VIRGIL AND OTHER DRUNKS
IT IS CLOSE TO IT. WE CAN SEE IT IN HIS SUDDEN SMILE. Yes! here it comes. He closes the book with his right hand and staring at a fixed point on the ceiling he continues from memory reciting the stultifying verses of Virgil’s Aeneid he has been reading. The left hand is waving flamboyantly keeping time with the rhythm of the Latin words pouring out of his mouth and below his waist the right leg moves to the unheard beat.
Michael Power, raconteur, poet of the Irish language, our Latin teacher and the school’s best known drunk is transporting himself to that place in the sky that only he can reach after a lunch of Jameson whiskey consumed with some urgency in his battered car carefully concealed behind the handball courts. His suit is immaculate as always -a silver waist coated mohair confection set off by a dazzling white shirt and red tie. The mane of combed back snow white hair contrasts with his deeply purple reddish face giving him the appearance of an embarrassed but drunken lion. In the dance his highly polished slip-on Italian shoes squeak out the echoes of ancient Latin life and while others, bored by the spectacle, turn to more mundane matters like picking their noses and flicking snots with their rulers, or taking bets on how long the dance will last, I sit entranced by this old man and the wild almost primeval but self contained movements his independent feet are making. For they have taken on a life of their own and are no longer co-ordinated with the hand movements. As the lilt in his voice changes he lifts both hands upwards as if in supplication. The recitation switches from Latin to Irish and now to Latin again, until with a final flourish he sweeps up his chalk spattered gown, goes down on one knee and with eyes closed slowly bows his head as if waiting for the applause.
When no clapping breaks out he seems to come to and coughing uncontrollably (the deep cough of a very heavy smoker) he stands up perplexed, momentarily puzzled to find himself in a classroom of fourteen year old boys. Assuming a look of gravitas with thumbs now resting on the lapels of his gown he says ‘Now boys I want you to continue reading this piece yourselves. There will be a special prize tomorrow for the boy who can recite two verses by heart’ – a collective snort rises from the class (Mr. Power’s special prizes normally comprise his autograph and nothing else). He lays down the book on the desk and without a backward glance he pulls on the sashed window and steps out in to the car park.
We have never seen him take this short cut to his car before and this coupled with the increasing frenzy of his Virgil inspired dance sets us wondering as to what might be happening. Several days later in the library I am reading the Irish Times – ‘good paper’ my father says ‘No trash in it’ and realise there are pages torn out. This continues all week and prefects and priests will not or cannot answer why parts of the morning paper are missing. Lying awake in a freezing dormitory one night I hear two prefects talking at the door as they shine their torches slowly over each bed ‘Did you hear about Power? Apparently he killed two pedestrians some months ago driving with one hand on the steering wheel and a bottle of whiskey beside him. The trial is this week. I bet you he will get jail.’ Rising the next morning I eagerly tell everyone the reason for Power’s increasingly strange behaviour.
It is now Friday and everyone in the school knows about him. The newspaper still has pages deleted but some boys have already arranged for these pages to be brought in by visitors at the weekend. He enters the classroom with a spring in his step. His strawberry face seems to me to be ready to explode and yet he is smiling. I wonder has he got off the charge or has he just drunk more than usual. To our surprise, as this is a Latin class, he opens a book of Irish poetry and launches into ‘an Bunán Buí’–‘the little yellow snowbird.’ This is a long and tedious poem written in the late seventeenth century but a poem you are expected to know and be able to recite in Irish and English. He starts slowly savouring every word, then gets into a rhythm and soon has reached the point where the book is put down, his hands are waving and the feet are starting to move on their own. He has just reached the climax where the little bird is dying on the ice when from behind me I hear, muffled at first, but repeated in a whisper growing louder and louder ‘Murderer, Murderer, Murderer.’ The class goes silent, Mr. Power stops his recitation and sinking to his knees, holding his head with both hands, he cries. Somebody runs out for the Dean of Studies and soon our Latin teacher is being lead away never to return during my time there.
Several years out of school I am sitting in a restaurant at lunch time. There is a commotion to my left and when I look up a pretty woman in her early forties is helping a man cross the room to a table where an elderly waiter is waiting patiently. The man has had a stroke and drags one leg. A napkin is soon fixed under his chin. He is dribbling. He seems to have difficulty talking. I recognise the raspberry face and the long white mane swept back and lying on his shoulders. It’s Power! Suddenly my legs act independently and walk me over towards him. My mind is already picking out soothing words of apology for the long bygone incident. But reaching the table I veer left, wave at an imaginary friend at the door and shamefully keep walking.
ALSO FROM ORIGINAL WRITING
SHADOWS ON OUR DOORSTEP
A COLLECTION OF POETRY
P.J. KENNEDY
“P.J. Kennedy’s poetry is compelling, unique and memorable. Shadows On Our Doorstep is a powerful first collection whose poetic insights often illuminate the fragility of our earth which is in such danger from us all. “
—Ann Egan. Poet.
ALSO FROM ORIGINAL WRITING
GOD FOR THE BEWILDERED
AIDAN DEVON
In twelve surprising letters to a friend, the author offers plausible new answers to some challenging questions:
God or nothing?
Evolution or intelligent design?
Can God be described?
Who am I, really?
Is there a purpose to existence?
Here at last is a writer willing to use the full palette of science, philosophy, religion and imagination. The story is offered, not as gospel, but as a compass for bewildered pilgrims on the long road to understanding.
ALSO FROM ORIGINAL WRITING
LEGS
LIZ COCHRANE
The Tour de France is rocked by a fatal crash and suspicion of sabotage. Evidence of doping brings in the police. A dope-raid is followed by rumours that the Yellow Jersey has a criminal past. And finally, the youngest rider narrowly escapes death in an apparent accident.
TV commentator Jo Bonnard suspects that a leading rider is systematically eliminating his rivals and, possibly, dealing in dope. Her investigations turn up evidence that enables her to denounce him—only to discover that all is not as it seems.
Jo has fought her way to the top of a male-dominated profession, but in her quest for a scoop that will put her ahead of the men, she forgets journalism’s golden rule: Never assume. As the race draws to a close, another race begins—Jo’s race against time to undo the potential damage of her assumptions, and to save a child’s life.
Flying South Page 5
