Redemption - Leon Uris [65]
Oh, this magic lad, Caroline said to herself as Conor paced.
“But God is a clever fellow. He does not let man imitate him on the highest level unless he finds a Beethoven or a Michelangelo and allows them to play God.”
“How does God do that, Conor?”
“In a very few people who have ever graced this earth, God has instilled the Holy Ghost in them, some for a fleeting moment, some for a Shakespearean moment. Jean Tijou was transcendent when he did this screen, knowing moments of sublime passion as well as moments of total insanity. Who the hell knows what goes on inside such a man’s head?”
“Oh, Mr. Larkin, Conor lad, I’d give half my life to bear witness to such creativity as a silent partner.”
“Your man Cezanne was one of these transcendent masters, but could he copy Renoir without flying off in his own direction?”
“Having been a model for both of them, I’d say your analogy is ingenuous. Of course, I was a bit more lithe in those days.”
Conor’s sincere presentation was broken by their laughter. She had him on the ropes.
“You once said that a third of a ruined Tijou is worth a thousand Conor Larkins. Unfortunately, along the way you have taught me you are not only too modest, but if you aren’t Tijou’s reincarnation, you possibly may have surpassed him.”
“Oh, come now…”
“You have to capture this moment, Conor. You must follow your dream because it’s not going to happen again.”
“You’re asking me to leap off the edge of the world into the unknown.”
“Aye, have you the guts, mon?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, find out if it drives you mad. Ride a banshee’s broomstick, howl at the wind, break glass, sniff ether, fall drunk. I’ll pick you up. But for God’s sake, realize it’s your fate to do this work.”
That was it, then, the gauntlet to the face, the ultimate challenge. “I’ve a friend coming to Derry this weekend,” Conor said quite softly. “It is not to say that I agree with him on all matters, but I don’t remember so far back when I’ve disagreed.”
23
The referee’s whistle sounded the end of the game, blessedly. The pitch looked like a battlefield. Conor Larkin had exhausted himself pushing his mates to catch up and overtake a decidedly inferior team from Sligo.
Facedown, Conor could scarcely move, the mud was that thick. He felt several strong arms gripping him, under him, and pulling him to his knees. As he tried to wipe the blood from his nose and unglue his eyes, he went down in the mud again under the leaping bodies of his mates in a victory wallow. The crowd rushed from the swaying stands and sidelines and raised their mucky warriors onto their shoulders.
At Nick Blaney’s public house the Bogside doctor went about patching up the lads, dousing a poteen antiseptic on their wounds as beer was poured over their heads.
Bets changed hands. The losers from Sligo, were consoled in the spirit of brotherhood, which would reign at least until the first insult was followed by the first punch, in a matter of time.
Conor proudly showed off his pal, Seamus O’Neill, now a full-fledged reporter on the Belfast Telegraph, an establishment newspaper. Off duty, Seamus was banging out republican essays, poetry, and trying a hand at writing plays.
This was their first get-together since Tomas Larkin got away. As Seamus suspected, his own da, Fergus, who had worked alongside Tomas since childhood, would soon be making his departure as well.
The pain of the game began to creep through the numbness. The level of celebration had fallen to singing Irish ballads. The lads were too tired for a punch-up. Conor and Seamus slipped away.
Seamus poured hot water into Conor’s tub in the forge as he scraped half the mud in the Bogside off him, groaning as he did, then limped up to his cozy flat over the