Authors: Bartholomew Gill
The Death of Love (6 page)
So much for sympathy, which made McGarr realize how little he was affected by dead bodies. Here was a man whose career he had followed in the papers, whose return to Ireland and possible entry into politics he had looked forward to with no little anticipation and hope, and yet Power’s…remains, as it were, represented no more to McGarr than potential evidence.
Yes, he was saddened by Power’s death. And, yes, he would be angry if it proved to be murder. But what had mattered about Paddy Power alive was not what McGarr was viewing on the carpet in front of him, but rather the spirit that had resided in Paddy Power while he still had life. And while alive, Power—a man who had spurned the selfish possibilities of his own vast wealth—had seemed to know that himself. It was that generosity
of the spirit
that had died with the man.
And as usual when viewing a victim now since his daughter, Maddie’s, birth, McGarr reminded himself that Paddy Power had once been somebody’s baby. Two people, themselves now most probably dead, had once gazed down on his tiny new body with love and hope, and had then—if McGarr knew anything about life in Kerry—
sacrificed the best remaining hours of their own lives to fulfill their aspirations for him. And to good point in the instance of Power. Much of the world and an entire nation had known of and respected the man he grew to be, to say nothing of thousands, perhaps millions, whom he had aided through his philanthropic and other
pro bono
work.
And now some other, mostly less well known and less well respected, men wished to have the circumstances surrounding his untimely death ignored. To further Power’s work, they claimed.
McGarr reached out and shoved the knee of Power’s corpse so that it began its grotesque rocking motion again, the mouth gasping, the eyes bulging in a wild, savage smile, and the note card raised over the head. “I’ve got it here!” it said to McGarr. “The prize. The winnings in life. And you won’t
believe
what it is.”
Pity that knowledge died with him, McGarr thought. And his prospects. Who knew what Power could have meant to the country? Now.
Before leaving the room, McGarr picked up one of the small yellow pills that were scattered over the carpet and slipped it in a pocket.
Inexhaustible, Ineffable Sources
WETTING HIS LIPS on a drink a half hour later in the hotel bar, McGarr was approached by a Tech Squad sergeant who handed him a note card. “This is the one that was clutched in Mr. Power’s hand. These,” he placed the others on the cocktail table by McGarr’s glass, “were on the floor. Only his prints and those of one other person are on them.”
Gladden’s, McGarr thought. “What are you having?”
The sergeant glanced from McGarr’s glass to the remarkably well-dressed crowd who were conversing volubly at the bar. “Don’t feel much like celebrating myself.” There was a hard glint in his eyes. “But t’anks, Chief.” He walked off.
And with all the mahogany, gleaming crystal, and barmen in tuxedos behind them, the bankers and their women looked like an outtake from
Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous
. Well, rich-looking and notable outside of Ireland, McGarr decided, scanning the sixty or so names on the guest list before him. He recognized only names of Irish people whose lives were unremarkable save for their attendance at select social events, race meetings, and—he suspected—conferences such as this.
Quiet money. He thought of what Gladden had contended apart from his charge of murder: who now owned the country and how that ownership had been derived. Paddy Power had been privy to all of that. He had profited
and made “a great deal of money” (Frost’s words) for others. Recently, however, he had had second thoughts, again according to Gladden.
On the table McGarr spread Power’s note cards, which he arranged according to date and time. They seemed like a kind of log of Power’s observations from the time he had arrived in Shannon Airport on Friday morning until he returned to Parknasilla after his walk on Sunday evening. Each was written in a neat, if crabbed, hand, the characters of which placed Paddy Power as an Irishman as surely as if he were speaking to McGarr. It was the peculiar system that was still taught only in secondary schools of the Republic of Ireland.
Each card was also dated and marked with the time in the upper-left corner. There was another heading in the upper-right corner that looked like a filing entry. With a pen McGarr marked the lower-right corner of the card that had been taken from Power’s dead hand, but he began with the earliest entry:
Friday, 11:00
A.M.
Kerry
Well—this is it, the first step in my attempt to right the major wrong of my youth when, like the rest of them, I succumbed to raw greed. My public amend, it will be, which might take me the rest of my life
.
McGarr touched the glass to his lips and let the peat-smoky liquor seep under his tongue; little had Power known.
Here I sit in the back of a large car, passing through ragged, diesel-dusty towns that cower on the flanks of inhospitable, glorious mountains. The equally unforgiving beauty of the sea lies to my right, with an occasional habitation picketing, like a white stone bunker, the narrow chartreuse strand
.
Buses packed with garish tourists and other holiday-makers in rental cars sweep by most often without pause. When they do stop and get out, they look stunned or amazed to see how we live—offering in cramped, dingy rooms stale sweets, soft fruit, days-old bread and
impedimenta of our ancient culture that has all but vanished
.
Like alms, they pay whatever we charge, which is always too much, and they leave feeling—knowing—they’ve been cheated but wishing to come back. They have seen something, but they know not what
.
It is what invites but will not submit to description in simple words—the cold, wild beauty of Ireland and the miracle of how we can continue to endure her barren caress. And
why,
when she can be made to change
.
Friday, 1:30
P.M.
Sneem
Apart from a proud farmer’s cottage, the only structures that invite a second glance are the relics of the age of villeinage that is now looked back on with bitter nostalgia, especially by those of my Irish colleagues who have donned the princely political mantle with its means of making money
.
Of the Irish I’ve got only Gretta solidly with me. Some others I will sway, but my main hope is with the foreigners, who hold 60 percent of the debt
.
Friday, 1:15
P.M.
Parknasilla: debt conference
Gretta is on the sun deck, waiting for me. What do you say about a person with whom you’ve shared a great passion, which has withered and died, but who remains staunchly by your side to fight the good fight with no mention of our former condition? Reward her amply? I’ve done that and doubly, since she’ll outlive me. I only hope it is enough
.
I’ve not been in the best form lately, and she’s arranged for Mossie to come by for a checkup tomorrow morning. I trust it’s only the same old thing. And not enough real rest. I want to hit the ground running. Sean Dermot and his henchman have already arrayed themselves against me, and I must catch them off-guard, lest they make a “Mossie” of me as well
.
Friday, 2:15
P.M.
Parknasilla: debt conference
Shane Frost has arrived, and I am dismayed by his duplicity. Here he has the chance to act selflessly for
once and aid the nation, admittedly at some immediate cost to himself. Instead he is shameless in carrying messages from Sean Dermot: a “final” plea, O’Duffy calls it, to bury my proposal and my candidacy. “They’re offering you the presidency. They’ll back you a thousand percent. Guaranteed,” says Shane. “What more could any man want? Prestige, influence, respect on top of your fortune.” What I want is better for Ireland, which requires real (as opposed to the illusion of) power. The presidency is merely a ceremonial post. But I’ve already told him that
.
Shane can be a grand fellow, but he’s just not up to his destiny. Taking me into the bar, which he sees far too much of these days, says he, “It’s important now to know where O’Duffy stands.” Says I to myself, “’Tis more important to know who stands with him.” Then he’s up suddenly to make a phone call. “Options,” says he. Put or call, think I
.
Saturday, 7:00
A.M.
Parknasilla: debt conference
Still not feeling tip-top, in spite of the medicine Mossie gave me. The flutters again. Walked into Sneem and had a bit of a morning session with the local lads in Sneem House. Lemon soda for me. When I got back I had to lie down for a wee nap—until dinner! The sedatives Mossie gave me are potent
.
Sunday morning Parknasilla: debt conference
Arrivals better than expected so far. Many Yanks whose view of Ireland’s future is not as sanguine as O’Duffy’s. Spent the noon hour “schmoozing,” as they say—with them and the Krauts. They are so much alike, the Americans and Germans, that sometimes I believe they are separated from each other by language alone. Both brash, materialistic, aggressive, gregarious people
.
Tried to borrow Gretta’s car to drive up into the mountains and walk it off. She gave me the keys, but I could not find it in the car park
.
McGarr glanced at the bar where now he could hear only English being spoken, and he tried to pick out nation
alities but could not. Usually shoes and eyeglasses were tip-offs, but these people all seemed to patronize the same set of conservative clothiers from Savile Row. As far as their accents were concerned, apart from the obvious Texan, the rest seemed to have been born and bred on the Queen Elizabeth or the Concorde, then schooled by Berlitz.
Palpitations again and serious. I’ll have to make apologies to Shane. He wanted me to meet with a group of Jap bankers to discuss the possibility of the Eire Bank matter, which he so much wants and I oppose, at least until we know more of how I will fare as a candidate. Eire Bank is at least a power base of sorts, and it was my first venture and is therefore most loved. Perhaps I could make it strong again
.
I will take that hike I promised myself. Gretta’s car is back. I can see it from my window here
.
Sunday, 1:30
P.M.
Parknasilla: debt conference
Have paused on the pinnacle of Mullaghanattin, which is spectacular in its desolated beauty. From here I can see Kenmare to the southeast and Dingle Bay to the north. Below me I can also see Mossie Gladden’s stony mountain farm, snugged into a lee ledge of the topographical curiosity that is called “The Pocket
.”
The pocket is a sudden, nearly circular declivity in the mountains that is watered by the two cascading sources of the Blackwater River. It is protected by a moat of sheer cliff that one can breach from above only if he knows the way; and Mossie’s fastness sits there like a forlorn mountain island. In all, Mossie’s property is testament to the ability of man to eke out a living from even the most barren pitch
.
Mossie, of course, has his doctoring and his government pension, but if I had the time and inclination, I could count the white specks in the green between the rock formations that are his sheep. He must have several hundred head. Near the house he keeps two small fields in potatoes
.
Card 2 of that entry went on.
I can see a figure, obviously Mossie, walking from the Land Rover that has just pulled in over the rough road he has cut to his perch. It’ll take me an hour to get down there, and I hope he doesn’t leave on some other message before I arrive. I could use some tea and a bit of a rest. His chat, however, is something else
.
Mossie contends that the country as a whole is a wasteland as definitive as that which I now see before me. We’re cut off, he says, from the succor of our religions, which are not relevant to the modern experience, and from the means of bettering our daily lives by a government which serves only itself. With this last I agree
.
His
approach, however, is to withdraw here and try to reestablish touch with the ancient modes of who we were as a people and who we can be. With the “Living Waters,” he calls it, pointing to the clefts in the rocks from which the Blackwater springs, “of inexhaustible, ineffable Source
.”
All well and good, after the likes of O’Duffy are tackled and brought to ground. With that Mossie concurs, but when I told him about my plan for the national debt he flew into a rage and asked me why I don’t just go after O’Duffy with my knowledge of what went on during the years that I served in his governments. He’s fixated on the man and doesn’t understand that politics of confrontation always boomerang. What goes around, comes around. Better to propose doable alternatives and remain aloof from naming-calling. I sometimes worry he’s gone round the bend
.
The penultimate card, the one with McGarr’s penned mark in the corner, read simply:
Sunday, 3:30 Parknasilla: debt conference
Have stopped again to catch my breath before descending the narrow path through the cliff face. From time to time the sharp report of Mossie’s high-powered rifle comes to me and then howls through the moun
tains. Target practice, he’s told me, for the dogs that summer people leave when returning to the city. Jackals, he calls them. The wily and strong have survived to reproduce, preying on Mossie’s sheep. For a time he took to trapping the dogs, but with no takers even for the pups of such animals, the local dog warden only had to put them down
.
Now he uses the rifle
.
The final card said:
Sunday, 4:30 Parknasilla: debt conference
Tom, the head porter, tells me Big Nell stopped by. Not knowing where I was, he directed her to my room and let her in. What in the name of God can that troublesome, avaricious woman want with me after all we’ve been through? I hope she isn’t up to staging another of her rows. Not here, not now when I’m about to step into the political arena
.
McGarr glanced up. He needed another drink, and he now caught sight of Shane Frost, standing tall among a clutch of bankers at the bar.
“Still with us, McGarr?” Frost asked, assessing him from his eminence as he would, say, a servant.
McGarr only nodded. “Might I have a word.” When they stepped away from the group, he handed Frost the final note card. “Who’s Big Nell?”
Frost looked down. “Paddy’s wife, of course. Or, rather, his ex-wife. They’re divorced, you know.”
McGarr remembered having read a report of it but years ago. “London, wasn’t it?”
Frost nodded.
Divorce was still illegal in Ireland, and very much a political liability that only a Paddy Power, who had done so much good for others, might overcome. But then, of course, there was the Catholic Church, which O’Duffy had been courting for decades and was very much in his corner. McGarr could imagine an aggrieved, divorced wife, conspicuously on the scene, making a debacle of Power’s “first step” into politics.
“Helen?” McGarr asked.
Frost nodded.
“Helen Power?”
Frost shook his head. “I’m not sure if she resumed her maiden name.”
“Which was?”
“Nash. They were an old family in these parts.”
“Does she live around here still?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure. I don’t see much of her anymore. The parents’ place was left to an older brother in England who sold the property. The house went to ruin and was knocked down.”
“Could she be staying in the area now?”
The possibility seemed to worry Frost. “I don’t think so. At least I hope not. Apart from the conference, the hotel is closed. The season over. You’ll have to check. Nell is…contentious, and the thing with Gretta and then the divorce seemed to set her off. I’m not certain she’s over it yet.”
“What
thing
with Gretta?”
“Ah”—Frost looked away—“she blames Gretta for breaking up their marriage, but, you know, Paddy didn’t marry Gretta. “What happens if you decide to investigate Paddy’s death?” After tomorrow, he meant.