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Moments Like this Never Last

An Excerpt From the Death Of Bunny Munro

Nick Cave is this guy from Australia who sang in a couple of different bands. The first one was kind of gothy and raucous; the second one was kind of rocky and gothous. He has long black hair and incredible cheekbones

AN EXCERPT FROM THE DEATH OF BUNNY MUNRO

From

The Death of Bunny Munro

by Nick Cave, to be published in September 2009 by Faber and Faber, Inc., an affiliate of Farrar, Straus and Giroux, LLC. Copyright © 2009 by Nick Cave. All rights reserved.

BY NICK CAVE

ILLUSTRATIONS BY J. PENRY

Nick Cave is this guy from Australia who sang in a couple of different bands. The first one was kind of gothy and raucous; the second one was kind of rocky and gothous. He has long black hair and incredible cheekbones.

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In 1989, he published a novel called

And the Ass Saw the Angel

, a Faulkner-style story about a mute boy growing up with an abusive family in a town filled with people who hate him. Now, 20 years later, Farrar, Straus and Giroux will be publishing his second novel,

The Death of Bunny Munro

, about a philandering womanizer whose wife commits suicide, leading him and his son to take a road trip around the south coast of England. The following excerpt begins at Mrs. Munro’s funeral.

There is a simple service for Libby Munro at St. Nicolas Church in Portslade. Bunny and Bunny Junior stand in the church, heads bowed. They are dressed in the brand-new black suits Bunny had found hanging, side by side, in the otherwise empty closet in his bedroom. A receipt he discovered in the jacket pocket showed that Libby had bought the suits from Topshop in Churchill Square, two days before her suicide. What was that about?

Every day a newer, weirder, and sadder aspect to Libby’s demise reveals itself. A neighbor had said that she had seen Libby burning pieces of paper and dropping them over the balcony a couple of days before her death. They had turned out to be the love letters Bunny had written her before they were married. He found little burnt pieces of them under the stairwell with the syringes and the condoms. What had got into her? She must have been crazy.

The whey-faced and effeminate Father Miles, with a cumulus of white hair banked around his skull, delivers his eulogy in a pneumatic whisper that Bunny has to crane his head to fully hear. He refers to Libby as “full of life and loved by all” and later as “selfless and generous beyond measure,” not once mentioning her medical condition and her subsequent mode of departure, Bunny notices, other than to say she had “joined the angels prematurely.”

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Bunny gives a cursory scope of the congregation and sees, squeezed into the same pew, on the other side of the church, a small number of Libby’s friends.

Patsy “Bad Vibes” Parker throws Bunny incriminatory looks every so often, but Bunny expects nothing less. Patsy Parker has never liked Bunny and at every opportunity she can find alerts him to the fact. Patsy is short, with an overdeveloped backside, and to compensate for her low stature wears high heels much of the time on her tiny undersize feet. When she would come to visit Libby, she would walk down the gangway in an obscene and purposeful trot, reminding Bunny of one of the three little pigs, probably the one who made its house out of bricks. This is particularly pertinent, as she had once, in a fit of pique over some porny comment she had overheard him make about the walking fuck-fest Sonia Barnes from No. 12, called Bunny a wolf. Bunny assumed she meant the cartoon wolf, all drooling tongue and bulging eyeballs, and had actually taken this remark as a compliment. Each time he’d see her he would do his “I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house down” routine. Bunny considers rolling out his tongue and bugging his eyeballs at her but realizes with a certain satisfaction that he can’t be fucked.

Next to Patsy Parker, Bunny sees, is Rebecca Beresford, who Libby would refer to at any given time as “the older sister I never had,” “my soul mate,” and “my best friend in the world.” Rebecca Beresford stopped talking to Bunny years ago after an incident at a barbecue on Rottingdean Beach that involved a half bottle of Blue Label Smirnoff, an uncooked chipolata, her 15-year-old daughter, and a serious misreading of the signs. This led to a furor that a year of contrition could not defuse. Eventually an unspoken agreement was forged that mutual disdain was the only way forward. Whatever. Rebecca Beresford shoots scowling broadside glances at Bunny from the other side of the church.

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Next to her is the seriously sexy Helen Claymore, who also gives Bunny nasty little looks, but Bunny can see that her heart isn’t in them and that she is clearly up for it. This is not an opinion but a statement of fact. Helen Claymore is dressed in a tight black tweed suit that does something insane to her breasts, militarizes them, torpedoes them, and something out of this world to her depth-charged rear end. Helen Claymore has been transmitting signals to Bunny in this way for years, and Bunny takes a deep breath and allows himself to open up to her vibes like a medium or spiritualist or something. He gives vent to his imagination and realizes for the millionth time that he has none and so he pictures her vagina. Bunny marvels at this for an unspecified moment. He sees it hovering before his eyes like a holy apparition and intuits the wonder of it and feels his dick harden like a bent fork or a divining rod or a cistern lever—he can’t decide which.

Then he hears a release of hissed gas and turns to see Libby’s mother, Mrs. Pennington, staring straight at him with a look of horror and sheer hatred on her face. She actually bares her teeth at him. Caught in the act, thinks Bunny, and he bends his head in prayer.

The boy looks up at his father and then over at Mrs. Pennington and smiles at her and raises his hand in a sad little wave. His grandmother looks at him and shakes her head in rage and grief, and a great sob breaks from her chest. Her husband, a good-looking guy who had a stroke a year ago and is now consigned to a wheelchair, lifts a convulsive hand and places it over that of his despairing wife.

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Suddenly, Father Miles is talking about “those left behind,” and when he mentions Libby’s “loving husband,” Bunny thinks he can hear an audible groan from the congregation—a boo and a hiss for the bad guy. He thinks he may well be imagining this, but just in case, he repositions himself, giving them his back, as if to shield himself from their collective disdain by facing the wall.

When he opens his eyes his attention is grabbed by a painting of the Virgin Mary with the infant Jesus cradled in her arms. Underneath there is a lacquered plaque that reads “Madonna and Child,” which makes him close his eyes and incline his head again and think about Madonna and her waxed pussy (probably) and how he’d read in some interview that she liked having her yoga-toned bottom spanked.

Behind all this imagining he can hear the low whisper of his wife’s eulogy and suddenly he feels a kind of imminent sense of her presence and, weirdly, his own doom. He can stand it no longer.

“Wait here,” he whispers to his son.

Bunny sidles from the pew and, head bent, sneaks out of the church. He ducks across the green square of lawn and, in a little public toilet made out of bricks, shaded by an implausible palm tree, he rests his head against the graffitied wall of the cubicle and beats off. He remains in this position for a time, then gloomily bats at a toilet-paper dispenser, cleans himself up, and exits the cubicle.

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With eyes downcast, he stands before the reflective square of stainless steel screwed to the wall above the sink. After a while Bunny finds the courage to raise his head and look at himself. He half expects some drooling, slack-jawed ogre to greet him there in the smeared mirror and is pleasantly surprised to see that he recognizes the face that stares back at him—warm, lovable, and dimpled. He pats at his pomaded forelock and smiles at himself.

He leans in closer. Yeah, there it is—that irresistible and unnameable allure—a little bashed and battered, to be sure, but who wouldn’t be?

Then, on closer inspection, he sees something else there, looking back at him. He leans in nearer still. Something grievous has resided in his face that he is amazed to see adds to his general magnetism. There is an intensity to his eyes that was not there before—a tragic light—that he feels has untold potential, and he shoots the mirror a sad, emotive smile and is aghast at his newfound pulling power. He tries to think of a papped celebrity who has been visited by some great tragedy and come out the other side looking better as a result, but can’t think of one. This makes him feel mega-potent, ultra-capable, and superhuman, all at the same time.

But most of all, Bunny feels vindicated. Despite everything, he’s got his mojo back. He feels he is ready to face the scowling disdain of this church full of uptight women. He even contemplates knocking out another one there at the sink. He sticks a Lambert & Butler in his mouth and lights it and blows a trumpet of smoke at his own reflected image.

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Then he notices that the shadows behind him have begun to bleed and smudge and reposition themselves. They seem to be growing longer and taking on personalities that would not normally be attributed to them, as if they were advancing upon him from the spirit world. Bunny has the unforeseen feeling that he is going to die—not today, necessarily, but soon—and is puzzled to realize that he experiences a certain comfort in that. He feels, in an intuitive way, that the shadows are those of the dead, rearranging themselves, rolling over and making room for him.

He finds himself going weak at the knees and he rolls his head back and looks at the ceiling. He notices a white clump of perforated mud in the upper corner of the toilet block, the size and shape of a human heart. In time, Bunny realizes he is looking at a wasps’ nest and that it is alive and humming with malign industry. The wasps are preparing themselves, he thinks. He remembers the burning West Pier and his blood runs cold and he thinks,

The

starlings are circling

. He closes his eyes and imagines for a split second a rush of perilous and apocalyptic visions—planes falling from the sky; a cow giving birth to a snake; red snow; an avalanche of iron maidens; a vagina with its mouth stapled shut; a phallus shaped like a mushroom cloud—and Bunny shudders, checks his teeth in the mirror, and thinks,

Man, where did that come from

?

He centers his quiff with a light tapping of the hands, then flicks his cigarette at the wasps’ nest and, in a shower of sparks, exits the toilet block.

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As he crosses the green and dandelioned lawn he sees Bunny Junior sitting on the steps of the church. The boy has taken his jacket off and draped it over his head.

“Is that you in there, Bunny Boy?” asks Bunny, looking this way and that.

“Yes,” says the boy, flatly.

“Why aren’t you inside?” asks Bunny.

“Everybody left ages ago. They’ve gone to the cemetery. What happened to you?”

Bunny looks at his watch and, with a rush of blood to the head, wonders how long he has been in the toilet.

“Nature called,” says Bunny. “Come on. Let’s go.”

“What?” says the boy.

“If you took the bloody jacket off your head, you might be able to hear me,” says Bunny. “I feel like I’m talking to a mushroom.”

Bunny Junior removes his jacket and squints up at his father. His eyes are shot with blood and rimmed in a pink crust.

“The sun hurts my eyes, Dad.”

“Come on, you’ll be all right. Get in the car. We’re late,” says Bunny, already moving across the lawn toward the Punto. Bunny Junior follows his father.

They climb into the dazzling yellow car, with its polka dots of seagull shit, and Bunny starts it up and swings into the mid-afternoon traffic.

“Christ, it’s hot,” says Bunny, and father and son roll down the windows.

Bunny hits the radio and a super-authoritative female voice comes out.

“Cool,” he says.

“What?” asks the boy.

Woman’s Hour.

“Is it, Dad?”

“It’s educational,” says Bunny, turning up the volume.

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The boy allows the air gusting through the window to blow across his face.

“I don’t feel so great,” he says and closes his eyes.

Bunny Junior hears his dad say, “You’ll be all right, Bunny Boy,” and that makes him feel better because everybody knows that not knowing whether you are going to be all right is often the worst part of when you don’t feel all right. He keeps his eyes closed and he listens to the radio. He hears a lady talking about the sexualizing or something of children through advertising. She starts talking about Barbie dolls and in particular a new doll called Bratz that looks like it has just had sex or taken a whole lot of drugs or something. When she says, “Our children are having their childhoods stolen from them,” he hears his father repeat the line and then say it again as if he is storing it away in his memory. He feels the car slow and grind and squeal to a stop.

“We’re here,” says Bunny. “Are you all right?” He hears a tremor of irritation in his father’s voice—not at him, probably, but at the whole world.

Bunny Junior opens his eyes and gives his dad a tight little smile and together they climb out of the Punto and make their way down the gravel path to the small collection of people that has gathered around what will be his mother’s final resting place. Bunny and Bunny Junior ease their way in and, with muttered apologies, make their way to the graveside.

The Death of Bunny Munro

will be available from Farrar, Straus and Giroux in September 2009 for $25. Buy it at fsgbooks.com or deathofbunnymunro.com.

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