Of Irish Blood (40 page)

Monsieur Collard stays open through August to serve the merchants at the Market Saint-Antoine, which never closes. Monsieur’s glad to see us. Madame looks up from behind the
caisse
, which takes up one side of the tiny space, and nods. I tell Father Kevin and Peter that the Collards sell fodder, too, and that during the week, horses and wagons crowd the impasse Guéménée. But all is quiet this Sunday afternoon. Monsieur Collard leads us to a table on the sidewalk under the awning where there is an anemic breeze.

“I never order,” I say. “I let Monsieur choose for me,” which makes Monsieur Collard smile.

Father Kevin nods.

But Peter asks about the steak
pommes frites
. Monsieur Collard tells him, “Restaurant L’Impasse serves the best in all of Paris and therefore, in the world.”

“My mother always had a bit of beef waiting for us on Reek Sunday,” Peter says, “after we climbed Croagh Patrick, the Reek.”

“Oh,” I say.

“You don’t know what he means, do you?” Father Kevin says.

“I don’t.”

“In Ireland, the last Sunday in July is called Reek Sunday, the start of the festival of Lughnasa, the harvest celebration on August first,” Father Kevin says.

“Lughnasa,” I repeat.

Some vague memory of one of Granny Honora’s stories coming back.

“Named for the ancient god Lugh,” Peter says.

“Actually, it was Lugh’s Mountain where St. Patrick fasted,” Father Kevin says.

“Wait, St. Patrick and a pagan god? Together?” I ask.

“On speaking terms at least,” Peter says.

Whatever that means.

Just then, Monsieur approaches with the dinner. Perfect cold salmon fillets for Father Kevin and me, plates of vegetables. Peter’s steak is piled high with
pomme
s
frite
s. Still can’t get use to these thin cuts of meat.

“Someday,” I say to Peter and Father Kevin, “we’ll go to Chicago for a real steak, thick and juicy.”

Silence. Peter sets down his knife and fork. Stares at me. What did I say? Can he read my mind?

“Oh. Look, I didn’t mean…” Jesus. All those daydreams about Peter and me escaping into a life in Chicago, Roddy McCorley and his sweetheart alive and well in Bridgeport, are even more impossible now that I’m officially dead. Though if I did show up with a real Irishman and a patriot to boot, maybe I could explain away my demise.

Father Kevin breaks the silence.

“I’d love to see Chicago,” he says. “Half my family’s in America somewhere.”

Peter doesn’t say anything. I wonder, has Father Kevin told him about my sister declaring me dead? Catch yourself on, Honora Bridget Kelly. The man has been away a year and a half. He’s no interest in you. He’s treating you as if you were a stranger.

Have some pride, I tell myself, and say in a very formal tone, “Father Kevin tells me you found treasures in Louvain. Any of them as valuable as the Kelly fragment?”

And Peter actually puts his fingers to his lips and he shushes me though we’re yards away from the French mama and papa and two teenage sons at the table across from us. Strange. No conversation at their table. Maybe they are listening to us. Then I realize these two teenage boys will be called up when the French army does mobilize.

Finally Peter starts talking, telling me about the Catholic University of Louvain’s incredible collection of 300,000 books.

“Hundreds of medieval manuscripts,” he says, “thousands of incunabula.”

“Which are?” I ask.

“Books published before Gutenberg’s printing press,” Father Kevin puts in.

“Rare?” I ask.

Peter nods. “Invaluable.”

And I blurt out, “Oh gosh, Peter, what will happen to the books if the German army marches through Belguim?”

“I can’t see them attacking a library,” Peter says. “The Germans respect scholarship. Remember, I knew them in Dublin.”

“But it won’t be professors in the ranks. If those books are valuable, better get them out of there,” I say.

“Some we have sent away. But as I said, there’s hundreds of thousands.”

Monsieur Collard approaches, carrying a wine bucket. He sets it on the table.

“Rose from Provence,” he says.

“Grand,” says Father Kevin.

Monsieur Collard pours the wine in Father Kevin’s glass. Waits. But Father Kevin says, “I’m sure it’s delicious.”

“Perfect to toast your return, Peter,” he says as Monsieur Collard fills our glasses.

What do I do?

I can’t break a vow that’s only an hour old. But Father Kevin is raising his glass and gestures for us to do the same.

“As Belloc says, ‘Wherever the Catholic sun doth shine, There’s always laughter and good red wine. At least I’ve always found it so.
Benedicamus Domino!
’ Let’s drink to friendship, to Lugh and St. Patrick and that sense will prevail.”

What can I do? I raise my glass, touch his. “Amen,” I say.

“Sláinte,”
says Peter.

He reaches across and our three glasses are joined. We drink. God will understand, I think. And I definitely won’t have dessert.

Father Kevin keeps going on about Belloc. Peter smiles and turns to me. “Another of Father Kevin’s friends.”

“Interesting man,” Father Kevin says. “French father, English mother, who was converted to Catholicism by Cardinal Manning. Very much the English gentleman but a true Catholic; a bit like Arthur Capel. A good fellow, comes to college when he’s in Paris; brought that friend of his, Chesterton, one time, who told me that he’s thinking of coming over to Rome.”

Peter clears his throat.

“You don’t approve, Peter?” Father Kevin says.

“I don’t have much patience with English Catholics who think religion’s all about building private chapels and kissing bishops’ rings. No sense of how we Irish held on to the faith through generations of persecution by the English.”

Not worried about that French family hearing this now.

“Be fair Peter, Belloc and Chesterton both spoke up for Home Rule and Parliament did pass it.”

“And will never implement it,” he says.

They’re talking louder now and one of the French boys looks over, probably thinks we’re English tourists. Father Kevin notices and smiles at him.

“Poor fellow,” he says to us. “God only knows what’s in store for them. I performed three marriages yesterday. Every Frenchman between eighteen and forty can be conscripted.”

“Well, at least they’ll have a wife at home, writing to them, praying for them,” I say.

“A very strong impulse to marry. Ever hear of why the famous St. Valentine was martyred?” Father Kevin asks.

Peter and I shake our heads.

“The emperor had forbidden any of his soldiers to wed and Valentine was secretly performing marriages. He died so that others could have love.”

A very romantic interpretation. “I think it’s selfish for a man going to war to tie a woman down like that,” Peter says.

“I disagree,” Father Kevin says. And then to me, “Peter and I have been arguing about marriage this morning.”

“Now, Kevin, stop,” Peter says.

“Please,” Father Kevin says, “I’d like Nora’s opinion.” He leans toward me.

“Peter thinks a man can’t propose marriage unless he’s well fixed financially. And I say that nowadays, with women working, marriage is much more of a partnership. Look at a woman like you. You can earn a living. Love finds a way. Even Valentine himself fell in love with the daughter of his jailer, left her a note when he was killed. ‘Love, Your Valentine.’ Remember, priests could marry in those days, which would still be a good idea. Valentine’s buried in Ireland, you know,” he says.

Why am I not surprised?

“And then there’s the Brehon laws,” Father Kevin says.

“Easy now, Kevin,” Peter says. “Don’t drag in laws that are a thousand years old and only applied to noble families.”

“But sound principles in them,” Father Kevin says. “Perfectly fine for a man with little substance to marry a woman with more. We’ve never been a materialistic people, really. Even old Gerald of Wales, no fan of ours, observed that for the Irish ‘the greatest wealth is to enjoy liberty.’”

Wait a minute, is he talking about Peter and me? I look down and start shoveling in the salmon, take a swig of wine, kick Father Kevin under the table, but he won’t stop.

“I come from a family of matchmakers.
‘Basadóir’
in Irish,” he says. “Sometimes, unlikely couples need a bit of a push especially in these desperate times. Important for a man and woman who love each other to declare it.”

Now he’s going too far.

Peter pushes his plate away. “I really must get back. I’m expecting a cable.” He takes a few bills from his pocket.

“No, no, Peter. I want to pay,” I say.

But he puts the money on the table and walks out.

“I’m sorry, Nora. I thought…” Father Kevin starts. But I shake my head and I finish my meal. I don’t eat the profiteroles.

A flash of lightning, followed seconds later by thunder, as Father Kevin and I cross the Petit Pont, hurrying, trying to beat the rain. I’ve never let myself be angry at a priest before but, Jesus Christ, I’m mad now. Father Kevin’s ruined any chance I have even to be Peter’s friend. I would have stomped off, but I have the only umbrella and I can’t let a seventy-something man get drenched.

We’re at the Panthéon now and turning in to rue des Irlandais when the first drops hit. I get the umbrella up and hold it over the two of us. Not far to go, but then a strong gust of wind blows against the umbrella. I can’t hold the handle. Father Kevin reaches up to help me but a second blast gets between us and turns the umbrella inside out just as the deluge begins. We’re soaked in seconds. My hat melts around my face. My skirt and blouse are plastered against me. Even my shift’s wet. Father Kevin’s cassock hangs on him, water dripping from it.

“We have to run for it,” he says, and takes off up the street to the college entrance faster than a man his age should be able to move with me right behind him. He swings open the wooden doors and we’re in the hallway.

I start laughing. Hard to stay mad. The young priest on porter duty steps out, looks at us.

“What the…?”

“All’s well, Father James,” Father Kevin says. “We’ll be in the visitors’ parlor.”

Not many priests around. Most of them still in Ireland for the summer. Only a few of the youngest seminarians.

“There’s a message for you, Father Kevin,” Father James says. “Professor Keeley wants to see you as soon as you return. Urgent.”

Father Kevin goes off and I head for the parlor.

No fire in the little room today and I’m not about to lower my soaking self onto one of their fancy chairs. Hope Father Kevin finds some kind of nonclerical towel around here somewhere. But it’s not Father Kevin who comes into the parlor but Peter Keeley, who strides over to me and takes my two hands.

“Oh, Nora, we did it! We did it! The guns, they landed them at Howth this afternoon. The volunteers unloaded them. The countess was there and her Fianna. They set those rifles on their shoulders and marched into Dublin. And no one stopped them. The army came out but could do nothing. Stand up to a bully and he backs down.”

“Gee whiz,” I say. “Great! Wonderful!”

And then Peter hugs me, grabs the whole wet mess and pulls me close. He’d have kissed me too if Father Kevin hadn’t come in at that moment.

“Peter told you then?” Father Kevin says.

“He did.”

“Imagine! The Childerses and Mary Spring-Rice sailed that boat in with the help of two Donegal sailors. As they approached the shore, it was Molly herself at the wheel of the
Asgard
, strapped in and holding firm.”

The Irish navy and Boy Scouts the army of Ireland. Great.

I think of those helmeted German troops and imagine those boys at L’Impasse, the hundreds of thousands of other French conscripts, the millions of men of the Russian army, and regiment upon regiment of British soldiers. All of Europe massed for war. What chance for the Irish? And yet, and yet, we’d gotten through the blockade, defied the British government and armed at least nine hundred of the volunteers.

“Hurrah,” I say to Peter, “Hurrah for Molly and the Alices and Mary Spring-Rice and Maud and Constance and you and Father Kevin and me, too. Hurrah, hurrah!”

I reach out for Peter’s and Father Kevin’s hands. I sing a bit of Uncle Patrick’s song: “‘A nation once again. A nation once again.’” The two men join me. “‘And Ireland, long a province, be a nation once again!’”

“Amen,” Father Kevin says. “Amen.” And only then does he hand me the towel and a bundle. “Here, dry off. Change in the cloakroom there.”

Now I’m shivering, my teeth chattering. In the cloakroom, I take off my wet clothes and rub myself dry, then open the bundle. What? I shake out the garment. Jesus Christ. I can’t wear this. But I do. I step into the black cassock and button it up. A bit tight over my bosom but it covers me well enough. The soft serge feels good against my skin. And I’m not about to put my soaked shirt and blouse back on.

I walk into the parlor, where Peter is alone, crouched down trying to start a fire.

“Father Kevin went to find us a drink,” he says, then turns around. “Dear God,” he says.

I trace a sign of the cross in the air.
“Dominus vobiscum,”
I say to Peter.

He stands up and stares at me.

“Now, don’t be offended,” I say. “It’s Father Kevin who gave it to me. And it’s a skirt after all.”

“I’m not offended,” he says. “I’m…”

Quiet now, he speaks not much above a whisper.

“Here we are,” Father Kevin says, carrying a bottle of Jameson and three glasses.

“You look very nice, Nora,” he says to me. “You’d make a lovely priest.”

“Well,” I say, “after we get the vote and straighten out the governments, why not women priests?”

But if truth be told, I’m not feeling one bit priestly. I’m still hearing Peter’s voice: “I’m not offended, I’m…”

I’m … what?

A wonderful giggly evening. With most of the priests away, there are no formal meals and the three of us eat bread and cheese. I toast the slices over the fire. Easy to bend down, feeling very unbound in this cassock, no corset, no underclothes. My clothes dry near the fire. Feels good to be so unconfined. No wonder Gertrude Stein likes to dress as a Carmelite. I wonder, could I interest Gabrielle Chanel in a vestment collection? I say this out loud to Father Kevin and Peter.