by Peter Murphy
“Miriam, you have always been honest with me. Don’t stop now.”
She reached out and touched the back of his hand. “You’re just tired, John; an old war horse in need of rest.”
“It’s not like that,” he addressed them all, and looked from face to face before continuing, hesitantly. “My friends, if you really want to help me, then would you let me unburden something on you?”
Patrick and Miriam looked unsure but the Romans nodded encouragingly.
“I have been a priest for fifty years. And I have tried to be a good priest in the manner I was taught. But all the time I was just hiding from something.” He looked around again as the afternoon’s shadows began to edge across the piazza, and Bruno’s face began to glow as if it was burnished. “I was hiding from the devil.” He tried grinning but his tears were already trickling down. “And now he has come to claim what he is due since that night over Tokyo.”
“There’s no need to be upsetting yourself there, John.” Patrick tried to intervene, but Giovanni and Signore Pontecorvo discouraged him and waited for John to continue—as if they had seen it all before. Miriam was silent, too, softly crying as she brushed the back of John’s hand.
“He offered me a deal that night in El Salvador. He would let me live if I could prove that the god I was hiding behind was real. He said that if I could stop the terrible things we do for our gods, he would let me be.”
They all blessed themselves, except Signore Pontecorvo.
“And after 9/11 he challenged me again. He said that he would have us at war again in months and that there was nothing I could do to stop him. And he told me that my god would not lift a finger to help.”
He stopped and shook his head. “Maybe they’re right. Maybe I am mad.” He looked up at them all but they didn’t speak.
“I suppose”—he tried to smile again but it was only a flicker—“there is nothing left but banishment to Helvetia?” He began to cry again and they all looked down, or away, except Signore Pontecorvo.
“Maybe you’re not mad. Maybe you are just one of those people who have gotten too close to their god.”
“Like a prophet,” Giovanni agreed, trying to look wise. “This is Roma. These things happen here.”
“Thank you, my friends, but perhaps it is time for me to face the truth.” He rose and wiped the tears from his eyes. “I will do whatever it is you want me to do. And now, I will leave you to decide.”
He walked out into the piazza, toward the statue.
“Maybe, I should go with him?” Miriam was already on her feet, one arm reaching out toward the old, frail Jesuit. “He shouldn’t be alone.”
“No, you’re right,” Patrick agreed. “Go on over to him.”
As she caught up with John and linked her arm in his, Patrick thought again about Dan Brennan, crushed and broken by the cross he bore. And John’s was so much heavier. “I suppose we have no choice, really.”
“Patricio, we always have choices.”
Patrick was in no mood for Giovanni’s eternal optimism but tried to hide it. “I suppose you’re right, but what can we do?”
“We could leave him alone. He is not doing anybody any harm.”
“You don’t think he’s . . . not sound?”
“Patricio, you are in the business of gods and devils. Why is it so hard to believe that they still exist? No, Patricio, it is you that is not thinking sound.”
“But we can’t have him wandering around preaching like John the Baptist. They’ll lock him up. Or worse,” he added as he watched John stand and look up into the face of Bruno, who seemed to be smiling the way his uncle did. He shook his head, but he couldn’t shake the feeling.
“Here, the past never goes away,” Giovanni went on, with Signore Pontecorvo nodding along. “That’s why all the people of the world come. They won’t mind.”
“Won’t the police?”
“Them?” Giovanni shrugged again, this time disdainfully. “They only get involved if the merchants complain and they won’t. I can talk to them. I will tell them about John and they will understand. He could come here, by Bruno, and talk to the people. No one will mind. It will bring more people into the piazza.”
“I’m not sure I want my friend turned into a tourist attraction.”
“And I do not want our friend sent away to one of those places. They will not help him there. They will give him things to make him stop—that’s not the same thing.”
“Giovanni is right.” Signore Pontecorvo nodded as he watched John and smiled. “Besides, we need all the prophets we can find right now. They are the only ones who can guide us out of the darkness.”
“That’s all very well, but even if the Jesuits go for it, he’s going to need someone to care for him.”
“We are his friends. We will look after him.”
“So,” Miriam asked as she returned, leaving John in doleful meditation by the statue. “What has the council of the wise decided?”
“His friends will take care of him. We won’t let them put him away.”
“And how are you going to do that?” Miriam asked, and Patrick was curious too. Giovanni couldn’t even get his own coffee anymore, preferring instead to get one of his grandnieces to do it. And Signore Pontecorvo was even worse. He was totally dependent on his granddaughter, who devoted her days to driving him around in her bright little red Fiat.
“Perhaps,” she continued, when it was obvious that no one else was going to, “I should consider moving here to help out. I’m sure I could find a teaching position here.”
“Of course,” Giovanni enthused. “I have a nephew in the university. I will speak to him.”
“Giovanni!” Signore Pontecorvo laughed. “He’s like one of the old popes—he has nephews everywhere.”
And while Miriam broke the good news to John, Patrick looked away. But he knew his uncle was smiling down at them.
Chapter 8 – 2004
Ah, Danny, are you well?” the barman asked.
Danny wasn’t. It had only been a year and half but already all of the old bitterness and resentments were surging back. And his drinking was getting out of hand again. No matter how much resolve he tried to muster—when he had a few drinks in him it all melted away. It didn’t matter. He was on his own again.
He really missed Billie but he couldn’t go back to her—not after what she did to his own flesh and blood. He still grew indignant when he thought about it but, a few drinks later, another realization waited for him. It wasn’t really her fault—it was his. Everything in his life fell apart, sooner or later. He was a fool for ever getting his hopes up again. He could never have a relationship with anybody without screwing it up.
“I will be after I get a few pints into me.” Danny smirked and settled on the stool just down from the corner of the bar, where he could join conversations on either side—and turn away from any he didn’t want to be part of. He’d had a rough day. He’d been called into the HR department to discuss complaints about comments he was “alleged” to have made. “Comments,” they told him, “that were no longer appropriate in a culturally diverse workplace.” And he had to sit there and take it. He already had two strikes against him over his drinking and his absenteeism.
“And after I get to enjoy a few smokes before those feckin’ social engineers take that away too.”
“They say they’re bad for you.” The barman laughed as he placed the pint on the counter.
“Well feck ’em. It’s my life and I’m getting sick and tired of everyone telling me how to live it.”
The HR lady had told him that his comments on the recent tragedy in Mina were, “at the very least, insensitive and could be construed as offensive to more ethnic colleagues.” All he’d said was that there were a few less Towel-heads for the Yanks to kill. He didn’t mean anything by it. He was only trying to lighten things up
a bit.
“First today,” Danny lied and downed a large gulp.
The HR lady had made him feel as if he was back in the headmaster’s office. Only she didn’t have a cane—she didn’t need it. She made it sound like she was concerned for him—him having been going through so many “personal issues lately.” Only it was more like she was tearing off bandaids and assuring him it was for his own good. She also said he should seriously consider going to a cultural sensitivity workshop. It would look so much better for him when he faced the scheduled hearing.
He had wanted to point out that it was all fine and dandy for all the politicians, and all, to be going on about fighting to protect our way of life and slaughtering Muslims, but when he joked about it it suddenly became offensive. But he didn’t and just nodded, until she forced him to say “yes,” like she was making him “baa.”
It was getting more and more like that every day. They were trying to get rid of guys like him—the old guard that used to just get the job done without worrying about everybody’s feelings. Guys with a bit of character and not a bunch of feckin’ cardboard cut outs.
The feckers that really ran the world wouldn’t be happy until everybody was all the same. He’d just read that somebody in Korea was already learning how to make clones. He could save himself the bother. Everyone was already walking around like feckin’ zombies, buying the same shite and believing in the same crap and never stopping to think about what was really going on.
That’s how the feckers liked it—when everybody was plugged in and following subliminal commands. And now they were supposed to get all fired up and start fighting each other. Between everybody talking about weapons of mass destruction and terror alerts, a fella couldn’t even think for himself anymore. It was like in that book 1984, only he hadn’t actually read it. Deirdre had and told him all about it.
It was enough to drive a man to drink. Besides, when he was drinking, if he did say something they weren’t allowed to think, let alone say, he could blame it on having drunk.
Sometimes, after he had a few, he thought he might be the only sane one left. Nobody could say shite anymore, even though they were all drowning in it. He finished his pint and ordered another in resignation. He had nowhere else to go anymore. McMurphy’s was one of the few really Irish bars left in Toronto. Most of the others were all “come-all-yas” with young women running around in short little tartan skirts like naughty school girls.
“Sláinte,” the barman intruded softly, and placed the fresh drink in front of him.
In McMurphy’s a fella could have a few quiet pints and contemplate his life. It was one of the habits they made him do in AA. He still did it, only a bit differently. Now, he’d try to shut out all the other stuff they had tried to teach him. But it kept coming back.
Rarely have we seen a person fail who has thoroughly followed our path, his reflection behind the bar reminded him.
“So, you’re back on it?” McInerney sat down beside him and nodded when the barman looked over at him. He looked at Danny with curiosity rather than judgment. He was one of the last straight shooters and Danny liked him.
“I am, yeah, but I’m okay now. I learned how to handle it.”
“How long were you off it?”
“A few years. I did a full drying out and now I’m grand,” Danny said as affably as he could, while avoiding himself in the mirror. He was tired of talking about it.
“Wasn’t for you, then?”
“It’s not that, Sean. It’s a great program and I learned a lot from it. Only I learned that I wasn’t really . . . ya know? I’m more of a social drinker with other problems.”
One of those who do not recover?
Could not, he corrected himself. He’d tried the program but what good had it done him? All it had done was make him too soft in a world that was getting harder and harder. And it made him guiltier. Not only was he a drunk, now he was one of those lost souls that even AA couldn’t help.
People who cannot or will not completely give themselves to this simple program, usually men and women who are constitutionally incapable of being honest with themselves. His reflection smirked the way Anto used to. Sometimes, when he was plastered, Danny missed him.
“Well, as long as you’re all right now,” Sean agreed and devoted himself to his own pint. He’d just have one or two and go home. Not like Danny who had no choice anymore. He had to get as much in as he could hold. Only then, when everything had been blotted out, could he go home and lie down and get some peace. It wasn’t his fault; he’d been born that way. Naturally incapable of grasping and developing a manner of living which demands rigorous honesty.
That’s probably why it hadn’t worked for him. He was finally being totally honest with himself and the rest of the world, only they couldn’t handle shit like that.
Nobody ever could, and he was tired of trying to hide it. He had known what was going on from the start. It was all a load of bollocks. You got born, you put up with every piece of crap life threw at you and then you died. It was like what Deirdre used to say about living in the moment when she was all into yoga. He was living in the moment. He was having a few drinks and feck anyone who couldn’t handle that. He was one of those whose chances had always been less than average, one of those who suffered from grave emotional and mental disorders. He just had to look back at how he grew up. He never had a chance to begin with. Fecked from the start.
“I’m off then,” Sean interrupted him. “I’ll see you later.”
“Yeah,” Danny agreed and ordered another, coming face-to-face with himself in the mirror. But many of them do recover if they have the capacity to be honest, the voice in the mirror quoted straight out of The Big Book.
He’d just have this one and get himself off home and, not for the first time, he wished someone would be there, waiting for him.
*
“Man, this place really rocks.”
They had gone to the Windsor, and Doug was on his third beer. The bare-faced band was blasting away and the place was full of young Irish women. Martin hadn’t wanted to come but Rachael insisted. They’d been home for over a month and had spent every evening together. She felt he needed a boys’ night out, even if it was at the Windsor.
“Yeah, it’s okay. My dad used to play here.”
“Wow, man.”
“It’s no big deal.”
“No man, it is. That’s the first time you’ve mentioned him in years. And it’s the first time I’ve ever heard you call him ‘dad.’”
“Must be the beer.”
“Seriously, man, what’s the story between you two?”
“There’s no story. I just don’t get on with him.”
“Martin, you don’t just not get on with your father. Spill it.”
“There’s nothing to spill. He and I just never got along.” They hadn’t. His father had screwed his mother over and that wasn’t something Martin could ever forgive.
“That’s kinda cold, don’t ya think?”
“Maybe. I just don’t think of him as my father, that’s all.”
“How’s it going with Eduardo?”
“It’s okay. He’s pretty cool. And he treats my mom really well.”
“Cool.” Doug let it go and leaned closer. “Hey, horny older woman alert, two tables over, on the left.”
Martin was about to look over when Doug held his shoulder. “Cool it, stud. Let an expert show you how it’s done.”
Doug picked up his beer and ambled over to Billie’s table and Martin just let him. Doug was a good guy, but he’d been riding Martin’s ass about all the time he was spending with Rachael. “Sure,” he agreed. “Go for it.” He sat back to watch him crash and burn.
Billie was hot. Martin had never really noticed that before. She had to be in her mid forties but she still had it. Her skin was almost perfect and her bright r
ed lipstick made her mouth seem warm. Her eyes were a deep sea-green, deepening as Doug came closer. She wore a long, gray dress that showed every curve and swell. She wore gray stockings and black, high-heel shoes. She blew out a long stream of smoke and looked Doug up and down. “Yes?”
“My friend and I,” Doug nodded back toward Martin, “were just trying to remember which movie we saw you in.”
Martin had followed him over and was about to bail him out, but Billie just winked at him and turned back to Doug. “Cute, and what do you do?” She managed, without even a flicker of a smile as they sat down on either side of her.
“Well, my friend”—Doug nodded toward Martin again—“and I are new in town.”
“Is that right?”
“Yes, we just came in to sign all the paperwork.”
“You don’t look like lawyers.”
“No. We’re hockey players. We just signed for the Leafs.”
Martin should have stopped him, but what the hell.
“Hockey players. Hmmm. Should I be impressed, Martin?”
“You two know each other?”
“Yup.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“You didn’t ask.”
“Man!”
Billie was okay with it all and even bought them a drink, after asking Doug if he was sure he was old enough. “How’s your father?” she asked Martin when they were finally alone. Doug had left to get over his embarrassment and hit on someone else.
Martin had never really talked with her since that day on Queen St. He’d wanted to like her, but it felt like disloyalty to his mother. “I don’t really keep in touch. Do you?”
“No.” Her eyes looked sad when she said it.
It was the same look he’d often seen on his mother’s face, and Martin wanted to try to make her smile. She’d been pretty cool about Doug. “Maybe you’re better off.” He meant it lightly but it didn’t work. If anything it just made Billie sadder.
“You don’t think much of him, do you?”