Dublin Noir - Ken Bruen [60]
Sure enough, once we’d arrived and settled ourselves in the hotel bar, Adele announced to loud approving noises that she wanted to go to Grafton Street “to see what Dublin deems high fashion.”
I declined. “I’m rather knackered at the moment. What say we meet up back here at 8 o’clock before going to Temple Bar?”
“That’ll do. Enjoy … whatever it is you’ll be doing,” said Deborah.
I lay down in my room for a few minutes but quickly grew restless. I had a pilgrimage to make. After asking the concierge for directions, a ten-euro cab ride took me outside the premises of the Irish-Jewish Museum in the Portobello district. The building was a lot smaller than I’d imagined, and the actual museum was even tinier: a room filled with mementos of several lost Irish-Jewish communities and an entire section devoted to Chaim Herzog, the Dublin-born former President of Israel.
The curator, a stout woman in her late thirties, looked almost apologetic. “The communities were very small, and they didn’t donate very much. But we do what we can.”
“You don’t need to apologize at all,” I said. “It’s wonderful. I’m so glad I could come.”
“You also know about the upstairs synagogue?”
“Is it open for visitors?”
She smiled. “You’re in luck. But only for another hour.” She stepped away when another, more irate visitor, demanded she answer his question.
I left the room and walked upstairs. What awaited me were the remnants of one of the oldest city synagogues in all its haphazard glory. To my left was the ark, half-open with a Torah scroll peeking through; a thin layer of dust covered the wooden pews, and a display to my right held toys donated by the area schools. It had been a very long time since I’d stepped inside the premises of any sort of synagogue, and I hadn’t given much thought to praying lately. But suddenly, I was gripped with the desire to face the ark, kneel down, and pray.
I’m sorry, my mind repeated over and over. And I hope you’ll understand.
The fever passed and I stood up, mildly disoriented. A voice called out to me: “Miss? We’re closing the museum soon.”
I checked my watch. Six o’clock already. I dashed down the stairs, called a cab, and was back in my hotel room within twenty minutes. After a quick shower and change, I headed down to the bar, certain I was early. Deborah and the girls were well into their second round.
“You have a good afternoon then?” Hannah asked somewhat condescendingly. I noticed she was wearing new shoes, which pointed in odd directions and were decidedly unflattering.
“I got a good nap,” I replied, trying not to stare at her shoes.
Too late. “Ferragamo. I never thought I’d find them in this ridiculous town.”
“Stop it, Hannah,” said Deborah, who’d swiveled herself in our direction, “We should get to Temple Bar. It’s probably a madhouse by now.”
It was. I’d warned Deborah, but even I couldn’t imagine how many people had crowded themselves into this small area of bars, restaurants, and art galleries. I could barely hear what anyone was saying, and when at one point I tried to sit on a bench in the square’s center, a shabby vagrant launched into a tirade about how he’d earmarked the seat for his own. I jumped away and followed the girls into Gogarty’s, where Deborah had reserved the upper floor for her hen night needs.
Once we’d settled into our seats, Adele took out the tiara, Hannah brought out the lingerie, and a waiter appeared with cocktails. The chattering got louder and the gossip got nastier by the time Deborah quieted us all with a challenge.
“It’s my last big weekend out and I’m with the girls I love most. But before I get married, I have to purge myself of all the shit I used to do as a single girl—”
“You’re still single!” Carol yelled out.
“Barely, and besides, it’ll be so much nicer when I’m married and I can boss you lot around.”
Deborah giggled, and we joined in to humor her, even though it really wasn’t all that funny.
“So in the spirit of things, we’re all going to play a game called Confession.”
“I’ve never heard of that,” I said.
“That’s because I just