Of Irish Blood (69 page)

“I’m not sure I’ll be in Paris,” I say. “I’m planning to go to Ireland.”

“Better wait,” May says. “The talks might break down and the war will start again.”

So in addition to being Joyce’s typist, I join May as a staff member for the convention.

And then early in December, May comes shouting into the little office at the Irish College that’s been given to the race convention.

“It’s done, it’s done. The treaty’s signed! We’re free!”

I jump up and hug her. “Free,” we say together. “Free, free.” A nation once again.

That afternoon I suggest to the duchess that Professor Keeley be placed on our program. She agrees. I write to Maud and include money for Peter’s fare. Ask her to get word to him through Cyril or Maura O’Connor. And won’t she please come
early
and celebrate Nollaig na mBan and so much else.

I get a strange reply. “I have spent my life fighting for the Republic of Ireland. I will not accept half measures nor will any real patriot such as Peter Keeley,” Maud writes. What?

May tells me that the treaty sticks in a lot of people’s craw. The King of England will still be head of state and Ireland a dominion and member of the Commonwealth with elected members of the Irish Parliament required to swear an oath of allegiance to the king but as May says, “It’s only words.” We’re in our little office the first week of January.

“Right,” I agree. “They can cross their fingers.”

“Collins said we don’t have freedom but we have the conditions for freedom. Have to go step by step,” May says. “It’s better than having the Black and Tans burning the place down around us. And as for the North. Well, Mick’s already shipping guns there.”

May’s own Tyrone has been lopped off and made part of Northern Ireland, a new state with a Protestant majority that would stay united to Britain. Unionists.

“But we’re a small island,” May says. “We can’t be split like that.”

“A house divided against itself cannot stand,” I say.

“Did Dev say that, may I ask?”

“Abraham Lincoln, actually talking about our Civil War,” I said.

“Dear God, don’t even say those words,” she says. “We can’t have a civil war though if Dev keeps pushing…” She looks at me. “You know who Dev is, don’t you?”

“Of course,” I said. “Eamon de Valera. For heaven’s sakes, May. I may be American but I’m not a complete idiot. Besides, he’s an American citizen, too.”

“When de Valera was in jail and Collins helped him escape, de Valera was the president of our new state, and now he’s opposing the treaty,” May says.

A few days later May arrives, red-eyed.

“Have you been crying?” I ask.

“De Valera’s left the government in protest. Said Collins betrayed the Republic. It’s bad, Nora. The country’s splitting apart.”

So. Not a great time to have a Congress of Unity, I think.

28

JANUARY 1922

“I wonder, will Peter come,” I ask Cyril, as May and I follow him through the lobby of the Grand Hotel. The Irish Race Convention opening reception’s tonight.

“Only the muckety-mucks from both sides,” he says.

“Michael Collins and the government picked four delegates and asked Dev as head of the opposition party to choose four. Countess Markievicz is one and so’s Mary Mac Swiney,” May says.

All the women in the Dáil voted against the treaty and walked out with de Valera, which seems a mistake to me. I mean what if aldermen in Chicago quit the City Council when a vote went against them?

Still Cyril thinks the opposing sides will use the race convention to make a deal.

“A lot of snorting and stomping then Mick and Dev will work out some agreement. Have to,” Cyril says.

We join the crush of delegates, mostly men but a good few women, moving into the ballroom. Each group gathers under one of a dozen or so banners. I see Australia, Argentina, Brazil, Canada, Chile, one for Tasmania, of all places, South Africa, India, France, of course, Switzerland, Germany, Italy, Portugal, and Spain. Big crowds near the England and Scotland banners and almost as many United States delegates. Though in their section handwritten signs specify New York, Boston, Philadelphia, and San Francisco. And there’s Chicago sticking up with at least a dozen men standing around it. Don’t recognize anyone, thank God. I move to the side of the ballroom, find the duchess and the countess.

We rigged a kind of throne for the Duke of Tetuan, the O’Donnell, by covering a chair with cloth-of-gold embroidered with an Irish harp, shamrocks, the O’Donnell crest, and the duke’s own Spanish coat of arms. The duchess’s footman stands next to the throne. I talked her out of having him wear a powdered wig but the footman’s still very grand, in brocade britches and a lace jabot. He’ll present each delegation to the duke.

The duke enters. He’s a hefty fellow and I hear a creak as he settles down on what is only a rather frail chair.

The countess and the duchess approach him first. They curtsy in a smooth movement many of the other women try to match. The men half bow. The duke says a few words to each in Spanish. A priest from the Irish College translates.

Eamon de Valera doesn’t wait for the footman’s announcement but walks right up to the duke.

“I am Eamon de Valera, president of the Republic of Ireland,” he says.

The duke stands up. “And I am the Duke of Tetuan, and the O’Donnell,” he says in accented English.

Now, of the two, De Valera’s hands down the more regal, a foot taller than the duke and very Spanish-looking—dark, one of those Roman noses.

“That man is rude,” the duchess says to me. “He has no sense of protocol.”

He knows exactly what he’s doing, I think. The Republic of Ireland. No titles allowed except for his own, I guess.

“No bowing and scraping for Dev,” someone says.

I turn.
“Bichon,”
I say.

“Haven’t heard that for a while,” Seán MacBride says to me.

“You’re a delegate?” I ask.

I mean he can’t be more than eighteen.

“I’m President de Valera’s secretary,” he says. Didn’t grow to his mother’s height, but those are her eyes.

“Is your mother here? Constance?” I ask him.

“They’re too republican to attend this show,” he says.

The duke is addressing the group now. Speaking in Spanish again, the priest translating. And doesn’t de Valera step right up next to the duke and start talking to him in Irish, which the priest puts into Spanish.

The duke nods. Gestures. Presenting de Valera, who turns to the crowd, raises his voice. He delivers a full-blown speech—all in the Irish language, and when the priest tries to translate the words into English de Valera stops him with a chop of his hand as if to say, You who call yourselves Irish will learn the language.

“Dev’s always been great at the old one-upmanship,” Cyril says to me. “Balls of brass. Look at Mick’s fellows. Fuming.”

Supposed to be no politics at the convention. A united front to the world. So much for that.

After the speech Seán takes my arm and walks me into the corridor outside the ballroom.

“Listen, Nora, President de Valera wants to host a private luncheon away from the conference,” he says.

“That’s nice,” I say.

“Well, we want you to give us your place and make a meal for say, four people. Tomorrow. Lunchtime.”

“Seán, my place is tiny and as for cooking…” I say.

“Food’s not important to Dev. But get some decent wine. He’s a pioneer at home but likes wine on the Continent. Here.” He gives me a load of francs. “Tomorrow at one o’clock.”

“Is your mother coming?”

“No women,” he says. “Serious business. Private.”

“No women? For God’s sake, Seán. Where would all of you be without women?”

“Nora, please. Other people are looking at us.” And they are. The delegates pass us as they leave the reception.

“I’m sorry I asked you,” Seán says. “We’ll find some other place.”

“No, no. It’s all right but don’t expect some kind of feast.” Seán laughs and then looks around and whispers, “Dev’s in touch with Liam Mellows. After the meeting, I’ll get him to talk to you.”

“Liam Mellows. He’s the fellow Peter was with.”

“Quiet, Nora. See you tomorrow,” he says.

I ask May to help me. Omelettes are the only thing I’d ever cooked in my little kitchen. All well and good for Seán to say the food doesn’t matter but what would Mam or Granny Honora think if I didn’t feed the president of Ireland a proper meal? I ask Madame Simone for a recipe, a suggestion.

“L’Impasse,” she says.

Of course. So May and I carry a cauldron of beef bourguignonne, a pan of roasted potatoes with rosemary, and a bowl of ratatouille from the restaurant to my apartment. I buy a large apple tarte from the corner patisserie.

“At least I can make the coffee,” I say to May as we shove the meal into my tiny oven.

“They’ll want tea,” she says, and produces a tin of Barry’s. May and I put two of my small tables together. Madame Collard lent us linens and silver. I borrowed some candles from the sacristy of the Irish College. We’re ready.

Seán and de Valera arrive first. Something very clerical about de Valera. Ascetic but not celibate. I mean the man has six children.

A decent wine, Seán said, and he nods at me as he sips the Pommard I pour him. I hand de Valera a glass and fill it.

“Nora’s from Chicago,” Seán says to de Valera as he leads him over to the fireplace. De Valera’s glad enough to warm himself. He nods and says nothing to me.

Seán goes on. “Of course, the president’s more familiar with New York.”

“My mother and her family lived near New York when they first arrived in America,” I say, which doesn’t seem to interest de Valera, but I keep talking, anything to fill the silence. “In Jersey City,” I say, “across the harbor…”

“I know where Jersey City is,” de Valera says. “My parents were married in St. Patrick’s Church in Jersey City.”

“Well, small world,” I say. “My aunt was in that parish. Maybe she knew your parents.”

“Is she alive?” he asks.

“My aunt? Yes,” I say.

“Get me the name,” he says to Seán.

May speaks up. “My people know yours, Mr. de Valera. In fact, we’re related to the Colls of Bruree.”

“What’s your name?” de Valera asks.

“May Quinlivan.”

“From?”

“Well, Tyrone now. My father’s the schoolmaster there but his people are from Bruree. They tell stories about you, sir. Your growing up there and all,” May says.

“After the president’s father died his mother sent him to her parents,” Seán says to me.

“How could a lone woman support a two-year-old child?” de Valera says. “My uncle Ned took me back to Ireland.”

My granny Honora and Aunt Máire raised nine children between them, I think. I wonder would they have sent any back to Ireland? Can’t picture it.

“Is she still alive?” I ask.

“She is,” he says. “She married again. My brother Thomas was ordained two months after the Rising.”

“My da says they always thought around home you’d go for a priest,” May tells de Valera.

Seán cuts her off. “Well now, I’m sure you ladies have things to do in the kitchen. We’ll have lunch as soon as the president’s guests arrive.”

He takes May’s arm and mine and steers us out of the room.

“What was that about?” I ask May as we ladle out the bourguignonne.

“I think I put my foot in it,” she says. “There were some problems with de Valera getting into the seminary.” And now she whispers, “Priests have to be, well, legitimate you know.…”

“And de Valera?”

“Well, there’s some at home think the whole story of the Spanish husband is dodgy. His mother had worked in the Big House and went to America very sudden.”

Dear God, I think. Was de Valera’s mother another landlord’s victim?

Seán comes to the kitchen door. “Almost ready?” he says. Which means “Hurry up.”

“Not polite to quiz the president,” Seán says to May.

“I didn’t mean…” she starts.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Seán,” I say. “Who cares who de Valera’s father was?”

“He does,” Seán says. A knock at the door.

“I’ll go,” Seán says.

Both May and I expect a representative from the government. I imagine the pro- and anti-treaty forces reconciling over lunch in my apartment. I’d take the historic photograph.

But when we look out who is standing there? Only the Duke of Tetuan. Alone. Wrapped in a cloak, a fedora hat pulled down to his eyebrows.

“You weren’t followed?” Seán asks as he takes the duke’s cloak and hat, which gives me a chance to go into the room.

“I’ll take those,” I say to Seán.

The duke walks straight over to de Valera, who sets down his wineglass.

“Well?” he says, standing up.

“Yes,” says the duke. “I believe the evidence is clear. Your father, Juan Vivion de Valera, is related to the Marqués de Auñón. Members of the family did go to Cuba.”

“My mother always said the de Valeras had a sugar plantation,” de Valera says.

The duke nods. “Exactly. You are a descendant, sir, of Spanish nobility.”

The duke takes de Valera by the shoulder and kisses him on both cheeks.

“Wow,” I say.

Seán turns me toward the kitchen.

“Lunch,” he says.

As May and I fill their plates in the kitchen I hear a fourth man arrive. An American from his voice.

May and I set out the lunch on the tables by the fire. “Don’t you have to go somewhere,” Seán asks me.

“No,” I say. I’ll stay in the kitchen but I won’t leave my own house.

Of course my place is so small May and I can hear every word through the closed kitchen door. The American seems to be giving de Valera a report. “Your mother was born December 23, 1858, in Bruree, County Limerick,” he starts.

“I know that. You’re wasting my time,” de Valera says.

“Please, sir, I prefer to proceed chronologically,” the man says.

“This is nonsense,” de Valera says.

“Easy,” I hear Seán say.

The man continues. “After your grandfather Patrick Coll died, she, at the age of sixteen, went into service in the home of Thomas Atkinson.”

In the kitchen, May squeezes my hand. “That’s it, the landlord,” she whispers.