Of Irish Blood (70 page)

“She left his employ, sailed for New York on the S.S.
Nevada
arriving October 2, 1879, and you of course were born in October 1882, three years later.” He pauses.

“So not the landlord’s son,” May says. I wonder if de Valera’s thinking the same thing. The man speaking must be a detective.

“I found a record of her residing at 98 Blossom Street, Brooklyn,” the man says.

“Brooklyn,” says de Valera. “She never mentioned Brooklyn.”

“She was living with quite a prominent American family,” the detective says. “In service, of course.”

“Prominent?” de Valera says. “What were they? Judges? Attorneys? Businessmen?”

“No,” the man says. “Their names were Martha and Frank Giraud, but Frank was known professionally as Frank Girard.”

“Professionally?” de Valera says.

“Yes,” the detective says. “He was a well-known vaudevillian.”

“Vaudevillian?” de Valera asks.

“A performer. He acted in musical shows,” the man says. “And then did an act as a strong man. I have a photograph.”

“But I’ve seen him,” I whisper to May. “Frank Girard. He played the McVicker’s Theatre with Tony Pastor. Come on.”

We walk over to the table and pick up the plates. “Hope you enjoyed it,” I say. “Some nice apple tart for you.”

DeValera’s holding the photograph.

“Oh,” I say. “Frank Girard and Charles Wurley. I saw their act.”

The duke recovers first. “Mademoiselle, you are interrupting us.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say. “But I do know vaudeville.”

I lean over and point at the figures.

“See, Mr. de Valera, the tall man there dressed like Roman centurion? That’s Frank. He played the strong man, and the other fellow kind of balancing on his shoulder, his feet up in the air, his face blackened and his clothes raggedy? Well, that’s Charles Wurley.”

De Valera looks at Seán. “What is this woman going on about?”

“Sir,” I say, “think of it. If your mother lived with the Girards, she must have met all kinds of exciting people. Nora Bay and Daisy Ring and…”

“Your father,” the detective says, “was a friend of Girard’s perhaps.”

“My mother always said he was a musician,” de Valera says.

“But maybe your father was in vaudeville too,” I say.

“I doubt if a descendant of the Marqués de Auñón would be a performer,” the Duke of Tetuan says.

“We’ll bring dessert,” May says, and walks me into the kitchen.

“Why did you pull me away?” I say.

“For heaven’s sakes, Nora. Don’t be going on about that big man Girard. Sounds as if you’re suggesting
he
was de Valera’s father.”

“I didn’t mean that,” I say.

“Dev was Eddie Coll growing up. Let him be related to a duke. Might make him less prickly,” May says.

We serve the apple tarte just as the detective is saying, “So I have been unable to find a record of a de Valera–Coll marriage at St. Patrick’s in Jersey City.” He stops talking.

May and I close the kitchen door. We still hear every word.

“Now, your mother told you your father went to Colorado for his health soon after you were born and died out there.” The man coughs. “Unfortunately, I could find no death certificate for a Juan Vivion de Valera in the state of Colorado from 1880 to 1890.”

“New Mexico,” de Valera said. “Maybe New Mexico.”

“I checked,” the detective says. “Nothing.”

“But he must have died by 1888,” de Valera says, “because…” He stops.

“Because your mother married Charles Wheelwright May 7, 1888, in St. Francis Xavier Church, New York, New York,” the detective says.

De Valera’s father better have been dead or his mother is a bigamist. Unless she did make up the Spanish husband.

“I advise you to accept your mother’s story,” the detective says.

“Story? It’s no story. It’s fact. Now, thanks to Your Grace, I know about the origins of my father’s family.”

“You do, Señor de Valera,” I hear the duke say. “And as for documents, I assure you, the memories of your mother are far superior to any clerk’s records.”

“He’s right, Dev,” Seán says. “Look at me. Best thing my father ever did for me was to die in the 1916 uprising before he and my mother destroyed each other entirely.”

Easier to make heroes of dead fathers, I think.

“All right,” I say to May. “Let’s bring in the tea.”

As I set down a cup in front of de Valera I ask him straight out.

“Peter Keeley, Mr. de Valera. He was a professor here at the Irish College and he fought with Liam Mellows in Galway. I was wondering if you know where he is now.”

“What I do know and don’t know must remain my business,” de Valera says.

“Oh, come on, Dev,” Seán says. “Nora here’s a special friend of the professor. No harm to reassure her.”

“MacBride, you astonish me. Where’s your discipline? Your father for all his shortcomings understood the need for military discipline.”

“Can we at least tell Nora Peter Keeley’s a valuable man who’s devoted to the Republic?” he asks.

De Valera nods. I guess Peter is with them against the treaty. I remember Michael Collins at Maud’s. Now, there was a fellow who’d inspire you. How could Peter support this frozen-faced stick of a fellow with his cat’s cradle of questions and insecurity?

The detective leaves first.

It’s the duke, not de Valera, who thanks May and me for our hospitality. Very charming, his English has a Spanish accent and an Irish lilt.

“You know,” he says to me, “my ancestors went to Spain partly because of the old Irish belief that Ireland’s salvation would somehow come from Spain. One reason why I support Mr. de Valera even though he is a republican.”

And he sings in a low voice,

O My Dark Rosaleen, do not sigh, do not weep!

The priests are on the ocean green, they march along the deep.

There’s wine from the royal Pope,

Upon the ocean green.

He pauses, then lets his voice swell. “‘And Spanish ale shall give you hope, My Dark Rosaleen!’”

Seán’s light tenor joins in and I even think I hear a rumble from de Valera.

My Dark Rosaleen, My own Rosaleen.

Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope,

Shall give you health, and help, and hope,

My Dark Rosaleen.

“So,” the duke says, and claps de Valera on the shoulder, “Catherine Coll meets Juan Vivion de Valera in the home of a vaudeville performer, and the prophecy is fulfilled.”

De Valera’s mouth moves. Smiling, I think.

*   *   *

De Valera’s at Mass the next morning, Sunday. As soon as the priest finishes doesn’t Dev go right up to the Communion rail and address the congregation.

Speaking in English this time.

“I hope all of you students return to Ireland as good republicans,” he says.

Balls of brass indeed.

He and Seán go off to the priests’ refectory.

Still no sign of Maud or Constance. But the next day I spot Seán in the lobby of the Grand Hotel, which hasn’t changed much from when Molly Childers stayed there.

Very close to Michael Collins, the Childerses were. I remember Molly talking about the pistol Collins gave Erskine. Had they stuck with him or were they supporting de Valera?

I’m determined to get more information from Seán about Peter.

I manage to grab Seán’s arm.

“Please,” I say. “Have you seen Peter? Where is he? What’s he doing?”

Seán looks around the lobby at the knots of delegates.

“Let’s sit down,” he says. We find a table in the corner.

“I haven’t seen him myself but I hear he’s still in the mountains,” Seán says.

“But why?” I say. “The war’s over.”

Seán shakes his head. “I hope Mick sees sense and tells the Brits Ireland’s a republic no matter what the treaty says. We’d all unite behind him,” he says.

“But won’t the British send in troops?” I say.

“We beat them once. We can do it again,” he says. “But it won’t come to that. Look at all the support we have.” He points to the crowd.

“But half of these people agree with Collins and the government. They accept the treaty,” I say.

“We’ll have to change their minds one way or another,” he says. “Why our army can’t disband quite yet.”

He leans forward.

“Look, Nora, Peter Keeley runs a kind of training camp for new recruits in the Connemara mountains. They do the military stuff of course but the professor teaches them Irish, tells them the old stories of the Fianna. That’s us, the Fianna Fáil, Soldiers of Destiny.”

All I hear is “military stuff.” My gentle Peter. Training Irish boys to fight each other?

Enough I think. Enough.

Get out, Peter.

“Seán,” I start, but there’s a fellow bending over us—a head of thick white hair. He’s slim, smiling. Gray suit with a waistcoat.

“Mr. MacBride,” he says. “Let me introduce myself. I’m Frank McCord. I heard your parents speak in Chicago twenty years ago.”

“You did?” Seán says. “Sit down, Mr. McCord. Let me buy you a drink. We’ll all have a glass.” He stands up, waves for a waiter.

“We’ll talk more later, Nora,” he says to me.

I bet.

I don’t know McCord, thank God, but I’m not taking any chances.

“Nothing for me,” I say, and get up.

“Well if you must go,” Seán says. Relieved, he stands. So does McCord.

“You’re American?” McCord says.

“She’s from Chicago too,” Seán says.

I see he’s about to introduce me, so I pretend to wave to someone across the lobby and start to walk away.

But McCord’s saying, “I don’t live in Chicago. I moved to a suburb called Argo. Not a place you’d have heard of. Don’t think they sell Argo starch in Ireland.”

Argo. Mike and Mame’s town, and I can’t help myself. The words pop out.

“Do you know Mike Kelly?” I ask.

“Owns a plumbing company? Just became president of the bank?” McCord says.

I nod.

“Good friend of mine. In the Knights of Columbus together. How do you know Mike?”

“I went to school with his wife,” I say.

McCord’s ready for a good gossip and I long for news but I take a step away.

“My wife’s very friendly with Mike’s sister who lives with them,” McCord says.

That stops me.

“A widow with a son. She tells my wife that young Mrs. Kelly couldn’t manage without her,” McCord says.

Mike let my sister Henrietta move in with them? Is he crazy? Poor Mame.

Wonder was Henrietta there when my letter came? Is that why Mike didn’t answer? Did Henrietta intercept it? McCord’s going on, telling Seán that young Mrs. Kelly was the first woman to drive in Argo. Always had a carload of kids though she hasn’t been seen around much lately. Not well, the sister told his wife.

“What’s wrong? Is Mame sick?” I ask.

Too interested. Saying her name. Giving myself away. McCord’s going to start quizzing me. Change the subject.

“Have you seen anything of Paris, Mr. McCord?” I ask him.

“Went to a show last night, all colored musicians. Not my kind of music. I like the old songs. You remember Dolly McKee, Miss, er…”

Expecting me to fill in my name but all I hear is “Dolly McKee.”

“I remember her,” I say.

“Such a tragic ending,” McCord says. He looks at Seán. “Murdered.”

Now I should say “So sad” and leave, but I have to ask.

“She was married to her manager, wasn’t she? Can’t remember his name,” I say.

“Tim McShane,” McCord says.

To hear that name.

“He left Chicago, didn’t he?” Hoping.

“Oh, no. Owns a casino and a bunch of racehorses,” McCord says. “But now what’s
your
name so I can tell Mike I ran into you. Small world.”

“Oh, look at the time,” I say, pointing to the clock on the lobby wall. “The session’s starting.”

I shake McCord’s hand. Grab Seán’s arm. Look at him. He nods. Raised in conspiracy. He won’t tell McCord my name.

I leave the Grand Hotel and go home to the place des Vosges and finish the bottle of wine I bought for de Valera.

I’ve been keeping Peter and my family in separate parts of my mind. Characters in a story I tell myself.

Now Peter’s training young men to kill and Henrietta’s making Mame’s life a misery.

And Tim McShane.

I had him living far away somewhere or dead. Very late before I fall asleep.

*   *   *

“The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity.” Yeats lets the words spread out through the room. Ripples from a pebble dropped into the Lake Isle of Innisfree. A good crowd for his talk. The last of the convention.

We are in the library of the Irish College, where I first learned from Peter “what the heart feels,” to quote James Joyce, who is not attending the convention.

When I came into the room Yeats lifted one finger in greeting, then mouthed “Maud?” I shrugged and shook my head. I still haven’t seen her and she may not come to hear Yeats speak, since the poet has sided with Michael Collins and the government against de Valera and the republicans. Now the audience, similarly divided, looks straight ahead, avoiding the eyes of the opposition, each thinking, We are the best; they are the worst. The unity of the Irish Race Convention has splintered after days of too much talk.

“I wrote this poem,” Yeats explained in his introduction, “as the Great War was ending and revolution was sweeping through Russia like a bloody tide. History teaches a sad lesson—great hopes are too often followed by a reign of terror—a lesson we in Ireland seem doomed to learn. I’m appealing to you to consider the consequences.”

He cleared his throat, smoothed back his hair, all-over gray now but somehow he was better-looking, more substantial, a father himself now. It changes a man, I guess.

Self-assured, not the fellow who shouted his verses into the wind on that beach in Normandy. “Changed, changed utterly”—the words still stick in my head.

“I’ve titled this poem ‘The Second Coming.’” A strange beginning: “Turning and turning in the widening gyre the falcon cannot hear the falconer.”

Now, where did he get that image? I wondered. Are there falcons in Ireland? Probably imagining himself a desert sheik in one of those past lives he told Maud he had. But the next lines were not hard to understand.