Roman Song

by Brian Kennedy

  One day, Father Mac had to visit a sick elderly man in Walker Street, a few doors down from Fergal’s family. He resisted the temptation to call in to see them; he knew there was really nothing to say. Angela Flynn was just rehanging her freshly sponged net curtains when she saw a familiar frame coming out of a nearby door. She didn’t have to reach for her glasses to know who it was, but she did know she had to be careful who saw her as she left the curtains half-hung and stepped out into the street.

  It had meant a lot to her that Fergal had thanked her properly for helping him get his passport. That had been her own wee rebellion against her husband, and it hadn’t been easy. She had managed to intercept Fergal’s postcard before her husband rolled out of bed, and she kept it in her handbag, next to all her debt books and prayers and her mother Noreen’s mass card. Angela had thought a lot about Fergal since he’d left, and between bouts of guilt about hitting him she secretly admired his bravery in leaving. She even felt jealous.

  She focused on the back of Father Mac’s head, took a deep breath and decided to be brave.

  ‘Father MacManus? Is that you? God save us, it’s been a brave while since we saw you on our wee street.’

  Her voice stopped Father Mac in his tracks. ‘Well, Mrs Flynn, how are you?’

  Angela half-smiled, looked around and motioned for him to come closer. She ushered him into her hall and whispered, ‘Father, I don’t have much time. Do you have our Fergal’s address?’

  ‘Well, ah, I do, but not with me.’

  ‘If I drop off a wee note, will you post it on to him for me? My handwriting’s not the best - our Fergal used to do all that for me, you see. Anyway, look, my husband Paddy can’t know about it, okay?’

  ‘Drop it through my letterbox at St Bridget’s when you have it, and I’ll see it’s posted.’

  ‘Thank you, Father. Thanks.’ Angela opened her front door just enough for him to back out into the street before she closed it behind him.

  Father Mac was well used to the sometimes difficult burden of trust from his parishioners, and he knew he couldn’t have done anything but agree to help. In truth, he was amazed that Mrs Flynn wanted to write to Fergal. He thought Fergal might appreciate the fact that someone in his family thought enough of him to write, even though he wasn’t sure he trusted what she might say.

  That same night, though, Father Mac had a dream. He was in an enormous bed and all of Fergal’s letters were stacked in a neat pile on the bedside table, beside his Bible. He had left the window open and a gust of wind blew in from the street, scattering the precious sheets of paper onto the floor. Father Mac saw that they had landed in a perfect straight line, seven pages long, at the bottom of the bed. Then he saw that there was a huge capital letter on the back of each page, but their combination made no sense. When he got out of bed to look more closely, another gust of wind blew in and rearranged the pages, and this time he saw that they spelled the word ‘goodbye’.

  He woke in a sweat to the sound of Mrs Mooney scraping the downstairs fire to life with a poker, coughing repeatedly as the rising clouds of cremated coal flew in her tired face. Father Mac went into the bathroom and splashed himself with cold water, then went to his writing desk, took out several large sheets of blank paper and wrote without stopping.

  My dearest Fergal,

  I hope this letter finds you in the best of health. If I stop for a second, then I won’t be able to finish writing what I need to say to you, so please excuse any mistakes.

  Firstly, I bumped into your mother yesterday and she asked me if I’d post on a note to you when she drops it into St Bridget’s sometime in the near future. I hope you don’t mind, but I said I would, so look out for that — and I hope I did the right thing by agreeing. I know you’ve had the worst of times with her, but she looked really vulnerable when she said your name, and when all is said and done, she's your mother, for better or for worse. Forgiveness is a precious gift to give someone.

  I've just woken up here, and as I write these words Mrs Mooney is humming away to herself in the kitchen. Fergal, what a dream I had last night. It was about you, of course — you weren't in it as such, but your letters were. When I woke up, it made me realise something very important, and I knew I had to write this.

  Fergal, from this moment on, you must think of yourself as a free young man, m every sense of that word - that's if you don't already. I know you're probably working harder than you ever have in your life, but your new adventure in Rome should also be a time of incredible joy for you. You know how much I love you, and it's precisely because I love you so much that we need to let the past go. Forgive me, Fergal - the last thing I want is to make you angry in any way, or sad or hurt. But I would be angry with myself—furious -if I thought I'd held you back at this critical time in your life. Please don't be angry with me. Please don't try to change my mind, and please, please don't think you’ve done something wrong to make me write this. You have done nothing but make my life more worthwhile.

  I love you now as much as I have since you first appeared, soaking wet and wheezing, at the back of the church. But the church and the fragile community here is where my full commitment must stay, and you mustn't - Fergal, this is so difficult - you mustn't ‘save yourself' for me in any way. Do you understand? In one of your last letters, you were wondering when I would come to visit you, and I promise I'll do my best, but I have no idea when that will be and you mustn't wait for me. Do you understand? Rome is an incredibly beautiful and romantic city, you must be finding a world of new possibilities there, and I'd hate to think that you might limit your experiences because of me. Fergal, you are a beautiful and talented young man. You must let yourself be loved in whatever way feels natural to you - you know what I mean.

  Remember this: we will always be friends, you can be one hundred per cent sure of that, and we will never lose touch. I will treasure our time together, and I realise how privileged I have been to go with you, at least a little of the way, on your incredible journey.

  Please forgive me if these words wound you now. I promise they will all make more sense in time. I wish I was able to say all this to you in person, but I want you to be able to read and reread this letter on your own. Then throw it away and let the past be the past. There is only the future and all of the brightness it will bring. You know you have my heart, but you must go fully into the world now, as a free and single young man at the start of an incredible adventure.

  Fergal, sing for me, sing for your Granny Noreen in heaven, sing for God and his angels, and try to forgive all those people who tried and failed to extinguish the flame that burns so brightly in your soul. Most importantly of all, Fergal, sing for yourself.

  I look forward to the day when I can sit in an audience somewhere and see you at your best. Meanwhile, rest assured that you never feel too far away. Sure, I have the recordings from the Abbey to keep me company when I want to hear your voice. The other day I even caught Mrs Mooney playing them, with her eyes shut, while she was ironing away. Fergal, we miss you and we love you. Write back when you have something to write about, not because you think you should. One more thing: don’t you dare come back for a long time!

  All love,

  D. x

  Father Mac found some stamps in his drawer and put far too many on the envelope in the hope that it would somehow carry his letter to Italy faster. He ran out into the cold morning and reached the post box just as the van was pulling away, but the postman saw him in his rear-view mirror. He stopped and wound down his window.

  ‘Good morning, Father MacManus. What have you for me? Must be very important, sure, you nearly broke into a sprint after me there.’

  ‘Frank, thanks. It’s very important that this letter goes right now. Thanks for stopping.’

  The postman whistled when he saw the address. ‘No problem. All the way to Rome, I see, Father.’

  ‘Yes. Thanks, and good luck.’

  Frank blessed himself automatically and drove off whistling, happ
y that he’d been able to assist in God’s holy work. Father Mac turned and went slowly back inside to his breakfast, feeling as if a weight had been lifted from his heart. The decision to write that letter had been a difficult one, and he had been afraid that it would leave him with a constant and possibly overwhelming sense of loss, but the moment the bridge had been crossed and the letter put into Frank’s hand, the storm in his heart had blown over completely, and all that was left was an extraordinary, unexpected calm.

  6

  As Fergal’s Italian took hold of him, he found that he was able to move away from the edges of the conversations and closer to the banter with the kitchen staff. Two of the younger men, Antonio and Rocco, were always talking about the club they visited at the weekends - they always ended up getting laid, they claimed, or at least getting sucked off in their cars - and when they saw Fergal listening, they suggested that he come along the next weekend if he was free. He was a little taken aback, but he said he’d think about it. Antonio and Rocco looked at each other and laughed, asking him in amazement what there was to think about - what was more important than sex? They were miming the act when Arianna appeared to check an order and they automatically fell silent, spinning back to their jobs, before turning to wink at Fergal as she left through the swinging doors.

  Fergal had masturbated a couple of times, in the shower, while replaying some scene from his and Father Mac’s past. He’d even tried it one night in bed, but the old frame had creaked too much and he was convinced that the whole town had heard him, not to mention Arianna, who lived on the other side of the building. So he locked the bathroom door and relied on the sound of the running water to drown out his desire. One of the part-time waiters was called Riccardo, and Fergal had no trouble remembering his name because he was so handsome. Sometimes he allowed himself to picture Riccardo in the shower, soaping himself. Initially he felt guilty, as if he were betraying Father Mac, but as time moved on, Riccardo and a few of the other waiters became serious competition, albeit only in his fantasies.

  One morning, when Fergal came back along the corridor from the bathroom, wrapped in an enormous towel, he found a letter from Father Mac waiting, wedged between his bedroom door and the frame. He instantly felt guilty all over again for fantasising about Riccardo as he masturbated in the shower. He took the letter gently and set it on the bedside table, instinctively making the contents wait a while longer, while he dried off properly and got dressed.

  His eagerness for news turned sour as he read the pages over and over again, more slowly each time, to make sure he wasn’t imagining things. He trembled suddenly, sitting on the edge of the bed in shock. He wanted to cry, but the stubborn tears refused to come. Instead, out of nowhere, he found himself hissing furiously at the only holy object in the room, the framed picture of Jesus on the cross, ‘Dermot MacManus, you fucking bastard! You’ve met somebody else, haven’t you? Jesus! Do you think I’m a complete fucking moron?’

  Fergal sat on the side of the bed, hair dripping onto the carpet, unable to find any more words and staring into space.

  Slowly but surely, the lava of his fury began to cool and set as Father Mac’s words began to sink in. Somewhere in Fergal’s own heart he had known this was inevitable, but he hadn’t thought it would come so soon. He found himself remembering their last night of lovemaking before he’d left for Rome, and it dawned on him as he held the letter in his hand just how naive he had been to think that Father Mac might consider following him to Italy.

  He lay back on the bed and looked at the ceiling, suddenly angry again, but with himself this time. ‘Fergal Flynn, what are you fucking like? You’re a first-class idiot, that’s what! Of course he was never going to - he was never...’

  He brought the pages to his nose and smelled them. ‘Ah, Dermot, I’ve lost you. I’ve fucking lost you.’ Then he crumpled them into a ball and threw it against the wall. He got up and grabbed the crushed letter, wanting to rip it into a million pieces, like confetti, and send them back to Father Mac. He thought about writing an angry reply or phoning him, but right on cue, Arianna called from the bottom of the stairs that the kick-start coffee was ready. There wasn’t much time to be upset in her restaurant, and Fergal knew that maybe that was a good thing.

  That afternoon, during Fergal’s lesson, Alfredo announced that his technique had grown much stronger and that it was time for them to begin preparing for his first vocal exam. It would take place in only a few weeks’ time, three days after Fergal’s eighteenth birthday. He also announced that they would begin attending the opera together once a month depending on what production was touring, as it was imperative for Fergal to see as many live operatic works as possible.

  Fergal hardly seemed to care. Alfredo realised that although the melancholy in Fergal’s voice was much more pronounced than usual, all day he had seemed incapable of connecting with the music. ‘Is everything all right, Fergal?’ he asked finally.

  Fergal wanted to tell Alfredo everything, but he wasn’t sure that he could tell him anything at all. No one knew that he and Father Mac had been lovers. ‘I’m just tired,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t sleep last night.’

  Alfredo guessed that there was more to it, and he pushed carefully. ‘Fergal, I hope you know that you can talk to me about anything - absolutely anything. I know I’m your teacher, but I’m a man of the world, and we’re friends too, aren’t we? Aren’t we?’ Fergal wasn’t sure what to say, so he just nodded.

  ‘What is it? Tell me.’

  Fergal suddenly felt angry again. ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘Nothing? Fergal, you look so tense. And you’re here, yet you’re not here. Your singing is progressing technically, but your heart is elsewhere. Where is it? If you’re going to be like this, we should stop for the day. There’s no point in wasting precious time when you’re in this kind of mood.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Alfredo. It’s just...’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Maybe I’m not who you think I am. Oh, God, what am I saying? I don’t even know who I am.’

  ‘Fergal, shall I tell you what I see in front of me? I see someone who has had to grow up far too quickly in some ways, someone who has got used to carrying his burdens all on his own and who doesn’t really know how to ask for help. I think you felt alone for a very long time before Father Mac came along. Am I right?’ Fergal’s eyes began to fill up, and it was all the answer Alfredo needed. He reached over and put his arms around him. ‘I’m your friend too, you know, Fergal, and perhaps we aren’t as different as you think. Crying will make you feel better; you can’t hold everything in. I know you miss Father MacManus. You may even miss your family, even though—’

  Fergal was taken aback. ‘My family? What the fuck - how much did Father Mac tell you?’

  ‘Fergal, calm down. I know enough to see how disturbed you are if anyone mentions them. Father Mac told me a little, and I can see it in you now, although I wish you wouldn’t swear at me.’

  Fergal panicked even further. ‘Alfredo, I’m sorry!’

  ‘I can see that there are things you don’t feel ready to talk about. So just know that I’m here, whenever you need me - and not just for our lessons. I care about the person as well as the voice. One would be no good without the other.’

  ‘Thanks, Alfredo,’ Fergal sighed. ‘I do feel a wee bit better. My head feels tight, though.’

  ‘Yes, that’s pressure. I think you should take the rest of the day off. Go for a walk, or go and lie down - anything that will make you relax. And don’t even think about wallowing in guilt! That would be detrimental.’

  As Fergal headed back to the restaurant, he thought about his Granny Noreen. He took some comfort from the memory of the conversations they’d had towards the end of her life, when she had made him promise to go out into the world while he had the chance. Fergal knew that Father Mac was saying the same thing in his letter, but still, he couldn’t help feeling as if he’d been abandoned in some way.

  The only thing Ferga
l could do was throw himself even deeper into his studies and work like a demon at Moretti’s. Anything was better than admitting that he was unhappy. At night, though, alone in his room, he tried to write back to Dermot time and time again, but when he read his words back to himself, he always thought they sounded too angry and needy. He crumpled the half-finished pages into snowballs and threw them into the bin. Then he worried that someone would read what he’d written, so he hid the discarded pages in his coat pocket. The next day, on the way to his lessons, he tore them to pieces and dumped them in a public waste bin. Once, driven half-mad with insomnia, he got up during the night and dialled the number of St Bridget’s House in Belfast. It rang and rang and finally he had to hang up, knowing that Father Mac was probably out administering the last rites to someone. Fergal knew that the life he’d once known with Father Mac was well and truly dead.

  The very next morning, a letter addressed in Father Mac’s handwriting arrived. Fergal thought it might be an apology of some kind, but inside was another, smaller envelope, and his name was scrawled on the front in the unmistakable, unschooled hand of his mother.

  Fergal thought there must be something wrong. He was amazed to read that she’d been thinking about him when Father Mac appeared in Walker Street, and she had taken it as a sign that she should write to him.

  Fergal,

  You know I'm no good at letters. Sure it’s only bills I get with my name on them until your postcard came but I managed to hide that from your da. I thought our house was never ever going to be quiet after all my years of youse as babies and nappies and dinners and dishes and washing. At least you used to help with that. I don't know myself now. All of a sudden I have only your da and me to cook for most nights if he's not at the pub or the hurling. Paddy and John are both out working and sure they're never in now. I go to bed early and say my prayers and sometimes I hear their keys in the door and sometimes I don't. Even Ciaran is courting somebody but she's from Andersonstown so we daren't even ask him when we're going to meet her. He must be ashamed of us or something.