Her Rite of Spring is an overwhelmingly erotic, though never lewd, event, loosely based on Stravinsky, with veils and scarves and diaphanous gowns and such things. She does it for her husband but only when the spring mood takes over completely. The Spring Goddess does not die at the end but falls ravenously on her poor husband. I tell her that, alas, she can never do it in public. She sniffs and says that we’ll have to see about that. Quite apart from my obvious and multiple prejudices in the matter, it is very good choreography.
She was being her usual provoking self when she warned me ten hours in advance. The images of promise would torment me all day. It was worth waiting for nevertheless.
Indeed, as the Arch would say.
Late in the afternoon my Nuala Anne arrived in my study (de facto our study because I was not welcome in her office). Our bright spring flower was wilted.
“Och, Dermot Michael, don’t I want to go back to my original vocation?”
“Contemplative nun?”
“Accountant, you amadon!”
She collapsed on the couch, which was now hers by right of expropriation.
“Hard day at the factory?”
“Why do I have to be such a frigging perfectionist?”
“Because you are you … The mixing was terrible?”
“I’d die of humiliation if anyone ever heard it outside the studio. It was awful, terrible, disgraceful.”
“And no one but you would have noticed.”
She pondered.
“’Tis mostly true … The techs are good at what they do, but …”
“You have to urge them to be better … Read these dossiers which Marie Therese prepared for us and I forgot about in all the confusion. She’s a researcher so she did research in a database that lists at-large sociopaths.”
She glanced at each of the documents, as is her custom, then read them each carefully, concentrating all her faculties, normal and fey, on the details.
“Well we found one of our spies, didn’t we now? What are we to do about this Paul Barnabas McGovern?”
“Cindy will subpoena him and leak the subpoena to the media with the details of all the people he reported to Homeland Security, yourself included. That will be the end of his life as a spy.”
“Won’t that be a blessing still. You see what I mean about spies! What does Marie Therese know about us!”
“My life is an open book. She remarked about your remarkably generous contributions to charity!”
“The bitch!” she shouted. “The frigging bitch! She has no right to know about those things!”
“Not even your husband knows about them.”
“Dermot! I wasn’t hiding anything from you”—she became plaintive—“I reckoned you had better things to worry about. Honest. I’ll give you all the details as soon as I can pull them together. Honest, I will …”
“To quote our favorite First Communion candidate, Nuala Anne, chill out!”
She laughed and relaxed.
“Still nothing. I’m proud that you give a lot of money away. It’s God’s business and no one else’s.”
“Save for them snoops who put together them friggin’ databases … You called the information to Commander Culhane?”
“I did indeed. He thought the three suspects sounded very interesting.”
“Well, we don’t have to do anything about them. The cops can handle them. I’m worried about the evil whose name we don’t know yet. Maybe it’s one of them three sociopaths. I kind of doubt it. There’s still bad things out there …”
Bad dings!
If she said there were, indeed there were.
“We have to save them, Dermot Michael. They’re nice folks, kind of conservative, but they have the right to lead out their lives and we’ve promised to help them.”
“You need a nap, Nuala Anne.”
“Do I ever, I think I’ll go down and crawl in with the little one. She likes to wake up and find me next to her … I won’t exercise because there’ll be plenty of that tonight, won’t there now?”
“Only if you want to dance in honor of spring.”
“Won’t I have to, or I’ll lose my spring spirit altogether!”
“I’ll be happy to cooperate in that worthy cause!”
“Will you unzip me dress, Dermot Michael?”
“I will.”
This was unnecessary ritual, required only because Nuala wanted to excite me. Nothing wrong with that.
“Dermot, did I tell you this morning that you’re the most brilliant husband in all the world?” she said as I unzipped the flower print garment.
“Woman, you did!”
I kissed her back gently. Her shoulders slumped.
“And did I tell you that you deserved a better wife than me?”
“I don’t remember, but probably because you tell me that every day.”
I caressed the back of her neck gently.
“’Tis true.”
“’Tis not … Now off with you woman to your nap with the tiny one.”
I pushed her rear end gently.
“And, Dermot Michael, read the last chapter of Father’s story and see if I’m right about the mystery.”
“Woman, I will.”
OTHERWISE, TONIGHT’S DANCE MIGHT NOT HAPPEN.
She wouldn’t dare.
28
There is more I must say.
The wars on the Continent kept me away from Rome. My first assignment was to work in the bishop’s office in Wexford. I was his whole staff. I learned a lot about the Church in Ireland, its glory and its shame, its hardworking priests and its lazy troublemaking drunks. I was glad that I had set my mind against ever becoming a bishop. I’m not sure that I’ll succeed in this resolution, however.
After the failure of the ’98, the revolutionary spirit faded in Ireland, save for folks like the Whiteboys out in the countryside and they were as much bandits as patriots. Daniel O’Connell and his Catholic Committee were arguing that power should be taken piece by piece in political efforts. I went up to Dublin occasionally to officiate at my sisters’ weddings and visit my parents, who were aging gracefully. Each time I would walk over to St. Michan’s and talk to Bobby. And pray for him too. I wondered who cared for the grave. The three women who were with me that night in 1803 were dead. But “Bold Robert Emmet,” as he was already being called in the ballads, had lots of friends in Dublin.
My poor old bishop died. The new man promptly made me rector of the Cathedral, which added to my responsibilities and took away none. He promised me that after five years he would give me a parish in the country. It took ten years and my present parish is only a half hour’s canter from Wexford. That’s the way of it.
The revolution in Wexford was dead, but not the pain and anger over the massacres. Protestants were moving to Dublin for fear of the next time. Catholics were treasuring resentment for the next time.
I denounced this foolish hatred from the Cathedral pulpit and later from my parish altar. Most people knew that I was a friend of Bob Emmet and stood there, with my hat off in respect when he was hanged and beheaded. So they cut me some slack. No messages or threats from the Whiteboys, only an occasional hate-filled frown.
“Tell me, Father,” one elderly man asked, “if you were here in the ’98, would you have been with Father Murphy?”
“I don’t know.”
He nodded, satisfied with my ambivalent answer.
I see Sarah often in my dreams. She always smiles at me. I don’t believe in dreams. Not much anyway. Sometimes I think I see her walking towards me in a white dress in the green fields of Wexford, the most beautiful fields in the world. She always disappears when she is near me. I don’t believe in ghosts either, not much anyway.
One early-summer day as I was reading the morning paper in my parents’house, my father appeared in the drawing room, a bemused smile on his face.
“There is a man over at the Royal Hibernian Hotel who would like to have a drink with you at the bar there t
his afternoon. I told him I would pass on the invitation.”
“And his name is?”
“Lord William Wickham. He wants to talk to you about Bob. There’s no reason to fear him. He’s elderly now, though in good health, better, I think, than when he was First Secretary. It’s entirely up to you, but I think there’s some secret he wants to tell you. Coming from him, a secret about Bob Emmet might be worth noting down.”
“I will see him of course.”
There was no missing Lord Wickham in the bar at the Royal Hibernian. His hair was snow-white and his movements as he rose a little hesitant, but he was still the same man who tried his best to heal the grief and pain of the Rising.
“It’s good to see you again, Father,” he said, shaking hands and trying not to seem feeble. “Parish life in the country seems to agree with you.”
“I’m not sure Wexford Town is exactly country, milord, but I certainly am happy down there.”
He signaled the waiter. He ordered whiskey, I ordered sherry, an interesting reversal of what one might have expected.
“Are the wounds healed down there?” he asked anxiously.
“That depends, sir, on what one means,” I replied carefully. “There is little taste in Wexford for more bloodshed. They’ve had enough for another generation or two. The pain remains for those who suffered loss. The memories remain. They will surely be passed on to generations not yet born. In the long run, I fear, there will be more violence until … until someone is able to write Bob’s epitaph.”
“You mean until England leaves Ireland?”
“I say that without any enmity towards you, sir. You asked about healing. It will take a long, long time.”
“I understand, Father. I understand.”
Silently we lifted our glasses to one another.
“I wish to show you two documents, Father.” His fingers trembled as he passed them across the table. “I have transcripts for you of both. It is not generally realized that as he was leaving Kilmainham to begin his walk to St. Catherine’s Church, Robert Emmet begged leave to return to write one last letter. It was to me. Consider this letter:
Sir, had I been permitted to proceeded with my vindication, it was my intention, not only to have acknowledged the delicacy with which I feel with gratitude, that I have been personally treated; but also to have done the most public justice to the mildness of the present administration of this country, and at the same time to have acquitted them … of any charge of remissness in not having previously detected a conspiracy, which from its closeness, I know it was impossible to have done.
“That was the kind of man he was, Father. A man of honor, bravery, and deep humanity. I carry this letter with me at all times to remind myself how strong human dignity can be under the greatest pressure.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said, my voice catching.
“Shortly after his death I resigned though it took some time before it was accepted, this is a passage in that letter. I believe it has been removed from the archives at Dublin Castle. I wanted someone to have it who would keep alive the memory of Robert Emmet’s character. He is becoming a symbol of Irish nationalism. The man must not be lost in the symbol.”
No consideration upon earth would induce me to remain after having maturely reflected on the contents of this letter … in what honors or other earthly advantages could I find compensation for what I must suffer were I again compelled by my official duty to prosecute to death men capable of thinking and acting as Emmet has done in his last moments for making an effort to liberate their country from grievances the existence of many of which none can deny of which I have myself acknowledged to be unjust, oppressive, and unchristian. I well know that the manner in which I have suffered myself to be affected by this letter will be attributed to a sort of morbid sensibility, rather than to its real cause, but no one can be capable of forming a right judgment on my motives who has not like myself been condemned by his official duty to dip his hands in the blood of his fellow countrymen, in execution of a portion of the laws and institutions of his country of which, in his conscience he cannot approve.
I tried to control my emotions.
“This is most touching, sir. I promise you that it will always be read, as proof of what kind of man Bob was and what kind of man you are.”
“In the long space of years, Father, this letter has been my constant companion. I show it to my friends, especially those who are prejudiced against Ireland. I tell such friends how light the strongest of such feelings of prejudice must appear when compared with those Emmet so nobly overcame even at his last hour, on his very march to the scaffold.”
England had sent many good men to Ireland, then had listened to the recommendations of the worst instead of the best. If George III had not vetoed Lord Cornwallis’s plea for Catholic emancipation, Catholics would have been sitting in the Westminster parliament for thirty years now. If Dan O’Connell is right, this will drain a lot of anger out of Ireland.
“I have a revelation for you, Father, that needs to be preserved. Leonard McNally, Mr. Emmet’s solicitor was indeed an informer. The police knew too much about him. However, he did not betray to us the existence of Miss Sarah Curran’s letters to us. Her own father did.”
“What!” I exclaimed.
“Even if McNally had told us about the letters, we would not have tried to possess them. Mr. Emmet had already agreed with us that he would not deny most of the charges, save for that of being an agent of France, if we agreed to leave Miss Curran out of the trial. We had made that compact. However, her father, who had found the letters while searching her room, feared that the police might come and confiscate them and thus put him at great disadvantage with the Castle. So he informed Major Sirr of the existence of the letters and he insisted that he must obtain them. The whole incident was a charade between Sirr and Curran. Thus Curran was able to cast the poor child out of his house with a great show of loyalty to the Crown. I’m afraid that he doomed both Emmet and his daughter.”
I was dumbfounded. I knew that Joseph Philpot Curran was a cruel man. I had not realized how cruel.
“If he had not been so violent on the subject,” I said slowly, “Sarah would have agreed to emigrate to America with him and they might still be alive. We don’t know that for sure …”
“Yet the truth must be told.”
“I assure you milord, it will be told.”
The first one I told was my father. He was not surprised.
“I always knew that Philpot was filth. With your permission, I will note this story in my journal.”
I rode back to Wexford with heart at ease.
Sarah smiled more benignly at me in my dreams for some time after that experience.
However, as I have said, I don’t believe in dreams. Usually.
29
I closed the folder with the nameless priest’s story.
I had seen quotes from Emmet’s letter to Lord Wickham and the latter’s letter of resignation. That part of the truth had been told. There was debate among the writers about Philpot Curran’s part in the confiscation of his daughter’s letters. When I publish this remarkable manuscript, the debate would be closed.
With a sigh, I reached over to the desk in which Nuala Anne had placed her sealed envelope. I opened it and was not in the least surprised to find the following note, in green ink:
Darling, wonderful Dermot
It’s as plain as the nose on your lovely face, Dermot Michael Coyne, that Curran was a complete gobshite and that he and not Leonard McNally was the informer. Obviously, since our priesteen has already hinted from hindsight that not all was quite what it seemed. In the final chapter, I expect he’ll say so with some evidence. I’ll have to read the whole chapter now that you’refinished with it to see how it all emerges.
I hate meself for being right all the time, but I can’t help it now, can I?
Your humble and always obedient wife,
Nuala Anne
Provoking bitch!
I congratulated her, of course. One has to be a good sport in these matters. Drat her.
However, the Spring Dance was better this year, overwhelming but never lewd or vulgar or even dirty. Nuala Anne couldn’t be any of those things even if she tried.
The next morning John Culhane called me.
“Those were great leads, Dermot. If whoever did the research wants to do work for the CPD, we’d sign her on, but I don’t think we could match her salary.”
“I didn’t say it was a woman, did I?”
“Nope and it may not be. But women are better at this work than we are. It’s a wonder the CPD survived as long as it did without women researchers. They’re much more thorough.”
“But there’s nothing in the leads?”
“We checked them all out. Paul Barnabas is quite incapable of any more than writing letters and denouncing people to Homeland Security. I think that they will disown him when your sister finds out about this. Mr. McNeill is not taken seriously by anyone on the South Side and has to keep a low profile or some of those who are taken seriously will make his life very difficult if not impossible. Ms. Livermore still wants vengeance but her partner is on his very good behavior at the insistence of the gangs. We are convinced that the bombers are Hispanic, perhaps Dominican, but they are very different people than he would be able to contact.”
“Thanks for looking into it, John.”
“They were good leads.”
Nuala joined me at the breakfast table, in a chaste sweat suit, and poured herself a cup of tea. We looked at each other shyly. Had last night really happened?
“I hope I wasn’t too dirty, Dermot love.”
“Woman, you couldn’t be dirty if you wanted to. It was a marvelous choreography of married love.”
“Is that what it was?” She giggled.
“Among other things.”
We both remained silent, proud of ourselves and yet embarrassed by our memories. We were good dancers it had turned out.
Irish Crystal Page 24
