Sister Agatha

by Domhnall O'Donoghue

  The Mother Superior and the other nuns from the Order of Saint Aloysius had also made a dash for the tree, still battling the confusion and embarrassment that nobody had any awareness that Sister Agatha had even left the country (didn’t Sister Fidelma mention that she was visiting some non-existent in-law for a couple of days?). To drown out any wicked whispers of negligence, they had dragged the youngsters out of the school and, despite the fact that they had barely sung a note in their lives, the pupils were expected to perform like the Vienna Boys’ Choir. (When the Mother Superior soon discovers the whopping million euro that had been lodged in the convent’s bank account one day earlier, the Order will be able to send for those famed Austrian crooners themselves!)

  Around the tree itself, members of the parish had broken into a sweat ensuring that both the sycamore and the grass around it looked neat and tidy, so the lawnmowers, shears, and trimmers, which weren’t due to make an appearance for another few weeks, were being put to great use. Even though the day was bright, lanterns and fairy lights were hoisted up onto the branches, while a large red velvet couch was wrenched out of Mrs Smith’s sitting room for the occasion. If the world’s eyes were on Kilberry, the community resolved to show off their neck of the woods in the best possible light. (They even wore their Sunday Bests—and it was only Tuesday!)

  At a quarter past three, the black BMW was said to have been spotted, although most people waited to see the car with their own eyes because the boy who trumpeted its arrival was a notorious liar. (He recently claimed that he had been the victim of a UFO abduction and taken to a far-off planet, where he had been forced to perform every Eurovision song winner since the contest started. Johnny Logan and Dana were the leader’s favourites, he had informed the community on return.) This time, however, the boy was actually telling the truth, and when a line of cars, headed by Sister Agatha and Riccardo, pulled into the church car park, a thunderous applause followed, one usually reserved for an All-Ireland final.

  “There’s hope for us all,” muttered Gerry Donnelly, a seventy-year-old bachelor, fed up with having to cook for one every night.

  And that emerged to be the consensus—not just in County Meath, but in the four corners of the globe: life had no Best Before.

  * * *

  Mario Gentili, the host of an immensely popular Italian radio show (with the rather unimaginative title, Lo Show di Mario Gentili), prided himself on being the personification of enthusiasm. Whenever there was an opening to attend, the DJ was there—cutting the ribbon, if required. Whenever there was a birthday in the studios, the sixty-six-year-old was there—belting out ‘Tanti Auguri a Te’ if required. And whenever there was the need to raise money for some cause or other, Mario was in the midst of it—spearheading the fundraising, if required.

  So when he received a press release for a campaign that aimed to prevent the demolition of a centuries-old lace mill on the nearby island of Burano, Mario became the first to sign up. In fact, he even suggested a suitable event, sure to bring attention to the cause: a boxing tournament.

  “Let’s show them that they will have to knock us down before they knock the building down!”

  Always game for an exciting challenge, Mario also proposed taking on one of Italy’s finest boxers—an Olympic medallist at that—in the televised charity match. While most people would baulk at the idea of going into a ring with a world-class heavyweight half his age, Mario Gentili was not remotely phased by the task ahead. He firmly believed that it would take more than a few punches to knock him out—being the only surviving blood relative of Riccardo Trentini, the oldest man in the world, meant that he had remarkable genes, after all.

  While their actual connection was nothing to shout about (the third cousin twice removed, or something along those lines), the radio star emerged as the one person who knew that Riccardo wasn’t the Pádraig Keogh the world believed him to be; which is to say, the only person able to put an end to Sister Agatha’s charade.

  During a private training session with his feisty coach, Elisabetta—who was extremely impressed by her protegee’s robustness, despite his years—Mario’s usually-focused mind became drawn to a news report on Televenezia that featured an interview from Dublin Airport with some flamboyant nurse who, all-a-flutter, described how fate (and a wretched mother) had initially kept Mario’s third cousin twice removed (or something like that) and a nun apart but, ultimately, had brought them together again.

  “Cosa? Riccardo grew up in an orphanage after his mother died of pneumonia!” Mario told Elisabetta, who was too preoccupied with jabbing him in the stomach to engage in what he was saying. (There was also a pesky gum-shield lodged firmly in his mouth with which he had to contend.)

  “I must ring the network and tell them la verità!” he mumbled, saliva flying everywhere.

  But Mario never got the opportunity to make any such call because his trainer, full of vim and vigour on that particular day (a dress she had ordered online had just arrived, and it was even nicer than she had hoped!), proved to be a little too enthusiastic with her punches. As such, a distracted Mario Gentili fell backwards and knocked his head against one of the steel posts, rendering him unconscious.

  Petrified that she would be held accountable (and never get an opportunity to wear her lovely new frock), Elisabetta panicked and ran for the hills where she lived in a modest log cabin, so the poor man’s near-lifeless body wasn’t discovered until the following morning after failing to turn up for Lo Show di Mario Gentili.

  Mario’s vibrant life suddenly came to a temporary halt. Unlike the lace mill, which was offered a last-minute reprieve by some philanthropic businessmen, and eventually turned into a museum. If only the broadcaster didn’t have to spend the following six months in the hospital battling, amongst other things, complete memory loss, he would have loved to have attended its glamorous opening.

  * * *

  On the journey to Kilberry, a makeup artist and a stylist, sponsored by one of the commercial television networks, hopped into the BMW and gave Sister Agatha something of a drastic transformation. Lashings of makeup were caked onto her face, while her thinning hair received a saucy boost.

  “If this journey doesn’t kill Pádraig, the fumes from the hairspray probably will,” Ludovico joked in a wonderfully passive-aggressive manner.

  When Sister Agatha caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she was nicely impressed; if only the convent hadn’t shunned such embellishments over the years, she would have had long queues of admirers lining up!

  Riccardo was left just the way he was.

  After the finishing touches had been applied, Sister Agatha stepped out of the car, successfully channelling the spirit of some silver-screen starlet. Not even the pontiff himself could identify with the adulation this luminary currently received from the home crowd, she firmly believed.

  “We love you guys!”

  “You’re our heroine, Sister Agatha!”

  “Can you kiss my baby’s head, Pádraig?”

  Over the past week, Sister Agatha hadn’t thought twice about indulging in spontaneity, and decided that now wasn’t an appropriate time to change her ways. So, disregarding the agreed itinerary, she broke away from the group and went to greet the many supporters whose love and warmth for Butsy Miller and Pádraig Keogh were absolutely infectious.

  Ludovico failed to be impressed by this little transgression, but decided to capitalise on Sister Agatha’s deviation as it bought him some time to make a dash for the tree and adorn it with the contents of his grandfather’s valigia once and for all. He might have been held to ransom by health and safety restrictions on the plane journey over, but now he was free to decorate as he pleased. (Some of the locals thought his adornments seemed a little garish and unnecessary, but chose not to challenge him on this point; without the devoted Italian nurse, they realised, none of this would have been possible.)

  Meanwhile, Sister Agatha, completely swept away by the occasion, relished signing one autograph after
the other for her legion of admirers.

  “Is that Hillary with one ‘l’ or two?”

  However, one follower to whom she gave the cold shoulder was a certain Doctor McManus— if he’d had his way, Sister Agatha wouldn’t have even left his surgery, let alone sail the seven seas! But before any heated words could be exchanged between the pair, Ludovico returned, demanding that Sister Agatha focus and remember why they were all there in the first place.

  “And don’t forget, Sister—time isn’t on our side!” he whispered conspiratorially.

  Reluctantly, the nun tore herself away from the merry mob and readied herself to assist her wheelchair-bound sidekick across the field to the tree that had been so integral to the original story of Butsy and Pádraig.

  Before the first step could be taken, a magazine editor, who was due to carry out an exclusive interview with the couple later that day, stood in front of them, his face alive with another exciting idea.

  “Why don’t you both try to walk over to the tree?” he suggested.

  Ludovico, who now felt a little irritated on account of being forced to share with the world the story he considered belonged to him alone, gasped.

  “He will never make it! You do realise that he is a hundred-and-twenty-one years of age?”

  The editor shrugged.

  “I have faith in him,” Sister Agatha boldly interjected. “Let’s give it a try.”

  “Absolutely not!” Ludovico protested, but secretly thought it would be the most adorable end to their story (and the perfect final frame for You Don’t Know What You’ve got Till it’s Gondola).

  “Okay, do it,” he relented.

  And so, with a little assistance from the other two, Sister Agatha carefully lifted Riccardo from the wheelchair, draped his arm around her shoulder, and took one final deep breath.

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?” Ludovico asked one last time.

  “We will be given all the strength and support we need from the goodwill of these generous and kind people,” she reassured him, before embarking on the start of their monumental journey across the carpark towards the sycamore tree.

  Ludovico couldn’t resist giving the pair one last passionate embrace (before dousing them in blasted glitter and confetti). As the tears cascaded down his flushed cheeks, he called out: “Break a leg!”

  Sister Agatha felt optimistic that she wouldn’t have to inflict any such damage on her new acquaintance’s frail body. No, if any assault were to take place, she hoped it would just be Riccardo kicking the proverbial bucket.

  * * *

  At Stella della Laguna, a day wouldn’t pass for Riccardo Trentini without being hen-pecked by one of the nurses who, for an unknown reason, seemed convinced that the sculptor was a real-life character from some romantic motion picture or shoddy three-act opera.

  His near-fossilised body gave the impression that he wasn’t receptive to the world around him; unfortunately, he gauged quite a bit of what went on, which, for the most part, was this astonishingly silly nurse waxing lyrical about a supposed melodrama in which Riccardo assumed the leading role.

  Of course, matters of the heart had played a considerable part in the life of Signor Trentini—he was a libidinous Italian, after all—but all these previous and thrilling encounters with physical intimacy never lasted longer than a satisfying tumble and a fumble, and the odd modelling session. Some people crave the stability that long-term relationships offer; others, like Riccardo, do not.

  For the sculptor, the best aspect of Stella della Laguna was that his modest bedroom had been transformed into a make-shift studio and the work that occupied the space never ceased to energise and fuel him, allowing his creaky mind to remain vital and sprightly. Samson had famously found his strength in his hair; Riccardo, his art. On account of this, he believed that he remained immune to the litany of foolish folly to which the nursing staff had been subjecting him on an hourly basis.

  Even though so many of his companions at Stella della Laguna had thought better about being force-fed another grim breakfast on earth, opting to dine with the gods in heaven instead, Riccardo, surrounded by his work, had managed to see the bright side of things, allowing him to mosey on.

  However, this admirable outlook soon changed.

  When the sculptor caught snippets of a conversation about how the remaining pieces of his collections were to be auctioned off to foot his bill, at long last he wanted out. Without his work beside him—empowering him to battle on—there was little point in living. Yes, before they wrapped up his sculptures and carted them off to their new homes, the artist felt that there was no better time than now to pull the curtains down on his extraordinarily long and, for the most part, successful life.

  Riccardo never feared death. On the contrary, he saw it as a beautiful transitional process and not the end that many believed it to be. What he described as bleak and dark and lifeless was an existence without his sculptures around him. The aforementioned Samson had crumbled when Delilah chopped off his mane, and now that the owner of Stella della Laguna decided to take his lead from that hair-cutting, duplicitous biblical figure, Riccardo wanted to relinquish life.

  Yes, he was definite that it was time to give up the ghost, once and for all.

  But, according to the doctors, his body enjoyed rude health—so, what was there to do? Riccardo had often prayed during his long life, but never did he want them to be answered more than now.

  And then, a strange Irish nun suddenly appeared.

  * * *

  Under the watchful eye of the world, Sister Agatha and Riccardo set off on their momentous journey. Not since the days of Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin sauntering across the moon’s surface had the simple act of walking received such glory and acclaim.

  One step at a time became the duo’s mantra and, sure enough, they started to make real progress. For a moment, it appeared as if this snowball’s-chance-in-hell undertaking might actually prove possible—that was until the light of one of the camera bulbs almost blinded Sister Agatha, resulting in her stumbling over a stone, which, in turn, led them both to face-plant the ground beneath them. The world gasped but none more so than Ludovico, who valiantly ignored the mini-strokes with which he was contending and galloped over to his charges, valiantly helping them back to their feet.

  “Mamma mia! I knew I shouldn’t have—”

  “We’ve come this far—we can’t stop now,” Sister Agatha insisted, dusting herself off. “We’ll make it, I know we will.”

  With Sister Fidelma busy in the crowd taking bets as to whether this would be the case, Sister Agatha took a deep breath and, arms linked with her side-kick, ploughed on towards what had, since morning, become the world’s most famous tree. Inch by inch, they moved closer to their final destination, and when it looked as if the task at hand would prove too difficult, the roars of encouragement only became louder (Sister Fidelma was particularly in fine voice—she had a thousand euro on a positive outcome).

  When the pair stood just metres away from the tree, with Mrs Smith’s extremely inviting couch underneath, a spontaneous countdown started.

  “Ten! Nine! Eight!”

  Completely fagged and longing to fall and take a vertical position—on either the comfy couch or lumpy soil beside it—Sister Agatha had to remind herself that she had never been one to admit defeat and that she certainly must not start that carry-on now.

  “Didn’t you survive the Sahara sun, Butsy? Escape maniacal gunmen in Chicago? Was it not you who freed yourself from the psychopathy of Warsaw city?” she firmly stressed to herself. “You’ve got it in you, I know you have!”

  And on they went.

  “Seven! Six! Five! Four!” chanted the crowd.

  Even though the remaining energy in her reserves was now completely depleted, Sister Agatha refused to give up—just three more steps was all that was needed.

  “You have clocked up thousands upon thousands of miles over the course of the week. All you now require are j
ust a few more steps!”

  And on they proceeded.

  “Three! Two!”

  With a solitary step left, this lionhearted couple was so close and yet so far—Sister Agatha could barely hold herself upright, let alone carry the (surprisingly heavy) weight of the man next to her while walking forward. In desperate need of some support once again, she fished the emerald ring out from under her dress—a piece of jewellery that she had kept near her person for over a century. She gripped it so tightly, it was a wonder she didn’t go the route of Padre Pio and stigmatise herself.

  “I’m doing this for you,” she whispered to it. “You’ve got to help me—don’t abandon me for the third time, do you hear?”

  She then brazenly turned to Riccardo for support, only to find his head drooping so far in front of him, it was on the verge of dislodging itself from the rest of his body.

  And that was the moment when Sister Agatha finally realised what she was doing: she was killing a sweet, gentle man who had humbly spent his life inspiring people through his art—all so that she could fulfil a promise she had made some fifty years earlier.

  Before her, Sister Agatha saw the most vulnerable little soul in the entire universe. Before her, she saw innocence being exploited.

  “What are you doing, you wicked, depraved girl!” she screamed at herself, releasing her hold of the emerald ring.

  As the errors of her ways became even more apparent, the roars from the crowds only heightened, now reaching a fever pitch. In fact, their cries of support could have been heard in Tunisia, America, Poland, and Italy. A single step was all that was needed for Sister Agatha to reach that infernal sycamore and claim her prize but, at the final hurdle, she decided to do something that she had never done in her entire one hundred and eighteen years: throw in the towel. As much as she would have liked to have thought otherwise, Sister Agatha was not cut out for this murdering lark.

  “You still have time to make amends, Butsy Miller,” she told herself.

  However, before being able to seek much-needed assistance on behalf of her Italian counterpart, something rather incredible happened. As if there hadn’t been enough miracles taking place over the past number of days, for the first time in over thirty years, Riccardo’s eyes fully opened and came to life. With the speed of a jaded tortoise, he raised his head and turned to Sister Agatha.