by Peter Murphy
*
Deirdre woke when her father tried to creep down the stairs in the early morning. It was Boxing Day and everybody else was sleeping late. Eduardo was snoring. He had overdone it on the whiskey the day before, trying to fend off a cold.
“About Mammie,” she began when she got to the kitchen.
Her father finished filling the kettle and placed it on the stove. “It’s Alzheimer’s.”
He turned away before she could see his face and turned on the TV.
They both stood in horrified silence and watched images of the Indian Ocean rise and surge over everything.
Tsunami, she thought. What a pretty name for something so terrible.
Chapter 9 – 2005
Despite all the terrible things that still washed over the world, Patrick Reilly sipped his morning coffee with a certain degree of satisfaction. He’d come a long way from the shy young lad from Windgap. He was now forty years a priest. His mammie was probably smiling down on him as he sat by his open window and watched life dawdle by on the quiet little streets of Trastevere. Patrick smiled when he thought of her while the rest of Rome bustled off to work.
He remembered her hair most of all. His father used to say that when he was first walking out with her it was the color of butter, but Patrick only remembered it as a brown, sandy bun with the few strands that always got loose. She had told him from the start: there was no greater calling in life. His father would nod along, not wanting to upset the apple cart, but after him there was only Patrick. Who was he going to give the farm to?
“Sell it off and take the money and enjoy yourselves,” Patrick had encouraged them every time he came home for holidays. “You’ve been working all your lives and now the good Lord has decided to let you have a bit of rest.”
“He’ll make a grand priest.” They would smile at each other as if they had been in cahoots all along, but his father kept the land until after his mother died. Only then did he sell it off, piecemeal. And even though his father had died at peace with it, it still bothered Patrick from time to time. But what else could he have done? Since he was little, the priesthood was all he ever talked about. And even after all the other children started saying he was a bit “serious” and began to avoid him, he knew: he was going to try to follow in the footsteps of the Fisherman.
When it was time, his uncle found him a place as a boarder with the Holy Ghosts at Rockwell. He even drove him there in a big black car. “This place used to be called ‘The Scot College’ back when they made men ready for the call. These days, most of them will only hear the call of the bar, and not the legal kind.” He tried to make Patrick laugh. “But they’ll teach you all you need to know, and by the end of it you’ll know whether you’ll want to or not.”
“But I know now,” Patrick had insisted as they drove up the gravel drive and the strangeness of it all started getting to him.
“Maybe, but you’ll know better after. ‘Amidst things of necessity changing, constancy.’”
“I beg your pardon, Uncle.” Patrick had been feeling less and less sure since he left his mother and father waving from the gate to what had been his world, growing smaller and smaller. Almost insignificant now as the college towered over them.
“It’s the school motto. You’d better get to know it.”
He did, for the next six years. As everything else about him changed, Patrick found constancy in his studies. When the other boys began whispering about girls, he closed himself off so that the Holy Ghost could flow through him and everything he did. And even in the seminary, when the other young men assumed the airs and graces that would come with the collar, Patrick remained pious and humble. The god that he was dedicating his life to was the god of the poor and those who suffered. But in the year before his ordination he came to a realization: he really wanted to do some frontline work in a parish rather than become a teacher.
“You want to learn something about life before you try to teach it?” The bishop had laughed and assured him that he would arrange everything. He was good to his word and installed Patrick with Fr. Brennan. But as it turned out, Patrick wasn’t really cut out for that. The whole business with Danny Boyle had proved it—he wasn’t really able for the way things were done in the world.
And then there was his acting like a love sick schoolboy over Miriam. It was a wonder she ever forgave him. “It’s a lonely life, Patrick,” his uncle had warned him when he’d asked for parish work. “Not being able to hear or see the god we’re supposed to intercede with.”
Patrick wasn’t concerned. Everything he had been taught said that if he asked on behalf of some poor sinner that had lost his way, God would act. But the killing of Anthony Flanagan was hardly the action of a loving, forgiving god. It was more like the terrible god of the Old Testament.
That type of thinking wasn’t encouraged in Ireland, where the Church was woven into the fabric of the country, but here in Rome, with old stone pagans on every street corner, such heresy lingered on the breeze. And when he first came over and read his uncle’s papers, the threads of everything he had accepted without question began to unravel. That was why he tried to lose himself in teaching—that he might rid himself of doubts with the words of those who were far more certain.
Like François-Marie-Paul Libermann, who had come into the world as Jacob Samsonssohn, to a family that wandered Europe, running from pogroms and forced conversion. His father had been a rabbi and the poor man had to shun his own son, closing the gates of the ghetto on him when he had accepted the Messiah.
Patrick had read all about him in a book that Davide Pontecorvo had found for him, The Life of the Venerable Francis Libermann, and often found comfort in the passage that read,
Then it was that, remembering the God of my fathers, I cast myself on my knees and implored Him to enlighten me regarding the True Religion.
He’d remembered it every time he felt like one of those that Joe had described long ago as “tearing the collar off and running, screaming into the world.”
Joe had stuck it out, too, deep in the bowels of the archdiocese, working with legal teams to save what could be saved; but it was John Melchor that kept Patrick going. Him and Liebermann:
I conjured him to make it known to me that the belief of Christians was true, if it was so; but if it was false, to remove me instantly far from it.
John seemed to know what he was going through. He missed nothing with his Jesuit eyes and had smiled when he reminded Patrick,
The Lord, who is near to those who invoke him with their inmost soul, heard my prayer. I was at once enlightened; I saw the truth; faith penetrated my mind and heart. Setting myself to read Lhomond, I assented easily to all that it recounted of the life and death of Jesus Christ.
Patrick had never spoken of his doubts to Giovanni, but he and Signore Pontecorvo seemed to sense them too. They both had a depth that was almost disconcerting. Especially Signore Pontecorvo. It was as though he had absorbed all that was contained between the covers of the tattered books he’d spent his whole life with, absorbing all their joy and pain, and the wisdom that came from knowing both. “When the words of God become the law of man,” he often reminded Patrick, “then even the most loving god becomes a stern judge.”
He met them all for dinner at Giovanni’s. Miriam brought John, who was calmer these days, and Tivia drove her grandfather and agreed to stay, after much coaxing. Patrick was happy that she did. She was so young, and everything around him was so terribly old. Even Miriam, who was turning into an old lady. It was even beginning to happen to him. First it was his hands, and then the face that looked back at him from mirrors and shop windows.
“Congratulations,” they all remarked, and raised their wine glasses several times during the meal and again when it was time for the older men to go home to bed.
Patrick wasn’t tired and wandered for a while, thinking on all that the day brought
back. And because it was the day it was, he walked to the Campo De’ Fiori and stood to look up at Bruno. It was time he started facing up to things.
*
Danny never liked Eduardo, and seeing him again reconfirmed it. They were around the same age, but Eduardo was one of those guys that always looked as if he were going on a date or something. He was wearing jeans, but they were dark blue and fitted him right. Danny’s were faded and stained, and sagged around the crotch as if he’d slept in them. He had. After Grainne had gone to bed he’d passed out on the couch while he was watching TV and having a few nightcaps.
Even though it was Sunday Eduardo was clean shaven, and Danny could smell his aftershave from a few feet away. And he had sharp-looking gray shoes. Danny was wearing his tatty runners and hadn’t shaved since Thursday morning. He got away with it on casual Fridays, though they wouldn’t let him wear his sweat pants. They’d even given him a written warning.
He didn’t really give a shit anymore. He was hung over most mornings and his new supervisor was a real bitch, calling meetings first thing and expecting him to contribute. And she called spot meetings right after lunch. That wasn’t so bad; he’d chew mints and say it was because he’d had something garlicky. She tried leaning closer to him a few times until he joked that he might have to file a complaint about her invading his personal space.
“Hi Danny. Is Grainne ready?” He acted all friendly, looking him straight in the eye and all, but he was probably just taking a mental picture so he could describe it all later when he was back with Deirdre.
“Yeah.” Danny smirked trying to be cool. “Grainne,” he called back into his apartment.
He had finally persuaded her to come over again and she had spent the weekend. It was hard on them both. She wanted to be with her friends and he wanted to relax and have a few beers. They both tried, but things could never be the way they once were.
When she came out, Eduardo took her overnight bag and she kissed him on the cheek and turned to go.
“Don’t forget to say goodbye to your father and thank him.”
She turned and waved at Danny, but he was already turning to go inside.
“Piss on him, anyway,” he repeated as he poured himself a beer and a stiff shot. “The greasy, slimy bastard. Who the hell does he think he is anyway, acting like he’s her father?”
He fumed about it all evening as he finished the whiskey, and the beer was almost gone. He always kept one for the morning in case he woke up with the drys—something that was beginning to happen more and more. He was a bit wobbly as he pissed and avoided looking at himself as he splashed cold water on his face. He thought about brushing his teeth but he’d just have to do it again in the morning.
Besides, he was getting the spins and didn’t want to risk leaning over the sink. He left the bathroom light on and turned off the light in the bedroom. He left his clothes in a pile on the floor and climbed into bed in his socks and underwear, bemoaning how life was treating him until he fell into a fitful sleep.
*
“And how did he look to you?” Deirdre asked as she got ready for bed
“He looks like a man walking around without his heart.”
“Perhaps he sold it to the devil?”
“Dee-dree, you don’t mean that.”
“No, I guess I don’t, not really.”
“You have won, Dee-dree. He is a broken man who knows that he has lost all that was really important in life.”
“You could tell all that after just meeting him?”
Eduardo lay down beside her, took her hand in his and raised it to his lips. “It’s how most men would feel. But all men are not willing or able to say it when it matters.”
She kissed him goodnight and turned away. She’d been so busy calling Ireland every day that they still hadn’t found the time to sit down and talk about it. He had gotten calls from his own children, who were old enough now to reach out on their own. He’d always wanted to see them but hadn’t been allowed. He could have sued for access, but they both agreed that it would only make things more poisoned. Deirdre had said that he should just let some time pass and wait until they were ready. He accepted that and had suffered in relative quiet for a few years, not wanting to burden their relationship with it, but always probing for her opinion. She wanted him to see them and in time have them over, but she didn’t say any of that, not until she was asked directly. She already had far too much to worry about.
*
“How was she?” Dermot Fallon asked as he shook the rain off his coat. Jacinta came over most afternoons to give him a break. Poor Anne couldn’t be left alone anymore.
“Not a bother. We had a great time going through old photo albums. It’s amazing what she remembers.”
It was. Anne could remember the names of everyone in the old pictures, but she was unsure of those of her children and, from time to time, was surprised that she had children of her own.
“Yes,” he agreed as he slumped into his chair. “Some days she’s as sound as a bell.”
He’d been down for a few pints and the smell of porter wafted toward Jacinta. She felt sorry for him. Of all the people she knew, he was the least capable of dealing with this type of thing. His daughters did all they could but they were away dealing with their own lives. They phoned almost every day, and Jacinta often got to talk with them. They preferred talking with her as their father was still reticent about what was happening.
“Dermot, what would you think of taking her to Rome?”
“Wouldn’t Lourdes or Fatima not be better?”
He was still a pagan Catholic at heart but she ignored that. “Well, I know a priest in Rome that knows about things like this.”
“Not the old bishop’s nephew?”
“No, a friend of his. He’s a Jesuit.”
“A Jesuit, you say, but what could he do?”
“Well, I don’t want you to be getting your hopes up but he has a way about him. He was a great help with Mrs. Flanagan.”
“But Mrs. Flanagan was as mad as a hatter. Anne’s not mad, you know. She’s just getting lost.”
“Mrs. Flanagan was lost too, in grief, and the Jesuit was able to help her. What harm could come from trying him?”
“Would you go with her?”
“I will indeed. Will you?”
“And what are you two planning?” Anne Fallon asked from the doorway.
“Ah, darling, you’re up. I hope we didn’t wake you. Mrs. Boyle and I were just talking about taking a trip to Rome. Would you like that?”
“Rome? I’d love to, only who will stay home and mind the children?”
*
Deirdre wasn’t sure but kept her thoughts to herself. She knew there was no hope, but she couldn’t say that to her father. He was grasping at anything, even as he blamed himself. He hadn’t been a good enough husband to her mother.
She had tried to reassure him but he didn’t want to hear. It was his Catholicism; everything that happened in his life was a result of his own behavior. His god didn’t work in mysterious ways. His god rewarded the good and punished wickedness and, as Anne Fallon had never put a foot wrong, it was all down to him. She was paying for his pride and arrogance through the years. He’d even gone back to the church every morning he could and knelt down and repented.
“They should go,” Eduardo agreed. “And you should go with them.”
He had been seeing his children but still wasn’t ready to really talk about it.
Deirdre wasn’t worried for herself, but she knew his son was getting into trouble. He was seventeen, the same age as Grainne, and there were whispers that he was getting involved with drugs, something that his ex-wife didn’t hesitate to blame on their broken marriage.
Perhaps she should go and give Eduardo the time and space to figure out what he was going to do. She didn’t want to
lose him, but he had to figure it out and he had to figure it out without her.
“Maybe I will.”
Martin was taking an internship in Montreal for most of the summer and she could take Grainne with her. It would be nice for the two of them to spend some time together.
“Will you be okay here on your own?”
He took her in his arms but didn’t answer, and that confirmed it. She would go, and when she got back they would sit down and have it out, for better or worse.
*
The Hotel King on Via Sistina wasn’t what Deirdre and Grainne were expecting, but Jacinta said it was close to everything and they could all be together. She also warned them to make sure they got rooms on the other side of the courtyard. The first two floors on the front had been converted into a theatre, and the finales could echo right up into the bedrooms. “Arias for lullabies and sweet cakes for breakfast, and just beside the Spanish Steps. What more could you ask for?”
Internet connection would have been nice, but the tall woman who checked them in said they didn’t have it—as if it was not important.
“But we need it,” Deirdre and Grainne said, almost in chorus.
“The café on the corner,” the tall woman advised, patronizingly, and handed them their key, attached to a large brass medallion. “You can get internet for free there. And pizza,” she added for Grainne’s benefit.
Deirdre checked her room number before asking, “Are we away from the front?”
“Si. Signora Boyle already spoke with us.”
She smiled as she said it and her face grew a little warmer. Her hair was dyed a dark red and almost matched her lipstick, and her cheek bones were high, making her eyes seem deep and dark.
“Grazie.” Deirdre smiled and picked up her bags.
“Prego,” the tall woman answered, and looked her up and down as she walked away.
The room was basic but charming. Faded since the days of La Dolce Vita, but so much nicer than the cookie-cutter sameness Deirdre had grown used to on her business trips. Shaded and facing the east, it was cool even though the afternoon was still hot.