At Swim, Two Boys - Jamie O'Neill [22]
Keep in with the brothers, his father admonished. Mister Suck, said the boys, the Grand Exhibit.
Was that true about saints? He could think of any number that were born before Christ, but had any died BC? St. Zachary perhaps, father of John the Baptist. Supererogation. It was an easy word to say once you had heard it spoken. Tomorrow he’d look out vilipendence in the school dick.
The candles at the grotto glimmered and guttered. He wished the brother might hurry that their devotion would begin and be over. Our Lady’s downcast eyes.
A silver snuff-box had appeared and the brother made play with settling the top layer of dust. There were stains all down his soutane, a tide of rust, from grains that had rubbed in and soiled. On his sleeves was a shine of chalk-dust. Before he snorted, he blew his nose on a big blue belcher with grubby white spots. The ritual over, he picked up the new sheet of music again. “What do you make of this, Mr. Mack?”
“A Nation Once Again,” Jim read. The page was white as nip. Con brio was crossed out and underneath, in green ink, a phrase in Gaelic had been substituted. Surprising, on account Brother Polycarp wasn’t known for his advanced opinions in politics.
“Are we to learn this next?”
“The new curate has asked for it. A particular favorite, evidently. He would appear to be under the impression we are a band of rapparee fifers. Mountain-men musicianers. Fluters with slips and slides.” He watched Jim’s face a moment, then brightly said, “How’s your Virgil today?”
“Brother?”
“Vincet amor patriae laudumque immensa cupido: translate.”
Reddening, Jim said, “Love of fatherland will conquer and the immense cupidity of applause.”
“Applause? Where do you get applause? ‘The overwhelming greed for praise,’ says Virgil.” He took the sheet of music. “We’ll give it a blast, I suppose.” Opened a drawer, let it slide within. Before the drawer closed, Jim saw without looking for it the protuberant cork of his whiskey bottle.
“An all-for-Ireland personage,” the brother continued. “Went out of his way to tell me ‘God Save the King’ is an Irish air the English have purloined on us. Father O’Táighléir he calls himself. Meaning Taylor. In my day it was a pandy on the palm for speaking Erse. O tempora, O mores: now they have you priested for it.”
Another pinch, another snort. He sneezed and spindrift floated through candleshine.
“Take the hair out of your eyes.”
Momentarily, Jim mistook this for a metaphorical injunction, but screwing his eyes he saw the brother’s encouraging nod. He fingered the flop off his forehead.
“You might train your hair to keep out of your eyes. You have long lashes for your eyes, Jim, and no need of hair to hide them. I’m surprised your mother didn’t tell you that. But I was forgetting. You don’t remember your mother.”
Jim was counting the candles. Twelve. He blinked. Six.
“It is a shame, for a vocation is often the easier with a mother in the home.”
The brother shifted from his chair, heaving himself up and round, and Jim closed his eyes as resiny black linen enfolded his neck. The brother’s arm wrapped round him, bringing him down, on to his knees, the brother kneeling beside.
“Don’t worry you feel confused. It is only natural you feel confused with your mother taken from you.”
A finger rubbed on his cheek, down his chin-bone, to the collar of his shirt. Far out to sea, Jim registered the touch.
“Believe me, Jim, this world without a mother’s care is a parlous place indeed. I know this because mine too was taken from me at a tender age. But I found solace in the words of our Lord. Do you know the words I intend, Jim?”
“I do, Brother.”
“When on the cross our Savior in His passion turned to the disciple He loved. And He said to him, to the disciple whom He loved, Behold thy Mother. Believe me when I say to you now, Behold thy Mother, Jim.”
The statue glittered before them while the finger that had played on his neck ceased its roam. Suddenly