Future Popes of Ireland
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They had reached The Oval (Damien would have preferred the Front Lounge, but Mark only drank in old-man bars), Damien getting in the Guinness while Mark continued talking. ‘The same problem’ was the subject of the dissertation that Mark sometimes worked on: ‘The Celtic Tiger Eats the Commons, 1973–2002’.
‘It’s the same shite as shopping centres. We used to have squares to discuss ideas in, now we have The Square. A great name, sounds like a place you’d want to visit and then it turns out to be an air-conditioned tomb full of stereos and shite. It’s a smart trick, usurp the language of the thing you displaced: gouge out a valley and then call the monstrosity you plonk there Liffey Valley, brilliant really. But what we need is a square where we can share ideas instead of buy shite, you know?’
Damien did know; he’d heard this part of the dissertation before. Now that he was sure the bartender couldn’t, in fact, be somebody from Dunluce Crescent, Damien relaxed and basked in Mark’s monologue. Too many words, too many ideas to implement, but wasn’t the Green Party the space for that and Mark was one of their best volunteers. Damien took another sup and admired everything about Mark: the frayed Aran jumper that he’d worn since the last millennium; the big hands that moved too much when he talked; the blue eyes that didn’t move at all, lasered in on you, so that you could see every fleck of brown or grey in them, eyes that never seemed to need a blink or a break. Meanwhile, brightly coloured insects pirouetted in the region of Damien’s diaphragm, the words fresh, even after a year: my boyfriend.
‘… and this is why we need a space to freely debate ideas!’
Damien refocused. Mark had fished out the Irish Times to mop up some spilt beer and this was an article that Damien had missed: something about Pope John Paul II being beatified, not an election issue in Damien’s opinion, though there was no telling what would get Mark going.
A thing to love about Mark: he could be so single-minded, wouldn’t be swayed by any trivial distractions once he got going.
‘Fuck all this hagiography shite! Nobody has the balls to say anything genuine when a famous person dies.’
‘I suppose people need a period of mourning,’ Damien dared.
‘No,’ Mark almost shouted. ‘All this respect the dead stuff is just a way for the right wing to solidify their myths. It was the same with Reagan: the years after a public figure dies are the critical moment when their legacy is sculpted. You have to scrawl your graffiti before the concrete sets. Nobody has the balls to call the Pope out for some of his shite: preaching that condoms are a sin in Tanzania while people are dying of AIDS. It’s fucked up that this is what makes saint material …’
Damien took a sup of Guinness and nodded; it would be a while before Mark reached his pint or his point. He had to divert conversation from the Pope, away from any talk of Pope John Paul III. It had been years since he’d talked to his brother properly, not since that business, plenty of periods in Damien’s past that he skipped over euphemistically. That other business, with Peg, who Damien definitely didn’t want to think about. Damn the lot of the Doyles, Damien thought, nothing like family to stuck-in-the-mud you in the past, when Damien aspired to be all future. This focus on the future was what he loved about working for the Green Party, a political organization for the twenty-first century, not one rooted in the bogs of some civil war best forgotten, and here was the thing to steer them away from popes.
‘Don’t worry, babe, once I’ve got a new office in Leinster House, I’ll keep you a section of wall to graffiti whatever you want.’
A thing to love about Mark: his eyes were only gorgeous, even mid-roll.
‘Right,’ Mark said. ‘The whole country’s going to change with this election.’
It was, though; Damien knew it.
‘You won’t be able to move with the paradigms shifting each other when the Greens get seven seats—’
‘When we get ten seats,’ Damien corrected him. ‘And yes, it’ll be all change. Catholic Ireland is dead and gone: it’s with Pope J.P. in the grave!’
A thing to love about Mark: he was a great at impersonating radio talk-show hosts.
‘The question is, how can we as a nation come up with ethical values that aren’t tied to religion or nationalism? The question is, how do we become a people defined by the future rather than the past? Catholicism has been swept clear away, the question is how can we fill that gaping hole?’
‘What was that you said about filling a hole?’
Mark laughed.
‘Are you pissed already?’
‘I am!’ Damien announced, fizzy with the feeling; he felt drunk all the time now, even when he hadn’t touched a drop.
4
Mitre (2007)
John Paul Doyle smiled. Smiling was his speciality: popes needed as many grins in their repertoire as politicians. A smile can take you further than a sentence, John Paul thought, something he’d write down, once he was reunited with his BlackBerry. It could be material for his biography. Or for a stand-alone stocking filler. Or, better, a self-help tome, paired with an exclusive seminar on smile-coaching. John Paul’s fingers twitched; he was lost without his BlackBerry to record the thousand and one ideas that pinballed about his brain and he was on form that morning, odd as coke wasn’t even involved: it must be the fresh air. Another idea: find something to bottle the fresh air here – a net? A bottle? – and ship it out to Dublin. Atlantic Air! John Paul was sure some eejits would drop a tenner for a sniff. He gulped in a lungful and let out a huge nowhere I’d rather be than on the edge of the Atlantic in a pair of boxers and a pope hat! beam.
In his few hours in Clougheally, John Paul had already trotted out several different smiles.
A Pope John Paul III has arrived in Clougheally! megawatt grin unleashed that morning.
A secret yeah, this kip is Clougheally, nice eh? smile flashed to the camera-guy.
A so nothing’s changed and here I am, back half-smile all for himself.
A fuck this fresh air! grin and yelp for the benefit of the camera-guy, as he stripped to his boxers.
And a let’s get to work smile and nod: he had to keep some of the smile power on reserve for the cameras.
John Paul couldn’t help a grin at the thought of the video: it was going to be a good one. The Official Miracles of Pope John Paul III followed a certain formula. A familiar biblical reference (loaves and fishes; healing the sick) was revitalized with a contemporary twist (famine in Ethiopia solved; an escalator opened so no poor soul would have to miss five floors of shopping). Often, the video required that John Paul stripped to his boxers, useful for the controversy and the clicks. Today, Pope John Paul III would walk on water, miraculously buoyed by the powers of natural gas. He’d fall in, of course – that was how Pope John Paul III rolled, no gag too cheap – but he’d be back on his feet for the finale: standing on the gas rig and pulling out nets of money from the water. Nobody had hired him to perform this particular miracle, but as a cultural figure of some importance, Pope John Paul III had the obligation to wade into controversial topics and provide clarity. Some people didn’t think that Erris was the right place for Shell’s gas pipe; typical, for bedrudgers followed progress like flies to fresh shite. Pope John Paul III would banish the protesters. Ignore the naysayers, his smile would radiate. Didn’t the Bishop of Kilcommon himself bless the gas rig a few years back? Believe in me and we’ll walk on water; he’d write that one down too.
First, the video! John Paul made his way over to the fellas by the currachs and gave them Pope John Paul III’s best I’m freezing my bollix off here, let’s get going lads, man among men grin. Then, John Paul couldn’t help it, even though the cameras weren’t rolling yet: he made a show of searching for a sail, kerfuffling about for a second before he unleashed his catchphrase.
Ah now, I wouldn’t know anything about that!
Coupled with one of Pope John Paul III’s gormless smiles, of course, the one that suggested that the poor holy fool had got himself into another mess again. Together, the smile and the catchphrase had helped launch him towards YouTube stardom (well, in Ireland at least). He’d secured an upcoming feature on Xposé on TV3 and a mention in the Sunday Independent. He even had enough money to throw a few bob towards a camera-guy, an essential expense as his routine became more polished; he’d get an intern next! All tax-deductible, and if any prying eyes had questions about irregularities in his accounts, he had his catchphrase at the ready: Ah now, I wouldn’t know anything about that!
The sentence proved reliably robust, especially when it was sheathed in irony. Most sentences these days had irony wrapped around them like a condom and so this one was a treat: an expression of not knowing that conveyed just how much you knew. He might keep it when he launched his political career, John Paul decided. Election season was on its way and he had a hunger to grace telegraph poles with his grin. Next time. Pope John Paul III was practically already a mascot for the government; he’d met half the Cabinet at the Galway Races. His grin at the end of the videos radiated optimism. Haven’t we all done well, it said. Onwards and upwards. Don’t let the begrudgers into government. Vote Fianna Fáil for five more bright years of prosperity. Vote John Paul Doyle for the best handshakes in town. He’d have to write some of this down, once he found his BlackBerry, and he’d have a real think about running in the next election, suss out some seat he could cruise easily through, a coy smirk and ah now, I wouldn’t know anything about that! at the ready if some reporter got wind of his ambitions.
‘Do I know you?’
John Paul turned. It was some auld one, weaving over to them before he could get in the currach. He shot the camera-guy a private smile: here we go …
It was hard to tell what views the auld one opposite might have about Pope John Paul III. If she were one of the ‘it’s a holy disgrace’ brigade, he’d have a sober smile at the ready, one that communicated respect and contrition and had ‘May he rest in peace’ hidden in its dimples. He even had an earnest, delighted, yes I did hear about his miracle, isn’t it great? smile ready if she talked about the latest news, a well, I have to be getting on crisp grin to be unleashed if she suggested that his antics were demeaning the very concept of miracles. But she might only be after an autograph, so he had a bigger grin in reserve too, one that announced that it was the only dream of Pope John Paul III to pose with her and that he was delighted to sign a photograph for her granddaughter.
‘You’re Bridget Doyle’s young one, aren’t you?’
That wiped the smile clean from his face.
‘Mary Nelligan’s sister’s grandson, isn’t that yourself?’
A central part of being John Paul Doyle was learning to live with the black hole inside of him. He had strategies to keep the vortex under control. It was surprisingly easy, most of the time. The trick was to keep moving. The trick was to avoid the Doyles. The trick was to keep conversation light. Certain proper nouns were taboo (Peg; Damien; Rosie). Certain periods of time were to be avoided, large pockets of the 1990s not to be thought of. Smiles to be stretched; to breaking point, if it came to it. Don’t dwell: that was a key one. The black hole liked nothing more than for you to stay still and dwell: that was when it grew, gulping away inside of you, reaching for internal organs.
The worst thing was that the black hole could surprise you. It could stay hidden away for a long while, hanging out beside an appendix or a gall bladder or whatever other useless things whiled time away inside a body. But then some small thing would activate it – some auld one asking if you were anything to the Nelligans – and there it was, pulling the heart and lungs towards it, swallowing everything, including whatever neurons sent messages to the mouth because even as John Paul searched for a smile he couldn’t find the shape of one.
He should have seen it coming. Once he got Aunty Mary’s letter, he should have realized: no avoiding the other Doyles now. Competing maxims had tumbled about in his head – Don’t Dwell wrestling with Seize Every Opportunity! – until here he was, dipping his toe back in Clougheally after ten years; he should have known he’d be recognized. There was the shop where he’d pinched penny sweets and there was the boulder he’d climbed and there were the shells on the strand that he’d seen the Virgin Mary inside and here was the past, a rush of feelings twisting away inside, the murder of John Paul Doyle their only aim.
Relax, he tried to say, willing his knees to stay still. It had been ten years since he’d been to Clougheally. The auld one didn’t know a thing. No need to get into the past. If he could stare down the sea without flinching, he could see her off too. After a moment, a smile found its way to his face: bemused, kind, you must be mistaken. He held out his hand, the master of all occasions.
‘Sorry, I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Pope John Paul III!’
The auld one looked suspicious.
‘You’re sure you’re not Bridget Doyle’s grandson?’
John Paul flashed his best smile, the one in tune with his catchphrase.
Ah now, I wouldn’t know anything about that!
5
Rucksack (2007)
Of course, Rosie got onto the wrong subway and of course she ended up in the worst place in New York. Rosie wasn’t prepared for the intensity of Times Square. That comforting pocket of Irish accents by the Aer Lingus bag carousel had disappeared and she was surrounded by American voices. Heat charged through the streets without bends and promised to knock her horizontal. Cheerful chains sold donuts that could blind you and coffee that was mostly whipped cream, and M&Ms in so many flavours and colours that you might die before you decided what to eat. Huge billboards flashed confidence and sold clothes and Broadway shows and screamed Here You Are at the Centre of the Universe! making Rosie want to lasso the first plane she saw and hitch her way back to Clougheally.
Breathe, Rosie reminded herself. She was on a mission. She had travelled an ocean to find a long-lost sister; she would not be deterred by a few flashing billboards. Tourists barged into her rucksack and cursed at her in a variety of languages but Rosie wasn’t going to budge until she’d figured out how to get back inside the subway. She gazed up at the billboards, hoping that one of them might morph into a giant neon arrow; it was not too much to hope that the universe might be on her side. No space for directions in Times Square, though, only ads for H&M and news flickering across in an excited loop. Rosie felt even tinier. It was incredible that Peg lived in this city, which had no news about the election in Ireland or the protests in Clougheally. Not a peep about John Paul Doyle. Just a stream of figures, stocks and shares going up and down, and whatever things Bush was ruining (the climate and Iraq, today) and then, a sentence to shock: POPE JOHN PAUL II TAKES FIRST STEP TOWARDS SAINTHOOD.
The sentence whizzed past before she could question it, not that Rosie cared about the details. She inhaled deeply and closed her eyes, practising radiating love towards her enemies. She did this, every morning, as part of her yoga routine, imagining turquoise rays of love that matched her hair emanating from her body and rippling towards her enemies. Usually she focused on the living – her family provided ample material – but if Pope John Paul II could be counted as a nemesis, then she should try to overcome her anger and send him love. Her eyes opened quickly: she couldn’t picture it. And was nowhere safe from popes? Surely, here was a square that was safe from his reach, the home of Saturday Night Live – or its general vicinity, Rosie didn’t care about the details. Hadn’t Sinéad O’Connor stood in one of these buildings – or somewhere close; her aura remained, that was the important thing – and held up a photograph of the future saint, only to rip the picture into fragments. ‘Fight the real enemy,’ Sinéad O’Connor had said and twelve-year-old Rosie had known that the words were for her. This is the man who stole away your sister, Sinéad O’Connor might have said, as she ripped the photo into bits, while Rosie, curiously, had felt the opposite process, the formation of a solid identity, a core of steel inside the dreamy girl with her head in the clouds; in the aftermath of catastrophe, watching the Pope ripped to nothing on television, Rosie Doyle became a fighter.
Rosie stood mesmerized by the news ticking across the side of some building, but there was nothing more about the Pope. No sign of Sinéad O’Connor in Times Square: nobody to get upset about the news at all. The crowds around her showed no signs of perturbation: necks continued to crane upwards, fingers snapped at disposable cameras, voices squealed at the sight of women dressed as candy or cowboys wearing nothing. She had to leave, Rosie realized. It had been a mistake to come, foolish to knock on Peg’s door after all these years. Rosie started to walk. She didn’t care which direction, abandoning her desire to descend underground, charging past tourists and Sesame Street characters and a military recruitment centre that made her want to spew a kaleidoscope of vomit.
After a couple of minutes, she realized where her legs were taking her. She was walking uptown on Broadway, billboards disappearing as the streets hit the fifties. As if her legs had their own agenda, Rosie thought with a rueful smile. Manhattan was difficult to get lost in, another general point against it for Rosie, who was a great meanderer, but a feature that was useful at this current moment in her life, with sweat on her brow and turmoil in her chest and a giant rucksack on her back. The friend she was staying with lived uptown off Broadway so she could probably walk it and then she wouldn’t have to worry about taking an express train to the Bronx by accident. She was on a mission, after all; she couldn’t forget Aunty Mary’s letter.
Would Peg want to discuss Aunty Mary’s letter? Would she even talk to her? These were questions that Rosie might better have asked before her flight across the Atlantic, ones to be brushed away now. They’d find the words, Rosie was sure of it. She imagined her aura: turquoise, loving, strong. She’d get the best of this city and her family. Rosie Doyle was a fighter (wasn’t she?).
A breeze arrived as she reached Columbus Circle, some magic wind sent to ease her travels. Things would only get better from here. Soon the bodegas would outnumber offices and people would smile on stoops and the smell of green would rush across from parks and at the end of the path, waiting, would be Peg. They’d find the words, Rosie resolved, the soothing wind on her face a sign from the universe that everything might work out grand. The word sounded odd in her head – it had a different meaning on Broadway – but Rosie clung to it, anyway, appreciating its solidity, the smell of Ireland off it. Yes, Rosie thought, marching down Broadway towards a long-lost sister, everything might turn out grand.
6
Rosemary and Mint Shampoo (2007)
‘What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?’
Peg added a giggle as punctuation; Gina, she figured, was a giggler. Nate pretended to take the matter into serious consideration, his head rattling from side to side.
‘The worst thing I’ve ever done?’ Nate repeated.
His name was not Nate though, no more than he was actually forty-nine. Peg did not mind. He knew what he was doing, something Peg loved about older men: he didn’t require reassurance or cheerleading, could swipe a credit card or roll his tongue across a buttock with the certainty that nothing would ever be found insufficient. If he wanted to be called Nate, so be it. This was how she liked things: names as temporary as hotel bed-sheets.
‘Yeah,’ Peg said, draping herself across the length of the bed.
It was a question she liked to ask in hotel rooms, where white walls were blank enough to absorb all sorts of misdeeds.
Nate knelt over Peg, knees knuckling into her sides, large hands firm on her chest.
‘Worst thing I’ve ever done?’
His hands moved towards Peg’s throat.
‘Yeah.’
He started to squeeze.
‘Haven’t done it yet, babe.’
*
After, Nate turned to Peg and smiled:
‘How ’bout you, babe? What’s the worst thing you’ve done?’
Killed a man, Gina should have said, perhaps a giggle afterwards.
Wait till you see, Gina should have said, flipping him over roughly: your turn now.
Wouldn’t you like to know, Gina should have said, turning onto her side.
Peg said nothing, tensed on the bed, the question ricocheting back to her, demanding to be answered.
She’d leave it be. Plenty of other things to entertain in hotels. Gina, Peg was sure, was a fan of miniature things. Little bottles of vodka, clear and fiery and amazing. Adorable bottles of shampoo with ridiculous ingredients. Rosemary and mint, a scent to banish all trace of the past. Ironic, when rosemary signified remembrance, Peg thought, though Gina kept her mouth shut. Each bottle to be replaced within the hour once they’d left, all part of the deal in hotels, which were brilliant at acting as if nothing had ever happened there before, every day a new start, anonymity the aim and amnesia the game; brilliant, really, that a whole industry could be built on the importance of forgetting.
Bored, Nate switched on the TV.
Gina was not married to Nate so she would not, Peg decided, object to the turning on of the television; Gina was not a nagger.
‘Wow!’
Peg rolled over and looked at the images of Pope John Paul II.
Nate sat up, suddenly alert. The kind of kink he was into, he could certainly be Catholic.
‘Holy shit, he’s already performed a miracle – that was fast!’
Peg watched Rome reel by, starting when she noticed the date on the screen.
‘Fuck!’
Nate turned around.
Peg could have asked Nate about the logistics of forgetting wedding anniversaries – he had a well-worn groove on his finger – but Gina was more of a giggler than a talker.
Nate put his arm around her.
‘You okay, darl?’
‘I’m fine,’ Peg said, certain that Gina was not a Catholic.
7
Archival Box (2007)
Peg removed the lid slowly. No surprises inside: sheets of loose correspondence, waiting to be sorted. Nothing that could be construed as an emergency. Nonetheless, the urge to dive in and escape into work overwhelmed her; she had to steady her hands against the box.
In the archive, at least, things were simple. Collections arrived smelling of garages and neglect, objects perilously stored in regular boxes. A survey was commissioned. Items were rehoused. Staples and paper clips, those perfidious collaborators with rust, were replaced with plasticlips. Carefully labelled acid-free folders were organized in archival boxes. Finding aids were written. Series were designed to guide the intrepid researchers of the future. Eventually, rows of archival boxes were lined up, awaiting transferral to an off-site warehouse in New Jersey, neat labels announcing the triumph of order over entropy.