Of Irish Blood (22 page)

“I wonder why nobody railed on about this at the Clan na Gael picnics. I never heard my Uncle Patrick talk about stolen manuscripts and he had chapter and verse on the English atrocities,” I say.

“If you consider that Cromwell slaughtered all but three hundred thousand of the Irish population and a million starved to death during the Great Starvation, stealing a manuscript doesn’t count for much,” Peter says.

“You don’t believe that,” I say.

He takes a breath. “I don’t. They tried to erase our very identity, to stamp out who we really are.” And he pounds his fist on the table. “But they failed and these very manuscripts might help defeat them,” he says.

“Right,” I say. “Change our notion of who we Irish are. Why, just meeting Maeve makes me think of myself differently. And…”

But Peter cuts me off. “A more direct role for this page. The cause needs money. The new Home Rule Bill is being moved through Parliament right now. And this time we have the votes to pass it. But the Protestant unionists in Belfast are pressuring the British government to stop the bill. An MP called Edward Carson got five hundred thousand unionists to sign a covenant saying they’ll resist Home Rule by any means necessary. He’s that organized. The Ulster Volunteers say they’ll take up arms to stop Home Rule. And they have the money to buy weapons.”

What James McCarthy said that first day at the Panthéon.

“Dear God,” I say. “The men of Ireland against the men of Ulster.”

“And Carson’s not even from the North. Born and raised in Dublin. Held the Trinity University seat in Parliament. Worse, his mother’s family are from Galway,” says Peter. “Carson spent his summers there. Funny about these big-house families. Some get to know the country people and become nationalists. Carson’s cousin from down the road, Edward Martyn, works for the Cause. But others…”

Now, this is when I start to see the web of connecting families woven through Ireland. In many ways so like Bridgeport, where every conversation starts with whose cousin married whom, what childhood friends have wed.

“Now if the British think that we have a counterforce that’s armed too, that’ll make them think twice,” he explains. “The Ulster Volunteers are buying guns from Germany, where the best weapons are produced,” Peter says. “And there are German universities eager to buy Celtic manuscripts.” He explains that professors from Germany had been coming to Ireland for years to study the Irish language and translate the manuscripts, more or less shaming the British into valuing this heritage. “So, do I have your permission?” he asks.

“What?”

“Providential, really, that a member of the Kelly clan appears just as I discover this fragment that can become a real weapon. But…”

“Wait,” I say. “Are you asking me if you can sell it?” I touch the page. He nods. “And Father Rector agrees?”

“Father Kevin doesn’t think he needs to know,” Peter says.

And here comes Father Kevin through the door and talking as he walks over to us. Waiting to make his entrance, I guess.

“We have this wonderful concept in religious life called ‘interpeting permission’—acting first and telling the superior later,” he says.

“Useful,” I say.

“Pages of Irish manuscripts like your Kelly book are scattered all over the world,” Father Kevin says. “We’ll never know where most of them are, let alone ever get them back. And if any do turn up, the British will claim them in the name of the United Kingdoms of Britain and Ireland. What do you say, Nora?”

“I say yes. You have my permission on behalf of, well, the Kellys.”

Peter stands up. So do I. Father Kevin shakes my hand then and Peter does the same. Do I imagine he holds on for a few extra seconds? We smile. Comrades. Conspirators.

“Now, Nora,” Father Kevin says, “you won’t mention the Kelly fragment to anyone, will you?”

“No.”

“Good,” he says. “Don’t tell a soul.”

“Why? Are there British agents around?” And I laugh. But they don’t.

Father Kevin lowers his voice. “Not a joke, Nora,” he says. “We are watched. The British know Paris has been a refuge for Irish patriots for centuries. The government would just confiscate the page, and if they found out what we planned, well…”

“But surely you are safe enough in Paris.”

Father Kevin shakes his head. “Last year a young Irish student was arrested by the French police. He was accused of spying for Germany because he’d traveled back and forth to Berlin studying with a professor of Celtic languages there. Deported and we knew the Special Branch would be waiting for him in Dublin,” Father Kevin says.

“Gosh, poor kid. What happened to him?”

“We managed to get him on a ship to America. Of course, he is in exile now and can never return to Ireland.”

“But if he becomes an American citizen, he can come and go as he pleases,” I say.

“The British don’t recognize naturalized American citizens. If you’re born in Ireland, you are their subject forever,” Peter says.

“But that’s not fair,” I say.

“Like so many things, Nora,” Father Kevin says.

I must admit I do look behind me a time or two as I walk home and even cross the street so as not to pass the Palais de Justice. Though a part of me hears Sister Veronica’s reprimand, “You exaggerate to make yourself important, Nora Kelly,” after I explained that I couldn’t help being late because a horse cart had collided with a delivery wagon on Archer Avenue.

In Chicago maybe we didn’t have the grandeur of Paris but at least there we Irish
are
the police.

And then it’s Christmas Eve.

DECEMBER 24, 1912

A light snow falling as I walk to midnight Mass at the Irish College. A small congregation. I check the pews for strangers. What better place for an agent. But I recognize all the faces.

A few French families make the college chapel their parish church, and they go off after Mass for their big Christmas dinner. The
réveillon
, you call it. Have to admire the French for serving up a huge meal at one o’clock in the morning. Well, the priests are too Irish for that. I eat brown bread thick with butter and sip hot whiskey with Father Kevin and Peter in the parlor. The other priests go to the refectory.

I start to ask about the Kelly page, but Father Kevin puts his finger to his lips and Peter says, “I’ll walk you home, Nora. We can talk on the way.”

Peter and I stop in the courtyard to watch snow falling on the frozen garden.

“Won’t stick,” I say. “Never get a real Chicago pileup here. Paris is too temperate.”

“Ireland’s the same,” Peter says.

We start walking along the empty snow-silent streets of Paris. Only a scattering of flakes left as we cross the Seine. The moon slides out from the clouds, bounces on the water. We pause on the bridge. I take my hands out of my muff and spread them on the stone parapet.

Peter looks down.

I wish he’d cover my hand with his. I wish …

But he only says, “Be careful, Nora. Chillbains are easy got and hard to get rid of.”

“Like so many things,” I say. “Peter, about these British agents, I’ve been thinking.” But he puts his finger on my lips … then takes it away.

“Oh, come on,” I say. “No one’s around!”

“Such a beautiful night. I want to forget everything else,” he says.

Well. That’s promising.

The moonlight shines on the snowdrifts along the rue de Rivoli.

“‘The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow gave the luster of mid-day to objects below,’” I say.

Peter stops.

“It’s a poem, Peter,” I say. “About the visit of a wise old man on the night before Christmas.”

“Who’s the author?”

“A fellow called Moore,” I say.

“Irish,” he says, and smiles. “I must look it up.”

“Do that,” I say.

Wait until he comes to the reindeer. What are they called?

Oh, yes. “Watch for Donner and Blitzen,” I say.

“They sound like German scholars,” he says

“Not exactly,” I say. “Though I do believe they did come from quite far north.” And I stand there and begin reciting:

“‘’Twas the night before Christmas’” … full out, very serious and I get each word right; naming every reindeer. I finish with a flourish.

“‘And I heard him exclaim as he rode out of sight, “Merry Christmas to all. And to all a good night.”’”

Well, if ever a man’s struck dumb, it’s Peter Keeley. And then he laughs. I mean, the bending-over-tears-on-his-face kind of laughing. Then he hugs me. He throws his arms around me as if I am an old friend coming home from a long journey.

Then steps back away from me. “You are such an American, Nora Kelly.”

“Me? But I’m one hundred percent Irish.”

“You are that, too. Makes me sorry that…” He stops.

“I’m going away,” he says.

“To sell the Kelly fragment?”

“Eventually. Father Rector has decided to send me to the Irish College at Louvain in Belgium, to help catalog their library.”

“Louvain,” I say. “Is it because of me?”

I can hardly get the words out.

He looks away.

“Might be for the best,” he says. Here it comes. A nicer version of Father Rector’s “you’re a distraction” speech. Winifred’s book had a story about Grania, who’d taken a fellow by the two ears as if he were a calf and told him they were in love. I’d grab Peter’s face. Tell him I loved him. Except he’d drop dead on the spot.

“Won’t have to worry as much about British agents in Belgium,” Peter says. So. Not even thinking about me. The Cause comes first. Uncle Patrick all over again.

“And then there’s the other colleges, one in Rome, two in Spain, one in Lisbon. I’m to investigate them all.”

“So, a long trip,” I say.

At least I can invite him to my room, say a proper good-bye, one he’ll remember. There’s another bottle of Beaujolais and …

The Fairy Woman! Trying to take me over this early on a Christmas morning! Haranguing me as Peter and I cross the place des Vosges to reach the doorway of my building.

I stick out my hand.

“Good luck,” I say.

He shakes my hand and says, “I’ll be back in the spring.”

“Will you write?”

“Safer not to,” he says.

“Okay. So long,” I say.

“What?”

“So long,” I repeat. “It means good-bye.”

“Strange,” he says. “I thought you said
‘Slán,’
Irish for good-bye—well, really ‘safe.’ We say
‘Slán abhaile’
—safe home.”

“Slán abhaile,”
I repeat. He stands there as I open the door and walk up the stairs.

9

APRIL 1913

April. As I walk up the rue de Rivoli the sun warms my shoulders. Now is the winter past, thank God. Somehow spring always does come. Will Peter be returning soon?

Father Kevin says he doesn’t know. I’ve been going to Mass every Sunday at the Irish College. Back in Mother Church’s bosom again. Part of the tribe. Avoiding Father Rector though and hoping for news of Peter. “Professor Keeley has taken on a big job,” Father Kevin told me. “The library at Louvain alone has three hundred thousand volumes.” And Father Rector will make him check every one.

I miss Peter, no question, but I’ll soon be thirty-four, too old to be lovesick over a fellow with no interest in me. I’ve seen May and the other students at Mass but they’re all occupied with their own work. So is Father Kevin. He’s writing a book about his fellow Donegal man, St. Colmcille, and the young people are studying and having parties, I suppose, though I am not invited. They wouldn’t think of asking me, I guess. Too old. Not that I mind. I’m busy enough myself at Madame Simone’s.

During the winter when tourists were few I found my métier—stealing still, but not from the couturiers. It was Miss Hail Britannia did me in.

I’d taken a chance and attended Paul Poiret’s February fashion show. All settled in the press section, pad ready, when here she comes screaming, “
Voleur! Voleur!
Thief! Thief!”

Well, that, as Aunt Máire would say, put the tin hat on it. I ran out of the place as Miss British Lion was telling the newsmen that I was a fraud, a Boche spy probably trying to destroy France’s greatest industry … couture.

So. I was
desolée
and didn’t dare go back to Madame Simone’s with nothing. Cold and raining and there was the Louvre—solid, so solid. Warm probably. I really should go in one of these days, I thought—like now.

“Où est la
Mona Lisa
?”
I asked. Confusing when the guard directed me to
La Joconde
. “It means ‘joke,’” he said in English.

Not sure what I thought of her. Bit of a receding hairline. Wouldn’t have been considered a beauty in Bridgeport. Not with that nose. But a lovely smile, no question.

A cluster of art students around her sketching away. I took out my pad. Why not? Except it was her sleeves attracted me. Satin, I thought. I liked the folds. I wonder, I said to myself, as I quickly filled in the scoop-necked dress and added a full skirt. The guard was suddenly standing behind me looking at my pad. He told me he never saw anyone draw the dress and not the face. I explained to him that I was interested in clothes.

The guard took me to see Ingres’s portrait of Caroline Rivière and her mother. We could make their gowns in four colors, I thought. When the guard showed me Ingres’s sketches I got four more ensembles. And then, God forgive me, I even used the artist’s portrait of St. Joan. Her skirted armor became a gown flaring out at the hips. The guard took my five-franc tip with a dignified bow. Elegant in his uniform, a bit of a dandy himself, he told me Ingres’s greatest portrait—that of the princesse de Broglie—was not on display anywhere. Kept by the family, who still mourned her death at only thirty-six. “They say that gown is exquisite. Of course the family is one of the greatest in France and the prince served as premier under President Patrice de Mac-Mahon not so many years ago.” Mac-Mahon. The Irish are everywhere.

Madame Simone and I also “do” Delacroix and Titian and even Raphael. Madonnas, I know, but we copy the pleating. Madame Simone advertises the gowns as her Old Masters Collection, and the clients love them. We add Monet, Manet, and Renoir. I must say I’m relieved not to be borrowing from the real couturiers. I went to the Hôtel Jeanne D’Arc to tell Stefan, but he’s gone. The new desk clerk said Stefan was in Russia. So. A true Bolshevik, I guess.