by Donal Conaty
‘Ah yes, Sandy Lane,’ said Lorcan. ‘That was a marvellous few days. And Seanie paid for everything. He wouldn't let us put our hands in our pockets. Those were the days, eh? We were all developers then.’ Suddenly the surgeon's good humour left him and he shook his head sadly. ‘Poor Seanie,’ he said. ‘We won't be going to Sandy Lane with him again any time soon. The bloody media have ruined this country.’
‘It's a shame,’ agreed Dermot. ‘Those days are gone for Seanie. But we should get our secretaries to try and book something just for us. Mustn't let standards slip!’
‘Great idea, Dermot. Get your girl to call my girl and sort something out. Now what can I do for you? You haven't had another accident, have you?’ said Lorcan with a wink.
‘‘Fraid so,’ said Dermot. ‘I'll need the usual report. And I want you to look after this man. Give him the works, whatever he needs. He's a guest of the nation.’ Dermot turned to me. ‘You're in good hands with Lorcan,’ he said. ‘I have to go and get something done about these terrible crows’ feet. The strain you IMF people have me under is aging me dreadfully. I'll pick you up at twelve and we'll go for lunch.’
Before I could object he was gone.
‘Now,’ said Lorcan. ‘Let's have a look. Where's the pain? Describe it for me.’
‘There is no pain,’ I said. He looked very worried by this, as though he feared my condition might be terminal.
‘Tell me what happened,’ he said.
‘We were in a minor traffic accident,’ I said, beginning to lose patience with the situation. ‘We were rearended. But no one was hurt. I'm fine.’
‘I see,’ said Lorcan. ‘Turn around and let me have a look.’
I felt his hand on my neck and then the pressure of his thumb between two vertebrae. Suddenly I felt a sharp pain there and a shooting, stabbing sensation down my right arm. I let out a yelp. ‘No pain, eh?’ he said, shaking his head. ‘This is very common. You think you have no pain but you are in fact in agony. Let's have a look at the scan.’
This confused me for the simple reason that I hadn't had a scan.
‘See these roundy bits,’ he said pointing at someone's vertebrae on a scan, which, bizarrely, he held up to the light coming through his office window. ‘I'm going to have to remove them,’ he said seriously. ‘I'll try to fit you in today, seeing as you're a friend of Dermot's and the pain is so acute.’
I quickly came to my senses. ‘That's not my scan,’ I said. ‘I haven't had a scan done.’
At this, Lorcan became defensive.
‘That's hardly my fault,’ he said huffily. ‘There's been cutbacks since you lot came to town. Anyway, one scan looks much the same as the next. I've seen it all before.’
‘I don't want any of my vertebrae removed,’ I said, my voice rising.
‘Your what?’ Lorcan asked.
‘My vertebrae. The roundy things.’
‘Suit yourself,’ he said, ‘but you have far too many for a man of your height.’
‘I'm not having surgery, thank you very much.’ I reached for my jacket but had trouble putting it on. I had severe spasms of pain running from my neck down my right arm.
‘Relax,’ said Lorcan. ‘Perhaps you're right. Most back pain is related to depression anyway.’
I looked doubtful.
‘Are you working in a stressful environment? Of course you are. You have to save Ireland from Dermot! That can't be easy!’ he said and laughed at his own joke. ‘I'll give you a prescription for some anti-depressants, anti-inflammatories and muscle relaxants and we'll see how you get on. I find you get the best effect if you take them with a couple of glasses of wine.’
I took the prescription just to get out of there. Dermot was waiting for me in the ambulance bay at the entrance. When I got into the car I noticed that his crows’ feet had completely disappeared and the area around his eyes was eerily expressionless.
‘What did you get?’ Dermot asked as we drove off.
‘Prozac, Difene and Valium,’ I told him.
‘Goody! I hear they go great with red wine,’ he said.
‘Who was that crazy man?’ I asked. ‘What is he actually qualified to do?’
Dermot was indignant. ‘That “crazy” man is captain of Royal County Dublin and plays off scratch. He's on so many State Boards I can't keep track. Lorcan couldn't be more highly qualified to do whatever he pleases.’
‘Is he qualified as a surgeon, Dermot?’ I pressed him.
‘I have absolutely no idea,’ said Dermot. ‘Come on, we'll get your prescription filled. You look to be in a bad way and I want to try that Difene stuff.’
We got back to the office later that afternoon just in time to do Kris Kindle. My recollection of it is slightly hazy as I had had no choice but to take some Valium to relax the muscles in my neck and some Difene for the pain. I didn't take the Prozac.
The Finance Minister was put in charge of proceedings.
Dermot insisted it was good for his morale to give him simple tasks that could be easily accomplished. Mr Lenihan did seem to enjoy the whole affair and was delighted when it was his turn to open a present. He received the deeds to a house on a ghost estate in Mullingar.
‘Fantastic,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘I shall go there on my holidays.’
I was pleased to see that they had stuck to the €10 price limit I had imposed. It would be nice to think it boded well for how the Department would manage the wider economy, although, in my limited experience, the staff were much better at managing their own finances than those of the nation.
I had bought Dermot an abacus. I thought it would be a useful aid in introducing him to the principles of macro economics. I think he knew it was from me.
Dermot was too excited to maintain the anonymity that is usual for Kris Kindle. With the boundless enthusiasm of a child with ADHD, he grabbed my present from the Minister's hands and gave it to me. ‘I think you'll be particularly pleased with this,’ he said, grinning from ear to ear.
With considerable foresight, Dermot had bought me a soft cervical collar. Through the haze of medication, I vaguely remember putting it on.
I normally worked for several hours in the evening when not out keeping an eye on Dermot, but, as I was drugged up to the eyeballs, work was out of the question that evening. Instead I watched a Prime Time Special on NAMA, one of the Irish government's bank rescue initiatives set up to absorb all of the banks’ bad loans to property developers. Apparently every property developer worthy of the name had transferred his assets to his wife before going into NAMA. Indeed, for the wife of a property developer NAMA had resulted in a windfall akin to winning the New York State Lottery, with the added bonus of not having to pay taxes on your jackpot. After a while I flicked over to a light entertainment program called The Idiot Awards. It was broadly similar to the NAMA program, minus the vast amounts of cash. On the whole I think it's a good thing that Ajai didn't watch television while he was here.
I spent the next morning in court with Dermot and the Minister, trying once again to sort out AIB. Dermot had persuaded the Minister that there was a need for a Credit Institutions Bill which would give him (Dermot, not the Minister) unprecedented power over the banks.
The Four Courts are very impressive buildings. Dermot told me some of the history of them while we were waiting around. Apparently there was a time when the Irish people were patriotic about more than their banks. This was hard to imagine from my dealings with officials and politicians in the Department of Finance.
Despite a couple of journalists insisting that the public had a ‘right to know', the courts saw in Dermot's favour and the department was allowed to essentially take control of AIB without any unwelcome publicity. Dermot spent the rest of the afternoon with his feet on his desk shouting ‘Who's your daddy?’ down the phone to bankers he had called at random to taunt.
I had never seen him so pleased with himself. ‘There's nothing I like more than nationalising banks. I should have thought of it years ago,�
� he said to me. ‘All I want for Christmas is the AIB, the AIB, the AIB,’ he sang happily. ‘Would you like a bank? I've any amount of them.’
‘What's yours is mine,’ I pointed out as delicately as I could but he didn't let it dampen his mood.
The Minister for Finance, however, did not share Dermot's good humour. He was clearly distressed and was muttering darkly to himself when I bumped into him in the bathroom.
‘I have nowhere to put the AIB,’ he said. ‘I have no room anywhere.’
‘It's OK, Minister,’ I said as soothingly as possible. ‘Just because the State takes ownership of a bank doesn't mean you have to store it in the Department of Finance.’
‘Really?’ he said. ‘Are you sure? That is a huge relief. Thank you so much.’
Mr Lenihan really is the strangest of men. An hour later I saw him on the One O'Clock News claiming that because of his actions AIB would become indestructible. You could see that the interviewer was having trouble keeping a straight face. It was probably all he could do not to ask whether AIB would still be vulnerable to kryptonite. I knew I wouldn't be able to tell Ajai that the Minister for Finance now believed that the Irish banking system was indestructible. I just hoped the international media didn't pick up on it.
I struggled to get into the office the following morning, and not just because I was bent in half with neck and back pain. The hallway was packed with bankers bearing gifts for Dermot. One by one they were granted an audience with him while the Minister for Finance took their coats and brought them drinks. They ignored Mr Lenihan as they sought to secure their futures by making a good impression on Dermot. Before leaving they each dropped to their knees and kissed the ring on his finger.
The gifts began arriving as soon as President McAleese had signed the Credit Institutions Bill into law. One bank even sent a Michelin-starred celebrity chef to cook a special dish for Dermot. Apparently the celebrity chef was almost as notorious as the bankers who sent him. ‘His restaurants close almost as soon as he opens them,’ Liam explained. ‘He's a great chef but he can't run a business.’
To great excitement and considerable confusion, the chef announced that he was going to prepare an ortolan for Dermot's delectation.
‘What's an ortolan?’ the Minister for Finance asked and the chef fixed him with a withering stare.
‘An ortolan,’ he said, addressing Dermot and not the Minister, ‘is the ultimate culinary delight. It is illegal in several countries but is happily still available to the elite of Ireland.’ He spoke with a dramatic flourish as though addressing a royal court.
‘Get to the point,’ said Dermot. ‘What is a bloody ortolan?’
The chef cleared his throat.
‘An ortolan is a beautiful songbird,’ he said. ‘It is tiny and delightful, but the only way to prepare it is by torturing it in the most cruel way imaginable. Some consider it a sin against God and humanity.’
‘Sounds great,’ said Dermot. ‘Let's get started. I'm half starved.’
Excitement spread through Government Buildings as the word went round that one of the most frowned upon acts of the culinary arts was about to be performed on the premises. Within minutes the entire Cabinet was in the office. They were very taken with the celebrity chef in his brilliant whites. The Minister for Finance even ran his fingers through his truffle-oiled tresses in wonder, before being firmly led away by an aide.
As he prepared to roast the beautiful bunting, the chef explained how he had first captured it alive before poking out its tiny eyes. The pitiful creature was then force fed until it was four times its natural size. Before our very eyes the chef then drowned the helpless bird in Armagnac. Then he plucked it and roasted it. I couldn't help noticing that the Minister for Education and Skills, Mary Coughlan, was transfixed by the whole procedure as she dug her fingers deep into the flesh of my arm. ‘I fucking love ortolans,’ she whispered breathily, ‘whatever the fuck they are.’
The chef placed a large napkin over Dermot's head. ‘This will help you to savour the aroma,’ he said, ‘and also to hide your shame at what you are about to do. Now put the ortolan in your mouth with only its beak sticking out, and bite.’
Dermot did as he was told and the beak fell to the floor at his feet.
‘As you chew the ortolan,’ the chef explained, ‘you will feel its delicate bones cutting your gums. This allows you to savour the absolute decadence of what you have done to this beautiful bird. You are enjoying the same meal that President Mitterrand of France ate on his deathbed.’
Dermot was all about the decadence. His own blood and the blood and guts of the ortolan dribbled down his strong chin. ‘It wasn't the ortolan that killed him, was it?’ Dermot joked. ‘Seriously, have you any more of them?’
‘I have two more,’ the chef said.
‘Good stuff,’ said Dermot. ‘I'll have one and my friend here from the IMF will have the other.’ A murmur of discontent went around the room. ‘What's wrong with you lot?’ Dermot asked the collected Ministers and the Taoiseach. ‘Have ye no work to do?’
‘We want ortolans,’ they said in chorus.
‘There's none left. Did you not hear the man?’ Dermot attempted to stare them down. For a shocking moment it seemed as though they might actually rebel against Dermot's authority.
At that moment Mary Coughlan intervened. ‘Somebody get some fucking sparrows,’ she shouted. ‘Now!’
Dermot Ahern and Noel Dempsey quickly jumped to the task and the poor bewildered Michelin-starred chef spent the rest of the day roasting sparrows, seagulls and a swan from the pond in St Stephen's Green.
I didn't want an ortolan and instead offered mine to Ms Coughlan, but she sensed my discomfort and insisted that I ‘eat the bollicking bird’ in front of her.
I couldn't bring myself to do it. ‘I'm sorry,’ I said. ‘ I simply can't. I would be sick. It would be wasted on me.’
‘Well we can't have that, can we?’ Ms Coughlan said. ‘We're in a recession, after all.’
With that she snatched the ortolan from my plate and ate it beak and all.
‘What did you do to your neck?’ she asked as she crunched on the little animal's bones.
‘A car crash,’ I explained awkwardly, ‘with Dermot. I didn't think I was injured at all but Dermot brought me to see a doctor and for some reason I've been in pain since then.’
She laughed as she pulled a tiny bone from between her teeth. ‘Well, you fit right in here, don't you?’ she said.
‘What do you mean?’ I asked her.
‘What the fuck do you think I mean?’ she asked. ‘It's nothing to be ashamed of. I'd say you'll make a tidy packet out of it. Of course you'll have to take prolonged sick leave.’
‘Prolonged sick leave? The IMF doesn't do sick leave,’ I told her.
‘Mean bastards. Sure you're more Irish than IMF at this stage,’ she said.
I went and sat down at my desk and examined my conscience. Had I lost my way? Had I been compromised? Was I, as the Education Minister said, more Irish than IMF? Perhaps I should ask Ajai to remove me from the assignment. I considered the facts: On the plus side it seemed that the government was willing to impose severe austerity measures on its people. And the public seemed willing to take the punishment. All the evidence pointed to a genuine willingness among the Irish people to come to terms with the country's problems. On the negative side it appeared that the people who ran the country had learned nothing from experience and were hell-bent on blaming everyone but themselves for the mess their country was in. I didn't hold out much hope of that situation changing. But it didn't have to change. As long as the ruling classes of any country we dealt with enforced austerity measures, it didn't really matter that they themselves continued living the high life.
I had to continue to work with Dermot to make sure the necessary adjustments were made. Spending so much time with him was taking its toll but it was all part of the job. I reassured myself that I was putting the IMF first.
Before I
left work that evening, Dermot reminded me that he would pick me up on Christmas morning and take me to his house for dinner.
‘Thank you, Dermot,’ I said, ‘but no more ortolans please. I really couldn't go through seeing that again.’
‘Sure an ortolan wouldn't fill a hole in your tooth,’ he replied. ‘There's no eating in them at all.’
I spent most of Christmas Eve becoming increasingly frustrated with the pain in my neck. Every time I tried to read a report my chin sank down towards my collar bone. I still felt that the surgeon had caused the problem, as bizarre as that sounds, but Dermot insisted that it was typical of soft tissue injuries to flare up a few days after the actual incident.
‘How do you know so much about neck injuries?’ I asked him.
‘Oh, I must have had ten or twelve of them,’ he said. ‘None as bad as yours though.’
I finally gave in and took two Valium and went Christmas shopping. I bought small, sensible gifts of some placemats for Dermot's wife and selection boxes for his children. Naturally, I kept the receipts.
That night I phoned Dad and my brothers to wish them a happy Christmas, but I got the answering machine.
I had a terrible night's sleep with my neck and spent most of the night pacing around the apartment. I finally fell asleep at around six in the morning and was still out for the count when the doorbell rang at 11 a.m.
‘You look awful,’ Dermot said when I opened the door.
‘Bad night's sleep,’ I said. ‘Give me ten minutes to shower. Would you like a coffee? I won't be long.’
‘No rush,’ said Dermot. ‘We're not going anywhere. There's been a change of plan.’
Only then did I notice that Dermot was carrying a large turkey in a clear plastic bag in one hand and a toothbrush in the other.
‘A change of plan?’ I knew this wasn't going to be good.
‘The bitch threw me out,’ he said. ‘I'm staying with you for Christmas. I hope you can cook.’
‘What? Dermot, that's terrible. What happened?’
‘I came out of the sauna in our en suite and my towel was gone,’ he said as he sank into a chair. ‘I couldn't find it anywhere. In fact everything that said “His” on it was gone. I had to wrap myself in a towel that said “Hers”. My suits were gone. I called Sinéad but there was no answer. I went out the front door to look for her and the wagon slammed the feckin’ door behind me. All of my stuff was lying in a pile on the drive. I found my keys in my coat pocket and tried to get back in but she had changed the locks.’