Back in the 1970s there’d been the phenomenon of the moving statues. Our Lady, literally seen to move in various “blessed” parts of the country, led to an almost hysterical reaffirmation of faith in the country. Quashed later by the clerical scandals. But for a brief time, there had been “Holy Ground.” Our Lady of Galway had been moved by a gang of feckless teenagers.
My success in this case put me briefly back in the Church’s graces.
Sister Maeve came to me, told me of two girls who’d been savagely raped and beaten, tossed aside. We’d met in Crowe’s Bar in Bohermore. Sign of the fractured times in that a nun in a pub didn’t raise an eyebrow, mainly because she was dressed like Meg Ryan. She’d ordered a sparkling Galway water, to see, she said,
“The tiny bubbles shimmer.”
Two of her former students came to her. Amid sobs, fear, shame, and utter despair, they’d told her of their ordeal. How de Burgo, acting as mentor to their studies, had lured them to a flat on the canal. After, he’d thrown them out on the street, warning,
“Speak of this and you’ll go in the canal.” Maeve had duly reported all to her Mother Superior, who said,
“Jezebels! Common harlots who enticed a good man.”
De Burgo was one of the prime movers in having extensive renovations made to the convent. Maeve, pushing aside her now flat water, said, in a very un-nun-like fashion,
“Who is going to besmirch the name of a man responsible for the central heating?”
Comfort versus truth?
No contest.
I asked Maeve,
“Why have you come to me, Sister?”
She considered her answer, then,
“Because you understand that justice is rarely delivered through ordinary channels.”
Something radiantly different in a tiny, holy nun letting loose her very own
Mongrel of War.
Whatever else I thought, I didn’t think she “got the right guy.”
She had moral indignation, I had rage but, more important, I had the hurly.
The priest was crying.
A tear of hatred trilled down his cheek. The thin man noted it was quite lovely.
They were standing two feet apart-the man of law and the man of God.
As the tear dissolved into the thick beard, the big man wiped it away, then looked up into the thin man’s eyes with loathing and slowly whispered,
“ God. . damn. . it. ”
The thin man couldn’t contain himself. He was grinning openly,
Was it a thrill to hear this man of the cloth taking the name of the Lord in vain?
“ I knew then the bitch was mine. ”
(From The Murder Room by Michael Capuzzo)
Later, when I was asked about the essential difference between Jack,
A wild Irish fucked-up addict.
And me,
A WASP wannabe academic.
I was able to summarize it thus:
I liked to quote Beckett.
Jack quoted Joan Rivers.
And an ocean of misunderstanding flowed between the two.
Much has been said of Jack’s propensity to violence. Not long after I’d found a place to rent, in Cross Street, just a drunken hen party from Quay Street, Jack announced,
“I’m treating you to dinner.”
His version:
Fish ’n’ chips from Supermac’s on Eyre Square. It was relatively early, 7:30 p.m. on a slow Galway Wednesday. Come four in the morning, when the clubs let out, it became a war zone. We were in line behind a young couple. Dressed for a night out, the guy in a smart suit, the girl in a faux power suit but without the confidence. The girl was asking,
“Please, Sean, I just want chips, no burger.”
The guy’s body language was flagging. . volatile.
They got their order and the guy grabbed her portion of chips, mashed them into her suit, said,
“No burger, no fuckin eat.”
I glanced at Jack, his body was relaxed, no visible sign of disturbance. For one hopeful moment, I prayed he might not even have registered the incident. We got our fish ’n’ chips, then Jack added,
“A carton of your hot chili sauce.”
I said nothing.
We got outside, the couple were standing at the Imperial Hotel, the guy jabbing his finger into the girl’s face. Jack said,
“Give me a sec.”
Ambled toward them, not a care in his stride, the chili carton oozing steam from his left hand.
He said something to the girl, who stepped back. He slapped the chili into the guy’s face, gave him an almighty blow to the side of the head, asked,
“You want fries with that?”
I don’t know any form that
doesn’t shit on being in the most
unbearable manner.
(Samuel Beckett)
It’s quite a good idea: when words fail you,
you can fall back on silence.
(Samuel Beckett)
He looked like the kind of gobshite who’d spent his
Life
(pause)
being mildly amused.
This was Jack’s verdict on a guy selling flags for Down Syndrome Ireland. The “mildly” brought to crushing effect the contempt he felt.
I asked Jack,
“The violence, the almost casual way you rise to it?”
He had the granite flint in his eyes, which cautioned,
“Tread very fuckin lightly.”
Clicking back and forth on the Zippo, he held my eyes, coldly said,
“For starters, you don’t ‘rise’ but descend to violence.
Let me paraphrase:
‘Some are born to it
and others
have it thrust upon them.’”
Wearying of his semantics, I asked,
“And you, which category are you?”
His eyes slid off me, dissing me curtly, said,
“Take a wild fuckin guess, hotshot.”
Reaching into his battered all-weather Garda coat, he slapped a single sheet of paper before me, said,
“Read.”
Four names:
Siobhan Dooley
May Feeney
Karen Brown
Mary Murphy
He said,
“All students of de Burgo.”
Then abruptly standing up, he said,
“Get yer arse in gear.”
“For?”
“An appointment with the eminent professor.”
“What?”
“As an American high-flying student, you are meeting to discuss Beckett and the Galway Connection.”
Then he shrugged, said,
“Who the fuck cares, we just want to meet the lunatic.”
“We?”
He smiled, cold,
“I’m your concerned old uncle.”
“Can you do ‘concerned’?”
He was already moving, said,
“I can certainly do old.”
The University of Galway was teeming with new prospective students. Parents in tow, they were checking out their new home. It would be the one and only time the parents got a look in. Their role from now on would be twofold:
(1) Pay for books.
(2) Pay for bail.
De Burgo’s office was in the old part of the building. I noticed Jack’s limp was prominent and he said,
“Gets a sympathy vote.”
A secretary assured us we had to wait for only five minutes, would we like some water?
Jack said,
“With a splash of Jameson.”
She gave him a look that implied:
“Old guys, they still have some moves.”
Then we were told to enter Dr. de Burgo’s chambers. Jack’s face was granite. He looked as though he wished he still held a container of chili sauce.
De Burgo was engrossed in papers, pushed them aside with a sigh, came round the desk, hand extended, said,
“Welcome to my humble retreat.”
Whatever else he implied, humility wasn’t in the mix. He looked like an Ivy League professor from Central Casting. Corduroy jacket over worn plaid shirt and, yes, patches on the sleeves. Pressed navy chinos, boat shoes, a well-tended goatee below deep-set eyes. Eyes that were burning with intensity. But, as Jack would say,
“Off.”