Wandering in Exile

by Peter Murphy

  “Are you sure? It would mean living on one income for a while.”

  “Two.” Danny corrected her.

  “Yes.” She stroked the back of his hand without looking into his eyes and went back to sorting the paper as Danny tried to read the headlines upside down.

  “What’s happening with the Falklands? Has the Ice-Queen had her pound of flesh yet?”

  Danny wanted to be topical with her. Lately she spent a lot of time talking about the conversations she had with the people around the university and he wanted to show her that she could have those talks with him. “I heard the Brits lost the Sheffield and twenty people were killed. And the Argies lost one, too, and lost over three hundred!”

  *

  She didn’t mean to, but sometimes she got a little impatient with him. It wasn’t his fault. She didn’t like being away from Dublin. Toronto was nice but it was so different. Danny had shown her all the Irish places but they were always filled with the type of people she found hard to talk to. Miriam always told her that she was a bit of an intellectual snob.

  And he was different too. He was becoming more Irish. Not the natural type of Irish, like he was at home. He was becoming more . . . stage Irish.

  Her friends at the university liked him when they came to see the band play, but Canadians were like that. They seemed to enjoy everything that was different from them and embraced it all, even the ethnic villages tucked into their downtown neighborhoods, and made a point of experiencing them. They often had lunch on Spadina, eating Chinese food that she didn’t recognize but was determined to try.

  “It’s not a football game, Danny. Those are real lives that are being lost.”

  “I know what ya mean. In football, England never wins.”

  She gave him a look but he ignored her and lit a cigarette.

  She would have to find a new apartment—one with a balcony. She really couldn’t stand the smell of smoke. It wasn’t all his fault; it was just that living together was a lot harder than she imagined. Harder, too, because she could never go home again. At least not until her mother had time to work on her father, but that might take an age. But she would get through it.

  Her friends told her it was normal and that all she had to do was to change things until she was happy with them. “But what if Danny doesn’t like the changes?” she had asked. “Then you change him for someone else.”

  She had laughed along, but later, when she was sitting on the couch with him, she felt a little guilty.

  “Here,” she said as she handed him the front section. “Someone tried to stab the pope.”

  “Where?”

  “In Fatima.”

  “Then there’s no problem. He can get cured without having to move.”

  She smiled briefly and found something to read about a new disease called AIDS.

  “Have you seen Martin recently?” she asked when she was finished.

  “I saw him a few weeks ago.”

  “We should go and have brunch with them tomorrow. They always know the nicest places.”

  “Sure,” Danny answered and went back behind the sports section.

  “Good. I’ll call them.”

  “Them?”

  “Why? Don’t you like David?”

  She rose before he could answer and lifted the phone. She liked spending time with Martin and David. She told her friends about them. It was so ‘Toronto’ of her—having gay friends.

  “Just don’t make it too early. We get paid tonight and we always go for something to eat afterwards.”

  *

  “You are very much like your uncle. He used to sit here for hours too.”

  Giovanni had come out from behind the counter to sit with Patrick. It had become a part of his ritualwalks around the city—stopping at Giovanni’s for coffee and watching the crowds come and go across the cobblestones of the Piazza Della Rotunda. He liked the Pantheon, with its roof open to the heavens.

  “What was he like, back then?”

  “He was like you—young. And his head and his heart were full of all the good he was going to do in the world.”

  “Did you think he was foolish?”

  “Of course, of course. Only the fool can lead us away from the—how do you say—the edge of the cliff. I was a young fool too.”

  Patrick studied the old man’s face, broad and affable and prone to smiling. Giovanni liked to make people laugh. Even during the morning rush, as Romans jostled for their coffee, Giovanni would tend to them with a broad smile.

  “So what changed you?”

  Giovanni liked to shrug, too, and did before answering. “I am still a fool at heart. I still believe that, like all of this,” he waved his arm across the piazza, “the whole world will live long enough to know that the only thing that really matters is how we treat each other. Nothing else is important. We are remembered for how we treat the people.”

  It was Giovanni’s turn to study Patrick’s face, something he did openly. “And you. Why are you so burdened with all that is wrong with the world?”

  “It comes with the collar,” Patrick reached for his neck but he hadn’t worn his collar for weeks. There was no point here where priests were as common as beggars.

  “I don’t think that is so.” Giovanni reached forward and touched the pocket of Patrick’s shirt, right above his heart. “You carry great weight here.”

  Patrick sat back in his chair and raised his cup between them. Giovanni was a wise old man who could look into the soul of anyone he met. He might have blushed but Giovanni just laughed. “Do you think you are the first priest who has carried the burden of secret love in his heart?

  “And now, Giovanni must have his rest.”

  The old man rose and briefly placed his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “But remember one thing: everywhere you go in Rome, someone has walked before you.”

  Patrick watched him leave, collecting cups and glasses as he went. Giovanni was a part of the city. His family had run the café for generations, serving priests and plunderers alike.

  Patrick turned again to watch tourists filing in and out of the old temple, built to honor all of the gods of man’s creation. He liked that; it gave him hope that one day the human race might see all that they shared and worry less about the things that divided them.

  Giovanni’s words stayed with him all the way home, along the Via Arenula, across the Ponte Garibaldi and in among the trees of Trastevere.

  *

  “Deirdre, Danny, are you well?”

  Martin and David rose from their chairs as Danny and Deirdre approached. David kissed both of her cheeks but Martin declined. “I still haven’t shaken off the bug I picked up in Ireland,” he explained and waited for her to sit.

  “I love your hair,” David remarked as he sat opposite her. “It’s like Lady Di meets Madonna.”

  “That’s exactly what I was going for.” Deirdre laughed and raised her menu. She loved David’s attention but she was a little embarrassed too.”

  “I mean it girl. You look so chic.”

  “And don’t you like my hair?” Danny intruded.

  Deirdre could never understand that. Danny was jealous of David and the way he was with her. “It’s bad enough,” he’d complain to her after every time they got together, “he’s with my uncle. Does he want to be with you too?” Deirdre might have chided him but she understood. Martin meant everything to him.

  “That depends,” David played along, filling the awkward moments when Martin coughed from the depths of his lungs. Martin was pale and had lost weight—almost like he was beginning to waste away. “What look are you going for?”

  “The I-don’t-give-a-shit look.”

  “Oh, honey. You’ve nailed that.”

  Deirdre knew that Danny was getting pissed. He always came out second-best in his banters with David, so she changed the subject. “You’re very quiet, Martin.”

  “He’s sulking,” David interceded. “He won’t take my advice and get a second op
inion.”

  “I don’t need a second opinion. The doctor said it’s viral and that the antibiotics will take care of it.”

  “Well, I think you should see someone else. It’s your health.”

  “Maybe I will,” Martin answered, looking tired and grey.

  “So,” David moved them all along like a guide. “How are the young love-birds? I hear that you are thinking of moving. I know of a wonderful, newly renovated place down on Winchester Street.”

  “Does it have a balcony? I’m going to make Danny smoke out there.”

  David put on his most shocked face. “Danny. Are you still smoking? Don’t you know how bad it is for you? You know,” he continued, talking to Deirdre before Danny could answer, “you should cut him off until he quits.”

  Deirdre couldn’t help it and giggled. She wasn’t comfortable talking about sex, but with David, it all seemed so natural. “Maybe I will.”

  “So,” David pronounced the subject decided and raised his menu. “What’s everybody going to eat? They do a wonderful quiche. You must try it.”

  “I will then, if you insist.”

  “I do. And for you?” He turned to Danny.

  “Bacon and eggs.”

  “How original. And Martin?”

  “I don’t really feel like eating. I’ll just have a cappuccino.”

  “You must eat something,” Deirdre and David both said, practically in unison.

  “Try the Eggs Benedict.”

  Martin nodded like he didn’t have the energy to argue.

  “And can I get a Bloody Mary?” Danny asked after the waiter had taken their order. “Anybody else?”

  “Danny. It’s a bit early.”

  “Not really. It’s evening in Ireland.”

  David looked askance at Danny for a moment before turning to commiserate with Deirdre with his eyes. He had made it obvious, so many times, that he thought she was far too good for him. She liked that and remembered it every time Danny complained about the little changes she was making to his wardrobe, and his hair, and his shoes. He complained that she was killing off the old him, bit by bit, and David was a willing accomplice.

  *

  Deirdre and David chatted throughout, giving Martin and Danny a chance to catch up on the news from home.

  “Did he do it?”

  “Yeah, your mother told me they have almost finished the work and should be able to put the house for sale in a few weeks.”

  “Do you think they’ll do okay?”

  “I’m sure they will. Whatever we might think about Donal, he does seem to have a nose for money.”

  “Yeah, other people’s.”

  Martin didn’t respond. He didn’t trust Donal; there was something about him. But he said nothing for Gina’s sake. She was enjoying the ride and he knew her well enough to know that she was more than capable of hitting the brakes. If the time ever came.

  Even remembering his trip made him shiver a little. Everything back there was cold and damp and mean-spirited. Normally, he could handle it, but this trip had really brought him down.

  “Danny? How the hell did we ever survive in such a cold damp bog of a place?”

  “Don’t be such an emigrant; it wasn’t all that bad. Except for the cold. And the damp. And the smell of bog on everybody. And the rain.”

  “Still miss it, then?”

  “Like fuck! I don’t know how they put up with it. Even Ma was telling me that they’re all goin’ on holidays when the money comes. They’re goin’ to the Costa Del Sol.”

  *

  “You know you were flirting with him.”

  “With who, David?”

  “Of course, David. The two of you were like giggling girlfriends.”

  Deirdre turned and faced him seriously. “What bothers you more, Danny, that he’s black or that he’s gay?”

  “Both, if you must know. And I don’t see why you have to be all . . . with him.”

  “All what Danny? Say it.”

  He hated when she did that. She was so much better at explaining her feelings than he was. He was better off changing the subject. “I suppose we’re goin’ to have to look at the place he was tellin’ you about.”

  “Don’t you want to? We need a bigger place. We have nowhere to put anybody if they come to visit.”

  “But I’m happy where we are.”

  He knew it was a lost cause. They would go and look at the place and, if it was right, move. His whole life was becoming a self-improvement project, constantly guided by the new ideas Deirdre brought back from the university or from David. He was getting tired of it but everyone told him he was just being an asshole. “You’re so fuckin’ well off, ya bollocks,” Frank often reminded him. “And just be thankful that she has whatever is wrong with her. Otherwise she wouldn’t want to have anything to do with you.” Even Jimmy agreed, “You’re one lucky bastard.”

  Danny still resented all the changes but maybe she was right. She had started school and was taking courses in Celtic Studies. She had become so immersed in it all—sometimes not even coming home to make dinner for them.

  “Trust me, Danny. It will be a lot better and, after I graduate, we can have family over to visit. By the way,” she deflected before he could comment, “they are planning a Celtic evening at school and I mentioned your band.”

  “Us? Playing in front of all that crowd? It’s a bit big house, don’t ya think?”

  “Oh, Danny, you must try to broaden your outlook.”

  *

  “I don’t know, but what I do know is that I cannot stay here. The past is too oppressive here—the tit-for-tat and the ongoing suffering of the women and children. Why can’t men just fight each other and not drag the rest of us into it?” Miriam was close to tears. She had been watching the news and the pictures of dead horses in Regent Park had really torn her up.

  “They are often no more than disillusioned boys told they are fighting for freedom.” Karl held her hand as the evening sunshine began to fade.

  She had been on edge for months, as the British took back the Falklands, and the Israelis pounded the Lebanese before letting loose the Phalangists to slaughter thousands in the refugee camps. Miriam had wanted to go and stand between the women and children and the righteousness of murderers and assassins.

  Karl wouldn’t let her. He knew what happened when the world looked the other way. Miriam was bright with hope and optimism, refusing to believe that there were men in the world who would shoot her down without a thought, but he knew better. He had been in Vietnam when his troops had done things that would haunt him forever.

  “We could still go to Rome?” He reached across and took her small hand in his. Touching her skin to remind her that she was not alone. “We can find something to study and pass our days somewhere warm.”

  She knew he was trying to ease her mind but she tried to smile. “Yes, we could apply for the position as God’s Banker.”

  “Oh I don’t think things are that desperate.” Karl touched her cheek. He loved her deeply for the peace she brought to his soul, even while she railed against all that was wrong with the world. He loved her for that. When he first came home from the war he had gotten lost inside of himself. He had no one to talk to about the terrible things he had seen. Young men shredded by mortars and bombs hidden in the fresh, green jungle. Young men, whose eyes once shone with innocence, began to look like old men. Growing more and more haggard as their tours dragged on.

  No one at home could understand, least of all his parents. They tried, but he couldn’t burden them with it. They had changed too. They had once supported the war but, as it dragged on, rejected it and not just for their son’s sake. Karl’s war always made the six-o-clock news and even though the images were grainy, the horror of it all came home to roost. When they got to see it as it really was, war was never righteous—it was always total human failure. A failure that was always being perfected.

  He did two tours. Not because he was a hero, or a fool. He was
a good junior officer who had learned the ways of the jungle. The night before he was to ship back, he stood before the men who had followed him. Young, downy-faced boys who would never survive without him.

  He phoned his father before he signed up again, and explained why he had to do it. His father assured him he understood but Karl could hear his mother crying in the background.

  When he finally came home she held him and wouldn’t let him go. Even when he went for a walk around the old neighborhood, she followed him with her eyes and stood by the window until he returned.

  He had tried to fit back in, but America wanted to forget and he couldn’t let them. Nor could he agree with the hippies who called him a baby-burner. None of them knew or understood either. His father did. He had fought in the Pacific and Karl followed his lead and never spoke about it again.

  Going to Dublin was his father’s idea. When he came home from his war he studied there while he tried to write his book. He never did, but he always remembered Dublin with a smile on his face. “All their wars were happy and all their songs are sad,” he laughed when Karl’s mother was out of earshot. “Go there and find yourself again.” He found Miriam instead, resplendent in her shame.

  “We could always go back to the States and fight for the Equal Rights Amendment?”

  “I doubt they would let me in.”

  “They wouldn’t have any choice if you were my wife.”

  “Oh, be serious.”

  He knelt before her, in the middle of Stephen’s Green, and asked for her hand.

  *

  “Of course I told him to get up before people started looking at us,” Miriam wrote to Joe. “I was shocked and delighted at the same time. He is a good man—you’d like him—but I am unsure. And it’s not just what my ‘ex’ might think. I am too old to be falling love—amn’t I?”

  Joe would know what to say to her. He always did.

  She wasn’t going to have a Church wedding. It wouldn’t feel right. Besides, Karl wasn’t Catholic and she didn’t want to deal with any of that. They weren’t going to have children—she was far too old for that type of thing.