion for when the gale season came around again. Fred still made the occasional trip into Cork

fire out and drug the boat up. He was badly, badly burned. I was there when they pulled him out, blackened and arms and legs drawn up. Looked like a burnt spider. Hands, legs, most of his body. A real mess. His boots were melted to his feet. Some kind of accident. The rest of the crew got off on Conchur’s boat, but Dinny was trapped belowdecks. O’Boyle sipped his tea, swallowed. ’E never said much after that. *  *  * That night I slept fitfully, everything seemed uncomfortable. I lay in bed

bad and I said no, it wasn’t so bad. He asked me if I was okay and I said I was fine. Then he said he didn’t want me to look at him anymore, so I turned away. We locked up and went upstairs. I stood outside the bathroom as he washed his face, not knowing what else to do. I heard running water, then the small grunts and gasps as he dressed his wounds. I thought of him standing at the sink in his underwear, fingers of dried blood matted in his chest hair, his eyes in the mirror. What was he

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