With the brief-case still under my arm I start ploughing through the rambla again. I feel as if I had come down form Mt. Sinai by parachute. All about me are my brothers, humanity, as they say, still marching on all fours. I have an overpowering desire to kick out in all directions, speed the poor buggers into Paradise. Just at this precise chronological moment when I’m fizzing like champagne, a man tugs at my sleeve and shoves a dirty post-card under my nose. I keep walking straight ahead with him clinging to me, and as we move on, trancelike, he keeps changing the cards and muttering under his breath: A honey, what! Dirt cheap. Take the whole pack—for two bits. Suddenly I stop dead in my tracks; I begin to laugh, a frightening laugh which grows louder and louder. I let the cards slide from my fingers, like snow-flakes. A crowd begins to gather, the peddler takes to his heels. People are beginning to pick up the cards; they keep crowding in on me, closer and closer, curious to know what made me laugh so. In the distance I spy a cop approaching. Pivoting round abruptly, I yell: He’s gone in there. Get him! Pointing to a shop near the corner I push forward eagerly with the crowd; as they press forward and ahead of me I turn quickly and walk as fast as my legs will carry me in the opposite direction. At the corner I swing round, moving like a kangaroo now, until I come to a gin-mill.
At the bar two men are in the midst of a violent dispute. I order a beer and make myself as inconspicuous as possible.
I tell you he’s off his nut!
You’d be too if you had had your balls cut out.
He’ll make you look like a horse’s ass.
The Pope’s ass he will!
Look, who made the world? Who made the stars, the sun, the rain drops? Answer me that!
You. answer it, since you’re so bloody learned. You tell me who made the world, the rainbows, the piss-pots and all the other cocksucking devices.
You’d like to know, lad? Well, let me say this—it wasn’t made in a cheese factory. And it wasn’t evolution made it either.
Oh no? What was it then?
It was the Almighty Jehowah himself, Lord of Creation, Begetter of the Blessed Mary, and Redeemer of lost souls. That’s a fair answer for you. Now what have you to say?
I still say he’s nuts.
You’re a dirty infidel, that’s what. You’re a pagan.
I’m not neither. I’m Irish through and through. And what’s more, I’m a Mason … yeah, a bloody Mason. Like George Abraham Washington and the Marquis of Queensbury…
And Oliver Cromwell and Bloody Bonesapart. Sure, I know your breed. It was a black snake that borned you and it’s his black venom you’ve been spreading ever since.
We’ll never take orders from the Pope. Put that in your pipe and light it!
And this for you! You’ve made a Bible out of Darwin’s crazy preachings. You make a monkey of yourself and you call it evolution.
I still say he’s nuts.
Can I ask you a simple question? Can I now?
That you can. Fire away! I’ll answer anything that has sense to it.
Perfect! … Now what makes worms crawl and birds to fly? What makes the spider spin his crazy web? What makes the kangaroo … ?
Hold it, man! One question at a time. Now which is it—the bird, the worm, the spider or the kangaroo?
Why do two and two make four? Maybe you can answer that! I don’t ask you to be an anthroposophagist, or whatever the devil they’re called. Plain arithmetic … two plus two equals four. WHY? Answer that and I’ll say you’re an honest Roman. Go on, now, give it to me!
Bugger the Romans! I’d rather be a monkey with Darwin, b’Jasus! Arithmetic! Bah! Why don’t you ask me if red-eyed Mars ever wobbled in her funicular orbit?
The Bible answered that long ago. So did Parnell!
In the pig’s ass he did!
There isn’t a question but was answered once and for all—by somebody or other.
You mean the Pope!
Man, I’ve told you a hundred times—the Pope is but a Pontifical interlocutor. His Holiness never asserted that he was the risen Christ.
Lucky for him, because I’d deny it to his treacherous face. We’ve had enough of Inquisitions. What the sad, weary world needs is a bit of common sense. You can rave all you like about spiders and kangaroos, but who’s going to pay the rent? Ask your friend that!
I told you that he joined the Dominicans.
And I said that he was nuts. At this point the bartender, thinking to quiet them, was about to offer drinks on the house when who walks in but a blind man playing a harp. He sang in a tremulous falsetto which was woefully false. He wore dark hlue glasses and over his left arm was slung a white cane.
Come give us a bawdy song! cried one of the disputants.
And none of your shenanigans! … cried the other.
The blind man removed his glasses, slung the harp and cane over a peg in the wall, and shuffled to the bar with an alacrity that was amazing.
Just a wee drop to wet the palate, he whined.
Give him a drop of Irish whiskey, said the one.
And a bit of brandy, said the other. To the men of Dublin and County Kerry, said the blind man, raising both glasses at once. Down with all Orangemen! He looked around, bright as a bob-o-link, and took a swallow from each of the tumblers.
When will you get any shame in you? said the one.
He’s wallowing in gold, said the other. It’s loike this, said the blind man, brushing his lips with his sleeve, when me owld mother died I promised her I’d never do another stroke of work. I’ve kept to me bargain, and so has she. Every time I pluck the strings she calls to me softly: ‘Patrick, are you there? It’s grand, me boy, it’s grand’. Before I can ask her a question she’s gone again. The fair grounds, I call it. She’s been there for thirty years now—and she’s kept to her bargain.
You’re dotty, man. What bargain?
It’s long to explain and my throat’s parched…
Another brandy and whiskey for the scoundrel!
You’re kind, the two of you. Gentlemen, that’s what you are! Again he raises both glasses. To the Blessed Mary and her prodigal son!
Did you hear that now? That’s blasphemy or I’ll eat me hat.
It’s not either. Tush tush!
The Blessed Mary had only one son—and by the holy Patrick he was no prodigal! He was the Prince of Paupers, that’s what he was. I’ll take an oath on it.
This is no court. Easy with your oaths! Go on, man, tell us of your bargain!
The blind man pulled his nose meditatively. Again he looked about—bright and merry, chipper as could be. Like an oily sardine.
It’s loike this … he began.
Don’t soy that, man! On with yer! Out with it!
It’s a long, long story. And me throat’s still dry, if yer don’t mind me saying so.
Get on with it, man, or we’ll be fleecing your bottom!
The blind man cleared his throat, then rubbed his eyes.
It’s loike I wuz sayin’ … Me owld mother had the gift of sight. She could see through a door, her gimlicks were that strong. Wanst, when the dadda was late for supper…
Your dadda be damned! You’re a creepy old counterfeiter!
I am that too, screeched the blind man. I’ve every little weakness.
And a, throat that’s always parched.
And a pocketful of gold, eh, you rascal! Suddenly the blind man became terrified. His face blenched.
No, no! he screamed, not me pockets. You wouldn’t do that to me? You wouldn’t do that…
The two cronies began to laugh uproariously. Pinning his arms to his sides, they went through his pockets—pants, coat and vest. Dumping the money on the bar, they piled it neatly in bills and coins of every denomination, putting the bad money to one side. It was a stunt they had evidently rehearsed more than once.
Another brandy! called the one.
Another Irish whiskey—the best! called the other.
They dished out some coins from the pile, and then a few more, to make a generous tip for the barman.
And is your throat still parched? they asked solicitously.
And what will you have? says the one.
And you? says the other.
My throat’s getting dryer and dryer.
Aye, and so is mine.
And did you ever hear about the bargain Patrick made with his owld mother?
It’s a long story, says the other, but I’ve a mind to hear it to the end. Would you tell it now, while I down a goblet to your health and virility?
The other, raising his goblet: I could tell
