Brian Friel Plays 2 (59 page)

Dancing. I knew. I explained the whole thing to her. She had to agree. For God’s sake she didn’t have to say a word – she just glowed.

Molly
It was almost at the end of the night – we were doing an old-time waltz – and suddenly he said to me, ‘You are such a beautiful woman, Molly.’

Nobody had ever said anything like that to me before. I was afraid I might cry. And before I could say a word, he plunged on: ‘Of course I know that the very idea of appearance, of how things look, can’t have much meaning for you. I do understand that. And maybe at heart you’re a real philosophical sceptic because you question not only the idea of appearance but probably the existence of external reality itself. Do you, Molly?’

Honest to God … the second last dance at the Hikers Club … a leisurely, old-time waltz …

And I knew that night that he would ask me to marry
him. Because he liked me – I knew he did. And because of my blindness – oh, yes, that fascinated him. He couldn’t resist the different, the strange. I think he believed that some elusive off-beat truth resided in the quirky, the off-beat. I suppose that’s what made him such a restless man. Rita of course said it was inevitable he would propose to me. ‘All part of the same pattern, sweetie: bees – whales – Iranian goats – Molly Sweeney.’

Maybe she was right.

And I knew, too, after that night in the Hikers Club, that if he did ask me to marry him, for no very good reason at all I would probably say yes.

Mr Rice
The morning of the operation I stood at the window of my office and watched them walk up the hospital drive. It was a blustery morning, threatening rain.

She didn’t have her cane and she didn’t hold his arm. But she moved briskly with her usual confidence; her head high; her face alert and eager. In her right hand she carried a grey, overnight bag.

He was on her left. Now in the open air a smaller presence in a shabby raincoat and cap; his hands clasped behind his back; his eyes on the ground; his head bowed slightly against the wind so that he looked … passive. Not a trace of the assurance, the ebullience, that relentless energy.

And I thought: Are they really such an unlikely couple? And I wondered what hopes moved in them as they came towards me. Were they modest? Reasonable? Outrageous? Of course, of course they were outrageous.

And suddenly and passionately and with utter selflessness I wanted nothing more in the world than that
their
inordinate hopes would be fulfilled, that I could give them their miracle. And I whispered to Hans Girder and to Matoba and to Murnaghan and to Bloomstein – yes, to
Bloomstein, too! – to gather round me this morning and steady my unsteady hand and endow me with all their exquisite skills.

Because as I watched them approach the hospital that blustery morning, one head alert, one head bowed, I was suddenly full of anxiety for both of them. Because I was afraid – even though she was in the hands of the best team in the whole world to deliver her miracle, because she was in the hands of the best team in the whole world – I was fearful, I suddenly knew that that courageous woman had everything, everything to lose.

Molly
The morning the bandages were to be removed a staff nurse spent half-an-hour preparing me for Mr Rice. It wasn’t really her job, she told me; but this was my big day and I had to look my best and she was happy to do it.

So she sponged my face and hands. She made me clean my teeth again. She wondered did I use lipstick – maybe just for today? She did the best she could with my hair, God help her. She looked at my fingernails and suggested that a touch of clear varnish would be nice. She straightened the bow at the front of my nightdress and adjusted the collar of my dressing-gown. She put a dab of her own very special perfume on each of my wrists – she got it from a cousin in Paris. Then she stood back and surveyed me and said,

‘Now. That’s better. You’ll find that from now on – if everything goes well of course – you’ll find that you’ll become very aware of your appearance. They all do for some reason. Don’t be nervous. You look just lovely. He’ll be here any minute now.’

I asked her where the bathroom was.

‘At the end of the corridor. Last door on the right. I’ll bring you.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ll find it.’

I didn’t need to go to the bathroom. I just wanted to take perhaps a last walk; in my own world; by myself.

I don’t know what I expected when the bandages would be removed. I think maybe I didn’t allow myself any expectations. I knew that in his heart Frank believed that somehow, miraculously, I would be given the perfect vision that sighted people have, even though Mr Rice had told us
again and again that my eyes weren’t capable of that vision. And I knew what Mr Rice hoped for: that I would have partial sight. ‘That would be a total success for me’ is what he said. But I’m sure he meant it would be great for all of us.

As for myself, if I had any hope, I suppose it was that neither Frank nor Mr Rice would be too disappointed because it had all become so important for them.

No, that’s not accurate either. Yes, I did want to see. For God’s sake of course I wanted to see. But that wasn’t an expectation, not even a mad hope. If there was a phantom desire, a fantasy in my head, it was this. That perhaps by some means I might be afforded a brief excursion to this land of vision; not to live there – just to visit. And during my stay to devour it again and again with greedy, ravenous eyes. To gorge on all those luminous sights and wonderful spectacles until I knew every detail intimately and utterly – every ocean, every leaf, every field, every star, every tiny flower. And then, oh yes, then to return home to my own world with all that rare understanding within me for ever.

No, that wasn’t even a phantom desire. Just a stupid fantasy. And it came into my head again when that poor nurse was trying to prettify me for Mr Rice. And I thought to myself: It’s like being back at school – I’m getting dressed up for the annual excursion.

When Mr Rice did arrive, even before he touched me, I knew by his quick, shallow breathing that he was far more nervous than I was. And then as he took off the bandages his hands trembled and fumbled.

‘There we are,’ he said. ‘All off. How does that feel?’

‘Fine,’ I said. Even though I felt nothing. Were all the bandages off?

‘Now, Molly. In your own time. Tell me what you see.’

Nothing. Nothing at all. Then out of the void a blur; a haze; a body of mist; a confusion of light, colour, movement. It had no meaning.

‘Well?’ he said. ‘Anything? Anything at all?’

I thought: Don’t panic; a voice comes from a face; that blur is his face; look at him.

‘Well? Anything?’

Something moving; large; white. The nurse? And lines, black lines, vertical lines. The bed? The door?

‘Anything, Molly?’ A bright light that hurt. The window maybe?

‘I’m holding my hand before your eyes, Molly. Can you see it?’

A reddish blob in front of my face; rotating; liquefying; pulsating. Keep calm. Concentrate.

‘Can you see my hand, Molly?’

‘I think so … I’m not sure …’

‘Now I’m moving my hand slowly.’

‘Yes … yes …’

‘Do you see my hand moving?’

‘Yes …’

‘What way is it moving?’

‘Yes … I do see it … up and down … up and down … Yes! I see it! I do! Yes! Moving up and down! Yes-yes-yes!’

‘Splendid!’ he said. ‘Absolutely splendid! You are a clever lady!’

And there was such delight in his voice. And my head was suddenly giddy. And I thought for a moment – for a moment I thought I was going to faint.

Frank
There was some mix-up about what time the bandages were to be removed. At least I was confused. For some reason I got it into my head that they were to be taken off at eight in the morning, October 8, the day after the operation. A Wednesday, I remember, because I was doing a crash-course in speed-reading and I had to switch from the morning to the afternoon class for that day.

So; eight o’clock sharp; there I was sitting in the hospital, all dickied up – the good suit, the shoes polished,
the clean shirt, the new tie, and with my bunch of flowers, waiting to be summoned to Molly’s ward.

The call finally did come – at a quarter to twelve. Ward 10. Room 17. And of course by then I knew the operation was a disaster.

Knocked. Went in. Rice was there. And a staff nurse, a tiny little woman. And an Indian man – the anaesthetist, I think. The moment I entered he rushed out without saying a word.

And Molly. Sitting very straight in a white chair beside her bed. Her hair pulled away back from her face and piled up just here. Wearing a lime-green dressing-gown that Rita Cairns had lent her and the blue slippers I got her for her last birthday.

There was a small bruise mark below her right eye.

I thought: How young she looks, and so beautiful, so very beautiful.

‘There she is,’ said Rice. ‘How does she look?’

‘She looks well.’

‘Well? She looks wonderful! And why not? Everything went brilliantly! A complete success! A dream!’

He was so excited, there was no trace of the posh accent. And he bounced up and down on the balls of his feet. And he took my hand and shook it as if he were congratulating me. And the tiny staff nurse laughed and said ‘Brilliant! Brilliant!’ and in her excitement knocked the chart off the end of the bed and then laughed even more.

‘Speak to her!’ said Rice. ‘Say something!’

‘How are you?’ I said to Molly.

‘How do I look?’

‘You look great.’

‘Do you like my black eye?’

‘I didn’t notice it,’ I said.

‘I’m feeling great,’ she said. ‘Really. But what about you?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Did you manage all right on your own last night?’

I suppose at that moment and in those circumstances it did sound a bit funny.

Anyhow Rice laughed out loud and of course the staff nurse; and then Molly and I had to laugh, too. In relief, I suppose, really …

Then Rice said to me,

‘Aren’t you going to give the lady her flowers?’

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I got Rita to choose them. She said they’re your favourite.’

Could she see them? I didn’t know what to do. Should I take her hand and put the flowers into it?

I held them in front of her. She reached out confidently and took them from me.

‘They’re lovely,’ she said. ‘Thank you. Lovely.’

And she held them at arm’s length, directly in front of her face, and turned them round. Suddenly Rice said,

‘What colour are they, Molly?’

She didn’t hesitate at all.

‘They’re blue,’ she said. ‘Aren’t they blue?’

‘They certainly are! And the paper?’ Rice asked. ‘What colour is the wrapping paper?’

‘Is it … yellow?’

‘Yes! So you know some colours! Excellent! Really excellent!’

And the staff nurse clapped with delight.

‘Now – a really hard question, and I’m not sure I know the answer to it myself. What sort of flowers are they?’

She brought them right up to her face. She turned them upside down. She held them at arm’s length again. She stared at them – peered at them really – for what seemed an age. I knew how anxious she was by the way her mouth was working.

‘Well, Molly? Do you know what they are?’

We waited. Another long silence. Then suddenly she
closed her eyes shut tight. She brought the flowers right up against her face and inhaled in quick gulps and at the same time, with her free hand, swiftly, deftly felt the stems and the leaves and the blossoms. Then with her eyes still shut tight she called out desperately, defiantly,

‘They’re cornflowers! That’s what they are! Cornflowers! Blue cornflowers! Centaurea!’

Then for maybe half-a-minute she cried. Sobbed really.

The staff nurse looked uneasily at Rice. He held up his hand.

‘Cornflowers, indeed. Splendid,’ he said very softly. ‘Excellent. It has been a heady day. But we’re really on our way now, aren’t we?’

I went back to the hospital again that night after my class. She was in buoyant form. I never saw her so animated.

‘I can see, Frank!’ she kept saying. ‘Do you hear me? – I can see!’ Mr Rice was a genius! Wasn’t it all wonderful? The nurses were angels! Wasn’t I thrilled? She loved my red tie – it was red, wasn’t it? And everybody was so kind. Dorothy and Joyce brought those chocolates during their lunch-break. And old Mr O’Neill sent that Get Well card – there – look – on the window-sill. And didn’t the flowers look beautiful in that pink vase? She would have the operation on the left eye just as soon as Mr Rice would agree. And then, Frank, and then and then and then and then – oh, God, what then!

I was so happy, so happy for her. Couldn’t have been happier for God’s sake.

But just as on that first morning in Rice’s bungalow when the only thing my mind could focus on was the smell of fresh whiskey off his breath, now all I could think of was some – some – some absurd scrap of information a Norwegian fisherman told me about the eyes of whales.

Whales for God’s sake!

Stupid information. Useless, off-beat information. Stupid, useless, quirky mind …

Molly was still in full flight when a nurse came in and said that visiting time was long over and that Mrs Sweeney needed all her strength to face tomorrow.

‘How do I look?’

‘Great,’ I said.

‘Really, Frank?’

‘Honestly. Wonderful.’

‘Black eye and all?’

‘You wouldn’t notice it,’ I said.

She caught my hand.

‘Do you think …?’

‘Do I think what?’

‘Do you think I look pretty, Frank?’

‘You look beautiful,’ I said. ‘Just beautiful.’

‘Thank you.’

I kissed her on the forehead and, as I said good night to her, she gazed intently at my face as if she were trying to read it. Her eyes were bright; unnaturally bright; burnished. And her expression was open and joyous. But as I said good night I had a feeling she wasn’t as joyous as she looked.

Mr Rice
When I look back over my working life I suppose I must have done thousands of operations. Sorry – performed. Bloomstein always corrected me on that: ‘Come on, you bloody bogman! We’re not mechanics. We’re artists. We perform.’ (
He
shrugs
his
shoulders
in
dismissal.
)

And of those thousands I wonder how many I’ll remember.

I’ll remember Dubai. An Arab gentleman whose left eye had been almost pecked out by one of his peregrines and who sent his private jet to New York for Hans Girder and myself. The eye was saved, really because Girder was a
magician. And we spent a week in a palace of marble and gold and played poker with the crew of the jet and lost every penny of the ransom we had just earned.

And I’ll remember a city called Frankfort in Kentucky; and an elderly lady called Busty Butterfly who had been blinded in a gas explosion. Hiroko Matoba and I ‘performed’ that operation. A tricky one, but he and I always worked well together. And Busty Butterfly was so grateful that she wanted me to have her best racehorse and little Hiroko to marry her.

And I’ll remember Ballybeg. Of course I’ll remember Ballybeg. And the courageous Molly Sweeney. And I’ll remember it not because of the operation – the operation wasn’t all that complex; nor because the circumstances were special; nor indeed because a woman who had been blind for over forty years got her sight back. Yes, yes, yes, I’ll remember it for all those reasons. Of course I will. But the core, the very heart, of the memory will be something different, something altogether different.

Perhaps I should explain that after that high summer of my thirty-second year – that episode in Cairo – the dinner party for Maria – Bloomstein’s phone-call – all that tawdry drama – my life no longer … cohered. I withdrew from medicine, from friendships, from all the consolations of work and the familiar; and for seven years and seven months – sounds like a fairy tale I used to read to Aisling – I subsided into a terrible darkness …

But I was talking of Molly’s operation and my memory of that. And the core of that memory is this. That for seventy-five minutes in the theatre on that blustery October morning, the darkness miraculously lifted, and I performed – I watched myself do it – I performed so assuredly and with such skill, so elegantly, so efficiently, so economically – yes, yes, yes, of course it sounds vain – vanity has nothing to do with it – but suddenly, miraculously, all the gifts, all the gifts were mine again,
abundantly mine, joyously mine; and on that blustery October morning I had such a feeling of mastery and – how can I put it? – such a sense of playfulness for God’s sake that I knew I was restored. No, no, no, not fully restored. Never fully restored. But a sense that a practical restoration, perhaps a restoration to something truer – that was possible. Yes, maybe that was possible …

Yes, I’ll remember Ballybeg. And when I left that dreary little place, that’s the memory I took away with me. The place where I restored her sight to Molly Sweeney. Where the terrible darkness lifted. Where the shaft of light glanced off me again.

Molly
Mr Rice said he couldn’t have been more pleased with my progress. He called me his Miracle Molly. I liked him a lot more as the weeks passed.