Roman Song

by Brian Kennedy

  Alfredo poured more wine, and Father Mac pulled out the little piano stool and laid one hand on the keys, as if he were touching the undisturbed surface of an early-morning lake. Without thinking, he played the first few bars of a Gershwin song, but when he realised which one it was, he stopped, pretending that he couldn’t remember the rest of it.

  ‘What’s that song?’ Fergal asked. ‘It’s gorgeous.’

  ‘It’s a lovely but profoundly sad song by the famous Gershwin brothers. It’s called “Our Love Is Here to Stay”. George Gershwin wrote the music, and Ira Gershwin wrote the words. They knew Ira was dying when they wrote it. These were the last words he ever finished, and they were about his brother George. Isn’t that beautiful?’

  ‘It is. But Ira’s a funny name, isn’t it? Is it Italian?’

  ‘Jewish, I think.’

  ‘How do you spell it?’

  ‘Just like it sounds. I-R-A.’.

  Fergal’s old grin found his face again for a second. ‘Hey, can you imagine having that on your passport coming from Belfast?’

  Father Mac grinned. ‘Oh Fergal, only you would think of that!’ He slid off the piano stool and offered it to Alfredo, who pretended he couldn’t possibly, all the while putting his drink down and moving to the piano. Father Mac looked at Fergal and said, ‘Well, Fergal, seeing as this is such a fleeting visit, you can’t leave without one more song for me.’

  Fergal couldn’t have refused, even if he’d wanted to.

  Alfredo played the first few bars of ‘Cavalleria Rusticana’, and Fergal’s eyes widened. ‘Alfredo, I don’t think I’ll be able to remember it.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Alfredo said. ‘I’ll join in if you lose your way.’ Fergal accepted the challenge. He took a deep breath, and his voice took flight. Father Mac was so moved by how much Fergal had progressed, especially in his pronunciation and command of Italian, that he nearly dropped his glass. When the mournful piece came to a close, Alfredo looked down, head heavy with pride, and Father Mac stood up and clapped. Fergal knew that something new had happened, but he wasn’t completely sure what.

  ‘Oh my goodness, Fergal,’ Father Mac gasped. ‘Either this wine is stronger than I think, or that’s the best I’ve ever heard you sing!’ Alfredo had to agree. He was sure the change had to do with Belfast, Father Mac and, of course, the death of Fergal’s father. He quietly thought that this had forced Fergal to confront some things that might otherwise have taken much longer to surface. The results were already impressive. Although Fergal still had work to do, Alfredo could hear that he was singing from a deeper place altogether.

  They drank on into the night, until Alfredo finally bade them both goodnight. He badly wanted to lie down, as his leg was beginning to bother him. They made loose arrangements for the morning - they had to order a taxi to the airport because Father Mac was saying early mass — and Alfredo made every stair complain on his way up to bed.

  When he was gone, Father Mac reiterated that he was amazed at Fergal’s progress. ‘Alfredo is like Michelangelo himself. It’s like he’s gone into your throat and carefully sanded off the rough edges of Belfast and sculpted out even higher notes for you to reach. And your voice has so much more power now, too. You’d never need a microphone if we were back in St Bridget’s. Fergal, it’s only been a year, but I’ve never heard you sing better.’

  ‘Thanks, Dermot. That really means a lot.’

  They had nearly finished both bottles of wine, but they were enjoying each other’s company too much to think about their early start the next morning. Father Mac refilled their glasses. ‘I’m also so glad to see how much Alfredo cares about you. It sounds like his sister practically adopted you when you were living at her restaurant.’

  ‘Yeah, they’ve been so good to me. I can’t believe it, really.’

  ‘What do you mean, you can’t believe it? I’m not surprised that so many people love you.’

  The last sentence hung in the air, and Fergal downed another mouthful of strong wine. ‘Dermot, can I ask you something?’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘It’s very personal.’

  Father Mac looked worried, but he nodded his head. Fergal lowered his voice.

  ‘Have you met someone else - you know, since I left?’

  Father Mac closed his eyes and exhaled as if the question had punctured him. Then he lowered his voice too. ‘For goodness’ sake, Fergal! Absolutely not!’

  ‘I’m sorry. I was just curious - you know, after your letter and all...’

  ‘I wrote that letter because I came to a decision never to stray into those waters again - with you or anybody else. I told you all that in my letter, and I meant what I said. I’m sorry if you were expecting.. .you know...’

  ‘No, no. I wasn’t.’

  ‘I want to stop talking about this stuff, especially with Alfredo upstairs. The last thing I want to do is make you feel bad, because I actually feel as close to you as I ever did. Aren’t we having fun now, after such a difficult few days?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course. I just thought that maybe there was someone else, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, rest assured, there’s not. I’ve been celibate, and I will remain so. You, however, must promise me that you’ll move on. It’s been over a year. Surely you’ve met someone you like?’

  Fergal went bright red - he hadn’t bargained for his question being thrown back at him - and he lied with a shake of his head. When he looked at the side of Father Mac’s face, he saw a loneliness that he hadn’t seen before. His instinct told him that Father Mac was telling the truth, though, and that he didn’t have some new secret lover tucked away. By the time they cleared up and headed to bed, Fergal really felt that their old closeness seemed restored - with one essential ingredient missing, of course.

  Fergal lay in bed in his shorts. It felt strange to think that Father Mac was only down the hallway. Even though he was exhausted, he knew there was no way he was going to be able to fall asleep. After about twenty minutes of staring at the ceiling, he decided to get up and pretend he needed a drink of water from the kitchen. As he opened his door, he could just hear Alfredo snoring from the -top room, and that made him feel a bit braver - his teacher wouldn’t be able to hear anything. He walked along the dark landing, as calmly as he could, towards the room that he and Father Mac used to share.

  ‘Dermot? Dermot?’ he whispered.

  No answer.

  ‘Dermot, it’s me.’

  When he got no answer again, he knocked lightly on the door and then opened it, just in time to see Father Mac getting out from under his blankets in only his shorts. His belly looked even bigger with no shirt to cover it.

  ‘Fergal, what is it? Is something the matter?’

  ‘No, I was just getting some water and I wondered if you were still awake. Would you like some?’

  When Fergal came back with two full glasses, Father Mac was back in bed, with the covers pulled up around his neck. Fergal set the water down on the little table beside him, and they drank in awkward silence.

  The darkened room was getting colder, and Fergal started to shiver. Father Mac looked at him in the half light. ‘You’d be better off in bed,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you in the morning, before you go.’

  Fergal looked crestfallen. ‘I can’t sleep,’ he whispered. ‘Can I not get in with you for a while? I won’t stay long, I promise.’

  ‘Fergal...’

  ‘Come on, just for a minute. Please? I promise I won’t stay all night. I just want—’

  ‘Fergal, Alfredo is only upstairs.’

  It was all the green light that he needed. ‘Alfredo’s snoring like a bear,’ he said, pulling back the blankets and squeezing in beside Father Mac. ‘A bomb wouldn’t wake him.’

  As they lay there motionless, Fergal’s heart pumped so hard in his chest that it felt like a sledgehammer was excavating his ribcage. There wasn’t an inch of each other’s body that they hadn’t visited and explored, but they were acting as if it wa
s the first time they had ever shared a bed. Finally, Fergal turned on his side and gingerly put his hand on Father Mac’s chest, fully expecting him to refuse it, but Father Mac just caught his breath and exhaled nosily. He turned towards Fergal, and their faces were right next to each other.

  The lost, whispered language in their bones came back to the surface of their skin, and they closed their eyes as their lips touched, almost as if suspiciously tasting the moment to see if it was real.

  'Fergal, I—’

  ‘Dermot, it’s all right.’

  ‘I promised myself I wouldn’t—’

  ‘Dermot, one more night before I go...to say goodbye.’ Fergal kissed him gently, in between words. ‘Please. I promise I won’t ever ask again. I promise.’

  Gradually Father Mac’s inebriated protest evaporated as the heat of their desire rose. They retraced the long-abandoned trail of their lovemaking. No matter how overgrown with neglect it had become, they knew their bodies would instinctively remember the way. Not another word was spoken as they kissed, more and more deeply, their tongues exploring each other’s mouth. Then, as if it was preordained, they sat up momentarily and hugged tightly, and then Fergal lay down on top of Father Mac’s body He began to travel south with his kisses, along the hairy chest that he had missed so much, stopping to taste each nipple. Down and down he travelled, but just when he was about to take Father Mac’s waiting thickness into his mouth, Father Mac suddenly turned his body away.

  ‘No - stop. I’m sorry, Fergal. No.’

  ‘What?’ Fergal lifted his head. ‘What’s wrong, Dermot?’

  ‘Everything’s wrong. I’m sorry, I’m drunk - but I don’t want this.’

  ‘But you said—’

  ‘Fergal, we have to stop. I mean it. I’m sorry for letting you into my bed. Forgive me. We can’t do this. Please go back to your room...please. We made a promise.’

  ‘I know, I know we made a promise - but for old times’ sake, I thought...’

  ‘Stop saying that! Oh, God, I shouldn’t have drunk so much. Please, go.’

  ‘Dermot, I don’t want to.’

  ‘I’ll go and sleep on the sofa, then. We can’t stay here like this.’

  Fergal sat up and flung himself out of the bed. ‘All right, I’ll go back to my room. You stay here. I’m fucking going.’

  ‘Fergal, don’t be angry! I—’

  But Fergal was gone, without even a goodnight kiss. He slipped back across the landing, feeling rotten and angry and foolish. He wished he hadn’t bothered going to Father Mac’s room in the first place.

  As he lay in his own bed again, alone and frustrated, he understood only too well that everything had changed. He remembered how alive he used to feel, well over a year ago, after he and Father Mac had made love, but now, in the dark, he admitted to himself that he just felt empty.

  20

  The next thing Fergal knew, Alfredo was rapping on his door, saying that breakfast was ready if he could face it. Fergal was hung-over, but not too much to remember every excruciating detail of his failed attempt to seduce Father Mac.

  ‘Yeah, okay, I’m up,’ he lied. He washed his face, drank as much tap water as he could and joined the two men downstairs, where Mrs Mooney was in full swing with toast and bacon and coffee.

  Father Mac was scanning the headlines of the paper, trying to look relaxed. ‘Morning, Mr Flynn,’.he said brightly. ‘Why on earth did we drink so much wine last night? Alfredo, it’s all your fault, you know. If it hadn’t been so delicious, we’d all be fine!’

  Fergal felt relieved that at least there was no tension, but he thought Father Mac was trying just a bit too hard.

  No sooner had they cleared away the breakfast things than the taxi driver rang the bell. Mrs Mooney kissed Fergal and told him not to worry about his mother, as if she’d read his mind. They checked the rooms once more in case they’d forgotten anything, and Fergal looked at his empty old room and knew that his old life with Father Mac was over, once and for all. To him, in some ways, two men had died: his father, and Dermot - the old Dermot, at least.

  Alfredo packed their bags in the boot and planted kisses on Father Mac’s and Mrs Mooney’s cheeks. Father Mac smiled at Fergal, and somewhere in his face was a plea for forgiveness. As they hugged, he whispered, ‘Travel safely. I’ll look after Angela and you look after yourself, okay?’

  ‘Okay. Good—’

  ‘No - no, we don’t say goodbye twice, fella. Farewell for now. See you when I see you.’

  ‘Okay. See you when I see you.’

  Fergal instantly felt better about the night before, even though his head didn’t.

  They left the graffitied streets behind and passed the cemetery where Paddy Flynn lay newly in the ground. As the big wooden gates came into view, Fergal blessed himself and whispered, ‘See ya, Da.’ He felt so sad that he had never been able to mend his relationship with his father. If there was any comfort, it was that Angela had come to find him the night before, and that meant she had wanted to see him. It felt odd to think that she might actually care about him. At least he hadn’t lost her completely, too. As Belfast evaporated behind him, a shadow of a smile crossed Fergal’s face.

  Daniela was waiting for them at Alfredo’s door. She hugged Fergal and even cried a little for his father. Fergal thanked her, touched, but all he .could think about was getting to his room, where he could sit arid think about everything that had happened.

  He got under the clean white sheets and thought about the past few days. He had buried both his father and his past with Father Mac. Everything seemed to be changing so quickly, and he had never felt happier to be under Alfredo’s roof. It was no coincidence, he thought, that ‘Rome’ rhymed with ‘home’. As he drifted off to sleep, he wondered when he would be able to go back to work at the Teatro.

  Alfredo spent the rest of his day trying not to think about Brendan, but he couldn’t help wondering what his old friend might look like after all these years. What expression had occupied his face as he read the note that Fergal had delivered? He rang Giovanni to tell him that he and Fergal were back.

  ‘Brendan Fiscetti asked about Fergal every day,’ Giovanni said. ‘He was wondering when he’d be back.’

  ‘Vanni, if I know Fergal, he’d be happy to come back to work tonight if he could!’

  ‘Do you think? Is he not too devastated?’

  ‘Well, he is, in his own way, but I think being around the Teatro would be good for him.’

  ‘Great! We’ll expect him tonight.’

  What Alfredo didn’t say was that he had decided to attend the Teatro himself that night. He didn’t want anyone to know - not Giovanni, not Fergal and especially not Brendan.

  By the afternoon, Fergal felt more rested and indeed restless. When he came downstairs, Alfredo told him he’d been talking to Giovanni. Before he could finish his sentence, Fergal jumped in.

  ‘Alfredo, I’m dying to go back to work. Do you think I can go to the Teatro tonight?’

  ‘Are you sure you’re ready?’

  ‘I’m positive. Why don’t you come with me? It’s nearly the end of Brendan’s run, and you two haven’t even met again yet.’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure I—’

  ‘Ah, Alfredo, why don’t you just meet him? He’s lovely.’

  ‘Yes, I know that, Fergal. But...’ Alfredo looked off into the distance for a long moment.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’

  ‘Yes, what is it?’

  ‘Well, it might be a bit, you know, personal.’

  ‘In light of what has happened in the past few days, you have my permission to ask me anything you like.’

  ‘Why are you and Brendan so afraid to meet each other again?’

  Alfredo looked at the young man who was growing up faster than he had realised, and sighed. ‘It’s a very long story.. .but here’s the shortened version.’

  Half an hour later, Fergal had a greater understanding not only of Alfredo’s reluctance, but also o
f the man himself - and of the fact that they had more in common than he had ever thought possible.

  ‘It’s called unrequited love, Fergal, and I hope you never have to suffer it. It’s such a waste of life.’

  Fergal shook his head. ‘I’m so sorry, Alfredo. I had no idea. And there was me going on and on about him...’

  ‘No, Fergal, don’t be sorry. You may well be the miracle that was needed to bring about some kind of reconciliation. I wouldn’t, and probably couldn’t, have done it on my own. I need you to promise me something.’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘Don’t mention a word of this to Brendan.’

  ‘I won’t. I promise.’

  ‘Giovanni is expecting you back at work tonight at the usual time. You’re sure you want to go in?’

  ‘Oh God, yeah - I couldn’t be more sure!’

  After Daniela and Fergal left, Alfredo went upstairs and looked out his window to see if the sky was giving any clues as to what temperature it might bring the city that evening. He thought he might change into a lighter suit so he could walk into town and not bother taking his car.

  He looked at himself in his full-length mirror and wondered if Brendan would be shocked at his appearance. Would he think he had changed for the worse over the years? He knew in his heart that both of them must have altered in twenty-five years. He moved closer to the mirror and let his finger trace the outlines of his eyes, where the skin was darker and sagging. As the years had evaporated, Alfredo’s youth had retreated behind the face of a much older, lonelier man. He grabbed the loose skin under his chin, making his jowls more pronounced, and frowned, vowing to eat less and maybe drink a little less wine in the future. Then he placed his hands at the sides of his face and pulled the skin back, wondering if he should have surgery...

  He snorted. Don’t be ridiculous, he told himself. There he was, in his late forties, acting like a nervous teenager before a first date. He finished dressing, gave his hair a final brush, sprayed a few clouds of lime cologne into the air and then walked through the citrus-flavoured mist as it fell.