Future Popes of Ireland

by Darragh Martin

  ‘Amazing, isn’t it!’

  Cream and classy, the type of couch that would recoil before a patterned carpet.

  ‘It’s great!’

  ‘Admit it: you were worried when I said I’d ordered something.’

  ‘I wish you’d asked me—’

  ‘Because you thought I’d deck out the place like a Batmobile or something—’

  ‘I did fear the presence of a ping-pong table.’

  ‘There’s still space!’

  Clodagh took another gulp.

  ‘But this is perfect, isn’t it? The Platonic ideal of a couch!’

  The trick was to have aspirations. John Paul had googled the little book that had sundered them, the first time, and he thought he had the measure of Plato.

  ‘I don’t know if that’s exactly what Plato had in mind when he said there was an ideal form of everything.’

  ‘Plato didn’t have the internet! No way Plato could plonk his arse on this baby and say that some idea of a couch is better.’

  ‘Plato didn’t have an arse.’

  ‘Of course he did! Aren’t they all falling over each other trying to sit beside Plato?’

  ‘That was Socrates,’ Clodagh said, although she wasn’t sure; she’d transferred into business and economics after first year, for the best, as she wasn’t sure that philosophy would be much use in setting up a telecommunications empire.

  ‘Whoever,’ John Paul said, pouring more Prosecco into their glasses and giving Clodagh’s arse a playful pinch. ‘The moral is that there is an ideal couch on earth: you just have to find the right arse to share it with.’

  Clodagh stood up.

  ‘Keep the seat warm, will you, I’m going to go and see if I can find this Plato fella; I hear he’s a ride.’

  John Paul grinned, a proper smile that came from somewhere deep inside. The trick was to find smiles like these and capture them; if he could sell something to produce genuine smiles he’d be a millionaire, could buy a warehouse of couches and spend the afternoon fucking Clodagh Reynolds across each and every one.

  15

  Mitre (2005)

  The trick was to seize every opportunity.

  ‘I’ve had a brilliant idea,’ John Paul said, diving down beside Clodagh on the couch in Lillie’s Bordello.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, okay, this is a bit mad.’

  ‘Shocking.’

  He ignored this, the idea too brilliant to be contained.

  ‘What if I became a pope?’

  Maybe it was the coke or maybe it was the espresso martini from earlier but John Paul was certain this idea was a keeper; it was destiny, in fact. Pope John Paul II had died the other day and John Paul saw the empty space, as clear as a wall crying out for a billboard. He heard the fuss in Granny Doyle’s porch, Mrs McGinty indignant that the shops wouldn’t be closing for a national day of mourning. He saw the shock of the young Poles in the call centre, where he was now a centre manager; whatever their feelings about the Church, they had affection for the first Polish Pope, may he rest in peace, and here was the gap that John Paul was born to fill. Ireland was due a pope but not one who bothered about Mass or sins or all the shackles they’d shaken off; no, it was time for a new pope for a new millennium and John Paul had an idea for a video in his head – getting baptized in his boxers with a bucket of ice chucked over him – and this he knew he could sell. Selling nothing was his speciality and here was something, an ideal form for the ages. The idea was clear in his head – brilliant! – but he wasn’t sure how it came out, because Clodagh had her forehead wrinkled from trying to understand.

  ‘You’re serious?’

  ‘I am,’ John Paul said immediately.

  ‘Pope John Paul III?’

  John Paul beamed; the trick was to have aspirations.

  ‘Exactly.’

  16

  Camcorder (2006)

  The trick was to seize every opportunity.

  There was Pope John Paul III blessing the opening of the Dundrum Shopping Centre and there he was in Waterford steering a tall ship into port and there his mitre was in Down, bobbing outside Hillsborough Castle as Mary McAleese met the Queen and there he was in Tralee, anointing the edgier Roses in the Sacrament of Hotness, until they stripped him starkers, only a well-placed bouquet to keep his modesty.

  The Official Miracles of John Paul Doyle courted controversy. Pope John Paul III walked on water buoyed by natural gas or ‘healed’ Jason Donnelly of his Man U support or performed exorcisms on people with poor phone plans. Ah, now, I wouldn’t know anything about that! the catchphrase for whenever he got into hot water, but that was seldom; he was good at judging the temperature of the zeitgeist, as adept as any Beyoncé or Steve Jobs (or, why not, any Michael Flatley or Mary Robinson). Pope John Paul III was achieving his goal – ubiquity! – and he was chasing history’s heels, like Forrest Gump with a better business plan.

  So, inevitably, there was Pope John Paul III at Fianna Fáil’s tent at the Galway Races, ignoring the hippies protesting against a gas pipe outside, elbows edging instead against the Very Important, as he promised to bless a new complex of condos and professed that he wouldn’t know anything about running for office and turned to the camera with a huge grin to say: ‘Now where do I collect the award for Best Hat?’

  17

  iPhone (2007)

  The trick was to throw up when necessary.

  John Paul found his reflection in the bathroom mirror: much better. The floor stayed put under his feet. He’d be grand; of course he would. Damien, on the other hand, was making a right production out of getting sick in one of the other stalls. John Paul longed to bang on the door and tell him to stop retching and groaning and get it over with – he’d feel much better! – but it wasn’t his job to look after his family.

  No, his job was to smile, which he did, a gracious grin for the prat in the suit who didn’t get that the bathroom wasn’t the place for pictures. The price of fame: he was happy to pay. John Paul smiled at his reflection; against all odds, he’d made it.

  ‘Pope J.P.’s in the house! Wasssupp!’

  It was Jason Donnelly, barrelling into the bathroom as if he owned the place. (There was a chance he did.)

  Ah, but he was sound, even when he put on an American accent.

  ‘How’s the form?’ John Paul asked.

  ‘Cracking. You sure you don’t want me to set you up with Gosia’s mate – you seen the legs on her?’

  Jason had half of Eastern Europe rotating through his bedroom and he was sure to let you know it; ah, but he was sound.

  ‘I’m grand,’ John Paul said, holding up his engagement ring. ‘And anyways, I’ve got an appointment with your ma later!’

  ‘Ha!’

  Damien emerged from the stall; John Paul had forgotten what a magnet Jason Donnelly was for him.

  ‘Damo Doyle! What’s the buzz?’

  Damien nodded, concentrating on keeping in the vomit as Jason slapped his back.

  ‘Congrats, congrats! Have to say, I never thought I’d see the Greens getting into bed with Fianna Fáil!’

  ‘I guess it’s worth keeping your options open.’

  ‘Ha! A man after my philosophy! I think it’ll be good for the country, though, all this sustainability stuff is very on brand.’

  Damien looked like he might vomit over Jason Donnelly’s one-thousand-euro suit; a dark part of John Paul wanted him to.

  ‘You’ll have to get Damo’s deets for the stag do,’ John Paul said, before Jason got going about sustainable investment funds and the need to keep the red tape snipped.

  ‘Sure thing,’ Jason said. ‘Have to get you some carbon credits too, ha!’

  ‘Right,’ Damien said.

  It took a moment for it to sink in.

  ‘Wait, where are we going?’

  John Paul caught Damien’s eye before Jason answered. He had to play this carefully. His best innocent expression. Ah, now, I wouldn’t know anything about that! The
truth, or part of it, for John Paul did want Damien to come – he was surprised by the force of this feeling – and despite the dangers of the black hole and all the rules (don’t dwell; stay away from the Doyles; the trick was to keep moving) there was a part of John Paul Doyle that wanted nothing more than for the lot of them to be together again, happy.

  Jason answered Damien’s question, his accent ready.

  ‘Get ready, baby, cause we’re going to New York city!’

  Series VIII:

  Boom

  (2007)

  1

  Clock (2007)

  Peg looked at the clock on the library wall. Twenty to six; she’d definitely be late by the time she got downtown. She picked up another folder and sifted through the documents. The stacks were blissfully quiet on the weekend. Peg had the pleasure of a magazine’s records to work through: she greatly preferred archiving the impersonal files of institutions to the mess of working on somebody’s personal papers. Here, she was happy. Staples removed. Alphabet adhered to. Order imposed.

  A quarter to, somehow. She ignored the buzz of her phone. Another folder: she could get through that. She didn’t have months to drift about the world or slouch on somebody else’s couch. She had a real job: she didn’t pretend to be a pope or spend her days holding up cardboard signs that cars sped past. Peg Doyle had come to New York with nothing but a green card and a rucksack and now she had an education and a job she loved; she deserved this life.

  Including the house in Clougheally? Peg had no idea what had motivated Aunty Mary. Guilt, she supposed. You stupid, stupid girl, Aunty Mary had said and Peg had dedicated a life to proving her wrong. Why had Aunty Mary left her the house? She didn’t want it, not a brick. Why had Rosie told her the truth about Damien telling Granny Doyle about Ruadhan? She didn’t want to know it, not a sentence. All she wanted was to be left in peace, A Manual of Archive Administration the only company she required.

  Five to! Peg tensed. They were all waiting for her in the bar downtown: John Paul had arranged it all, like some magician, the trickster. If she wanted to get downtown in time, she needed to leave immediately.

  Peg picked up a fresh folder and wrote out its title in impeccable handwriting. Plenty of other documents to deal with first.

  2

  Three Pint Glasses (2007)

  John Paul came back from the bar with their pints like a returning hero.

  ‘Check that out!’ he said, for the pints had shamrocks carved into their foam.

  ‘Cool,’ Damien said, nervous.

  Rosie didn’t say anything.

  John Paul would not be deterred. He had found the Blarney Stone, like a pioneering explorer; Fate, surely, that such a bar would be near their downtown hotel.

  Ten past. He hadn’t bought one for Peg; he’d get her one as soon as she walked in the door. He hoped she wasn’t somebody who wanted wine; the bar had more varieties of sport on telly than bottles, he’d bet on it. They could go somewhere else, if she wanted; she could provide a local’s perspective beyond the blur of bars and burgers and billboards.

  ‘Sláinte!’ John Paul said.

  ‘Sláinte!’ Damien repeated, his hand shaking.

  He was nervous, the poor thing. They all were. Ten past, still, of course. She’d be here soon.

  ‘Would you say that at home?’ Rosie said, the judgemental cow.

  John Paul could take a slagging.

  ‘Begorrah, I would, to be sure, to be sure!’

  Rosie rolled her eyes but there was the hint of a smile too; he could still manage that.

  ‘We can do some last-minute wedding planning,’ John Paul said, while we’re waiting hanging in the air.

  ‘Lucky us,’ Damien said, which for Damien was a joke, so John Paul laughed.

  Rosie said, ‘Cheers.’

  Drinks were clinked, supped, returned to the table. They hadn’t been talking while he was at the bar, John Paul noticed, adjusting to this new dynamic.

  A quarter past. Fashionably late; she was a New Yorker now, sure.

  ‘So, take your pick for your table partners: Mrs McGinty or Mrs Donnelly?’

  They didn’t have parents to complain to each other about, so they would slag off their ancient nemeses from Dunluce Crescent; this was safe territory, confirmed by a laugh from Damien, an eye-roll from Rosie.

  ‘You’re really selling this event,’ Damien said, and John Paul laughed again, wanting the three of them to have a relationship where laughter was easy.

  ‘Have you invited the whole street?’ Rosie asked.

  ‘Of course,’ John Paul said. ‘I wanted to have the afters there, but Clo wouldn’t have it.’

  ‘You can sit beside Mrs McGinty, Damien. You can reminisce about the Legion of Mary.’

  A slight edge to Rosie’s voice, something else that John Paul didn’t remember.

  ‘No thanks.’

  Something that had not changed: Damien still turned beetroot at the slenderest of slaggings.

  ‘We’ll be at the family table, though, won’t we?’ Damien said, his voice suddenly serious.

  ‘Ah yeah, absolutely,’ John Paul said, realizing how happy it was going to make him to have them there; it didn’t do to start a new family without an old one to wish you well. ‘I just thought you might appreciate a little quality time with some of your favourites.’

  ‘Do you have a separate chair for the Furby?’

  This was another surprise, to hear Rosie be so cutting about Granny Doyle, but John Paul laughed, hating himself, slightly, as he did so.

  ‘Yeah, we ordered it a special menu.’

  ‘Make sure there’s no salt.’

  This was a joke of Damien’s that elicited genuine laughter from John Paul and then they were off, describing the menu as designed by Granny Doyle, globs of Cookeen and corned beef sandwiches, things that she hardly ate any more, but that didn’t matter, they were safer in the past, especially one whose architecture was principally crafted by imagination.

  ‘Remember that time you brought home tofu?’

  Damien’s question to Rosie was slightly more dangerous territory – the time when they were teenagers – but Rosie smiled, game for the story.

  ‘I carried that thing halfway across Dublin.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be getting that at SuperValu, thanks be to God,’ John Paul said, making the other two laugh with his impression of Granny Doyle, the way he used to, when they had been united against the world.

  ‘God, that thing must have cost half of my wages in those days,’ Rosie said.

  Damien, already laughing, started to snort.

  ‘And then you didn’t know how to cook it!’

  ‘I did!’

  ‘You spent half an hour watching it in the frying pan, wondering why it wouldn’t change colour—’

  ‘And then you turned the frying pan on!’ John Paul said, because he couldn’t resist a punchline, however bad, however far removed from the truth.

  ‘And then you put brown sauce on it!’ Damien said, loving this detail.

  ‘And ketchup!’ John Paul added.

  ‘It was delicious,’ Rosie said, irritation bubbling up underneath her laugh.

  ‘It looked like somebody had murdered it!’

  ‘You looked like you might die eating it.’

  ‘It’s not my fault that soy sauce hadn’t found its way to Nolans.’

  Rosie seemed annoyed, so John Paul tried to make peace.

  ‘There’s a great vegetarian spread at the wedding. Mushroom risotto, I think. We can even get you a bottle of brown sauce if you want!’

  ‘Piss off!’

  This was a bit softer, so John Paul thought that the crisis was averted, especially when they got on to slagging him about whether or not Grainne Keogh or Emer Clancy or other characters from his past would be there, and that led to a discussion of which Mayo cousins would try to shift which of Clodagh’s friends and it seemed to be going well. So John Paul was surprised when, out of nowhere, Rosie asked i
f he’d invited Peg.

  ‘To the wedding?’

  ‘Yes.’

  John Paul turned his head. No sign of Peg. Forty-five past: she had turned very fashionable.

  ‘Eh … well …’

  ‘I thought not.’

  Rosie challenging him was definitely new and he wondered if inviting her had been a mistake, alongside coming to New York and getting in touch with Peg and getting born.

  ‘I thought I’d …’

  See how it went? There could be no inviting Peg; Granny Doyle wouldn’t stand it and John Paul couldn’t break her heart another time. Rosie was out to pick a fight, which was ungrateful, as he was trying to bring them all together. Ten to: she’d be here soon and they’d sort it out. John Paul drank his pint for something to do, thinking that he would get another in a moment, but then Damien, who was sporting a blush that looked more like a rash, announced that it was his round, standing up before either of them could stop him.

  3

  Mayo Stone (2007)

  Peg stared out at the water. There was the Statue of Liberty and there was Ellis Island and there, just over the horizon, was Ireland. I can feel its aura here, Rosie might say, her hand hovering towards the horizon and attempting to reach Clougheally. (The real Rosie was waiting for her, blocks away, though movement was impossible.) Rosie had declared that the Irish Hunger Memorial downtown had an aura and Peg, who had never bothered to go, could see her point. A large mound of bright green grass and stones assembled into walls, it was remarkable; if she turned her back to the skyscrapers and looked out at the water it was as if New York disappeared.

  Peg checked her watch. Five to seven: she might as well wait and be an even hour late. She didn’t dare consult her phone; its buzzes over the last hour suggested several messages and missed calls. It was time to go, beyond time to go.