Sister Agatha

by Domhnall O'Donoghue

  Without so much as a bat of the eyelids, Sister Agatha turned to Ludovico and nodded piously. “I couldn’t have put it better myself.”

  Chapter Twelve

  In front of the Aer Lingus gate in Venice’s Marco Polo Airport, Sister Agatha and Riccardo sat in close proximity to each together, although the latter could barely keep vertical, despite being propped up in a wheelchair by a strap. Behind them stood Ludovico—not that a passer-by would have been able to tell; he was practically hidden underneath the mounds of bags, medication, and other essentials that were needed for the ambitious journey.

  Since leaving Stella della Laguna, his incredible romanticism had gone to war with the modicum of realism he possessed. The bumpy hour-long journey to the airport aboard the Alilaguna ferry made it clear that the one-hundred-and-twenty-one-year-old barely had the strength to emerge from his bedroom, let alone venture all the way back to his beloved Navan.

  “Am I being a fool?” Ludovico asked himself repeatedly over the course of the morning.

  This wasn’t the first time that he had allowed his heart to dominate his head, and if past experiences were anything to go by, the payoffs did not always prove successful. Once, in the middle of a busy shift, he had stumbled across a teenager ransacking the supply room, but when the unexpected visitor explained that the medication that boldly bulged out of his pockets was for his sick niece, not only did Ludovico overlook the fact that the chap bore all the hallmarks of a homeless heroin addict, he also gave him the loan of his car to bring the young child—who had just been fabricated at that very moment—to the hospital.

  It was only when Ludovico read an article on the front page of Il Gazzettino the following day, which detailed a bank robbery in nearby Mestre, that his suspicions initially became aroused. What’s more, the facial composite that accompanied the report looked uncomfortably familiar, as did the description of the car that facilitated the heist in achieving its success. It took a good lawyer and numerous trips to the local carabinieri to convince authorities that the gullible and harmless nurse had no part to play in the crime.

  Today, however, as he looked at Sister Agatha effortlessly wiping away some unsightly drool from the mouth of her soul mate—who now happily slept on her shoulder—Ludovico knew that despite the risky nature of the venture, this modern-day Romeo and Juliet appeared destined to be together under that sycamore tree, whatever the cost. Yes, many would describe this journey as perilous, but it was also essential, he convinced himself.

  Some of his initial fears were, thankfully, abated when the airline staff revealed itself to be remarkably obliging.

  “What an honour it is for us to have you on board,” Sinéad, the flight purser, declared, while ushering the two darlings in ahead of everyone else, before promising to treat the elderly couple like two important heads of states—no less than what they deserved, Ludovico felt.

  Speaking of all things old, under Ludovico’s bed lived a tatty suitcase belonging to his late grandfather. Within it, the nurse stashed any decoration related to amore. From cut-out hearts, balloons, and streamers, to confetti, posters, and banners—if it was red, pink or sparkly, and alluded to love in some way, it found a home within. That the vintage suitcase currently found itself battling the desire to burst at the seams could be attributed to the fact that he had a little hobby that he kept all to himself. When Stella della Laguna didn’t require his services, he went from church to church all over Venice, taking part in the wedding celebrations of complete strangers. After showering them with confetti and his best wishes, he would then ransack the church and swipe all of the adornments used by the bride and groom to make their big day unique. He would then hoard them in his grandfather’s valigia, optimistic that they would be put to good use one day. If ever there was an occasion for them to get a good airing, it was today.

  Deciding to take full advantage of their hospitality, he asked Sinéad if he had permission to transform the pair’s seats into something more worthy of their fantastic story.

  “Leave it with me—I’ll see what I can do!” his new ally assured him.

  As Sinéad disappeared to make her enquiries, Ludovico, content that his thoughtful idea would receive the green light from the powers-that-be, wasted no time in getting his multitude of trinkets out. He scattered nearly a paper mill worth of confetti over, under, and around the pair, before adorning Sister Agatha’s hair and Riccardo’s buttonholes with a selection of plastic roses.

  “Don’t you both looking only magnifici!” he praised, after completing his work.

  Just as he was about to pop open some streamers, Sinéad returned with the unfortunate news that while the pilot possessed the most beautiful cheekbones imaginable, he also had a heart of stone.

  “On account of stringent security regulations,” she recounted, “he said that such flourishes were forbidden—what if there was an emergency landing, blah, blah, blah?”

  “But…” Ludovico argued feebly. “Allora—fine!”

  Left with no other option, he gathered up all of the enchanting second-hand wedding favours and returned them to his grandfather’s suitcase.

  “The pilot has clearly never experienced true love in his life,” he mumbled to himself as he reluctantly stowed the decorations in the overhead locker.

  Miffed, he then took his seat beside the couple, taking comfort in the fact that one day their beautiful love story would be celebrated and lionised the world over—regardless of any bothersome security rules or pernickety pilots. Maybe a film would be made of their affair, which could then premiere at the Venice Film Festival—oh, how glorious that would be! And instead of being squashed by the hordes of film fans, as had been the case throughout the years, he would be walking the red carpet himself—the star of the show!

  Thoroughly enjoying the fantasy, this syrupy man placed his own head on Sister Agatha’s free shoulder and said a little prayer, thanking Him for showering him with such fortitude and resilience.

  “Nel nome del Padre, del Figlio e dello Spirito Santo.”

  Ludovico had refused to give up hope that Stella della Laguna would one day blessedly receive a special visitor, despite what some of the other staff members maintained. And now that the Irish nun had arrived to reclaim what was rightfully hers, the story transpired to be even more magical than he could have ever imagined.

  “Grazie, mio Dio. Grazie for making Butsy Miller—or Sister Agatha, as you also know her—such a strong, honest and kind-hearted persona. If only there were more of her in the mondo.”

  He quickly blessed himself, then thought it only fitting to take inspiration from the pair beside him and rest his eyes for a brief moment. After the excitement of the past twenty-four hours, nobody would begrudge the guy a little snooze.

  Somewhere over France, Ludovico tired of his nap and decided to clear cobwebs and wet whistles with a strong coffee. Having missed the refreshments trolley during its initial round, he made his way to the crew rest at the back of the plane. While waiting for his beverage, he couldn’t help but give Sinéad the full A-to-Z on Butsy Miller and Pádraig Keogh’s heartwarming story and how, following all those years, they had finally been reunited.

  “Aren’t they a real marvel? They don’t make them like that anymore,” the air hostess replied, truly captivated by what she had just heard—although she almost scalded herself in the process.

  Just as Ludovico returned to his seat, a strong cup of coffee in hand, an announcement boomed across the tannoy.

  “Ladies and gentleman, will you give me your attention for a second?” Sinéad exclaimed. “We have two very special passengers on board our flight this morning, and if anyone needs a pick-me-up story, listen closely!”

  There followed quite the enthusiastic retelling of the lives of Butsy and Pádraig, with Sinéad happily adding legs to the story for good measure. For example, she heavily implied that the untimely death of Mr Keogh, when Pádraig was just four years of age, lay at the hands of the man’s evil wife. And th
e reason why her seven daughters were so drastically overweight was because, jealous of their youth, Mrs Keogh force-fed them “any auld schlop” as a way of diminishing their confidence and boosting her own (a tactic that she had later regretted, finding it impossible to flog them off to any bachelor, eligible or otherwise). While those details were her own invention, Sinéad probably hypothesised correctly on both counts.

  When the epic tale had been brought up to date, a euphoric round of applause sounded, with almost enough tears shed to cause an early descent. Gayle, a middle-aged lady from Offaly, returning to Ireland following a few weeks away from her oafish husband, decided there and then to listen to her instinct once and for all and accept that her own marriage lay in tatters. The story of Butsy and Pádraig was true love; the story of Gayle and Micheál O’Shaughnessy, a sham—a marriage of convenience, because she had been unfortunate enough to fall pregnant at just nineteen. Yes, as soon as the fifty-seven-year-old returned home to Birr, the swine and his dirty fingernails would be sent packing.

  When some of the passengers approached Sister Agatha and Riccardo to pass on their admiration and congratulations, they were disappointed to see that the duo remained deep in slumber, though such a state was understandable, they agreed, given their vintage. Ludovico, still somewhat indignant over the fact that his suitcase full of magic gathered dust in the overhead locker, now felt encouraged by the support from those around him, and asked Sinéad to petition the pilot one more time, arguing that he and all the other passengers felt that the couple of lovebirds deserved to be festooned with decorations, appropriate to their amazing achievements.

  “Leave it with me,” Sinéad told him, now matching Ludovico’s excitement for the tear-jerker.

  But her efforts fell short, as the pilot had little interest in such revelry and threatened to divert the plane if his passengers didn’t settle down. (Despite his chiseled jawline, Captain Morris had never enjoyed much luck with the ladies and, as such, sported a bitter lip when discussing any matter related to the heart.)

  The flight returned to its more conventional, humdrum tempo thereafter, and as soon as the caffeine kicked in, Ludovico concluded that maybe such austerity might actually be for the best. He’d just noticed Pádraig’s breathing had become a little laboured, a reminder that time was not on their side, and the last thing that the three of them needed was to be spending an unspecified amount of time in some shoddy airport in Luxembourg or Belgium or the like. No, there would be plenty of time to liberate the contents of his suitcase once they had made their way to Kilberry, he decided.

  Until then, he would just relax and enjoy the rest of the flight. Better again, why not let his imagination run wild and visualise the possible suits and tuxedos that some of the world’s leading fashionistas might design for him for the Venice Film Festival première of the Butsy and Pádraig biopic, You Don’t Know What You’ve got Till it’s Gondola?

  When the plane descended into Dublin just before midday, it soon emerged that Sinéad and the other crew members had phoned ahead to organise a guard of honour for the two sweethearts. But, being an age when it wasn’t just infections that went viral, the news spread, and an army of camera crews and photographers waited fervently at Dublin Airport, enchanted by the tale that currently enjoyed detailed discussion and analysis across every social media outlet around the globe.

  At the arrivals hall, the relentless clatter of click, click, click greeted the large and triumphant contingent, which consisted of Sister Agatha, Riccardo, Ludovico, and the entire Aer Lingus crew (one grumpy pilot aside), not to mention two hundred or so passengers who walked, procession-like, behind them.

  It took Sister Agatha a moment to understand the true meaning of the pandemonium around her, but as soon as she realised that it was she and the man slumped in the wheelchair she currently pushed who were the architects of the rumpus, a little smile crept onto her face. While her fifteen minutes of fame had arrived about an hour too early (the turbulence-free flight might not have signaled the death knell for Riccardo, but the potholes on the back roads of County Meath would surely do the trick), she wasn’t one to look a gift-horse in the mouth.

  She threw herself into the moment with admirable gusto, waving and smiling beatifically at the world’s media. She gave herself a figurative pat on the back for having the self-discipline to skip breakfast at Stella della Laguna that morning (especially seeing as the pastries had looked so tempting); as a result, Sister Agatha felt satisfied that she had reversed most of the damage caused by the mountain of food she had been force-fed the night before. In fact, she was confident that she looked as trim and svelte as her halcyon days—something that the press and her adoring public were sure to appreciate. (To be on the safe side, she also didn’t take a breath for over forty seconds.)

  Riccardo, on the other hand, appeared not to have a clue about the going-ons or even where he was, and so remained almost catatonic throughout the whole hullabaloo. The only sign of life was the continuous drooling at the mouth and the occasional grumble of the belly—it seemed that IBS had a way of making its presence known no matter the age of the body in which it was creating chaos.

  The questions from the media came ad infinitum.

  “How does it feel being reunited after all these years?”

  “Did he still recognise you, Sister Agatha?”

  “Are you going to defect from the convent and get married?”

  “Will you go on the honeymoon alone?”

  “Will you take his name or remain Butsy Miller?”

  Convinced that a picture was worth a thousand words, Sister Agatha kept tight-lipped and instead took centre stage, where she proceeded to throw her arms around Riccardo, even giving him a little kiss on the cheek, much to the delight of all around them. A complete natural in front of the camera and her many fans, Sister Agatha fancied that if she hadn’t followed a life of prayer, she could easily have given Ava Gardner a run for her money in Hollywood.

  The VIP treatment continued outside the building. While Sister Agatha might have been forced to slum it on a Bus Éireann bus from Navan a week earlier; now, a shiny, top-of-the-range BMW waited for her outside.

  “What rotten luck that Doctor McManus’ prognosis was so grim—I could get used to this,” she remarked privately, while accepting a large bouquet of roses from a young schoolgirl.

  “I better make the most of it while I can,” she told the chauffeur who assisted her and the others into the car, which boasted, amongst other things, a large box of the most delicious-looking chocolates Sister Agatha had ever seen.

  “Hump the diet,” the golden girl declared, as she started making light work of the crème caramels. “This is no more than you deserve!”

  * * *

  THE IRISH INDEPENDENT, 15 MARCH 2016

  Without a shadow of a doubt, this is a love story that trumps all others. Forget Elizabeth and Richard, Madonna and Seán, or Brad and Angelina—the heart-warming tale of an Irish nun who, at the tender age of one-hundred-and-eighteen, travelled to three continents to find her childhood sweetheart, is one that all others will be compared against in the future.

  A series of obstacles prevented their courtship from flourishing in the early part of the twentieth century, but foolish is the person who underestimates the power of love, because a mind-blowing one hundred years later they became reunited in the suitably romantic Italian city of Venice.

  Sister Agatha, born Butsy Miller, and Riccardo Trentini, born Pádraig Keogh, pursued extremely different lives in the intervening years. One spent her days devoted to God; the other to his art. But one thing that they shared in common was a healthy heart because, apart from all else, these valentines are, unbelievably, the two oldest people in the world, with Pádraig having the slight edge, being one hundred and twenty-one years of age.

  The pair is now set to return to their beloved Kilberry, where they will spend the remainder of their days together. When interviewed at Dublin Airport earlier this afternoon f
ollowing their return from Venice, Sister Agatha was too busy fussing over her darling Pádraig to answer questions, but his nurse, Ludovico Bianchi, who was instrumental in bringing the two love-birds home to Ireland, spoke of the immediate plans after reaching the Royal County.

  “We are going to a tree that plays an enormous role in their story,” he revealed. “They just want to sit there for a few minutes, together. After that, who knows?”

  In an age where relationships rise and fall at the blink of an eye, Butsy Miller and Pádraig Keogh perfectly exemplify that true love is eternal.

  * * *

  The sycamore tree had seen many things over the years, but nothing quite like the ruckus it was witnessing today. Thousands of well-wishers stood alongside an endless stream of reporters, weighed down by their cameras, microphones, and all the other apparatuses needed to capture the special moment. While their editors usually encouraged more substantial news items, they knew that few could resist a good, old-fashioned love story like this—sour-faced pilots aside.

  The throngs of people kept growing, and when they weren’t fighting each other to get the best view, they busied themselves checking their watches as the duo was expected any minute now. And when they weren’t time-keeping, they were praying that the weather would hold and that those ominous clouds remained on their best behavior.

  Local businesses were sure not to miss a trick. A local tannery, Hell for Leather, had gone hell for leather to produce cloaks for the lovers; wet or dry, the weather in mid-spring could still be perilous, particularly for those of a certain age. A woollen mill located nearby had made a couple of cosy hats and mittens, while every café, pub, and restaurant had sent their chefs into a frenzy by giving them the bare minimum notice to rustle up nosh fit for such a regal reunion.