Читать книгу Future Popes of Ireland - Darragh Martin, Darragh Martin - Страница 24

Of course, Rosie got onto the wrong subway and of course she ended up in the worst place in New York. Rosie wasn’t prepared for the intensity of Times Square. That comforting pocket of Irish accents by the Aer Lingus bag carousel had disappeared and she was surrounded by American voices. Heat charged through the streets without bends and promised to knock her horizontal. Cheerful chains sold donuts that could blind you and coffee that was mostly whipped cream, and M&Ms in so many flavours and colours that you might die before you decided what to eat. Huge billboards flashed confidence and sold clothes and Broadway shows and screamed Here You Are at the Centre of the Universe! making Rosie want to lasso the first plane she saw and hitch her way back to Clougheally.

Breathe, Rosie reminded herself. She was on a mission. She had travelled an ocean to find a long-lost sister; she would not be deterred by a few flashing billboards. Tourists barged into her rucksack and cursed at her in a variety of languages but Rosie wasn’t going to budge until she’d figured out how to get back inside the subway. She gazed up at the billboards, hoping that one of them might morph into a giant neon arrow; it was not too much to hope that the universe might be on her side. No space for directions in Times Square, though, only ads for H&M and news flickering across in an excited loop. Rosie felt even tinier. It was incredible that Peg lived in this city, which had no news about the election in Ireland or the protests in Clougheally. Not a peep about John Paul Doyle. Just a stream of figures, stocks and shares going up and down, and whatever things Bush was ruining (the climate and Iraq, today) and then, a sentence to shock: POPE JOHN PAUL II TAKES FIRST STEP TOWARDS SAINTHOOD.

The sentence whizzed past before she could question it, not that Rosie cared about the details. She inhaled deeply and closed her eyes, practising radiating love towards her enemies. She did this, every morning, as part of her yoga routine, imagining turquoise rays of love that matched her hair emanating from her body and rippling towards her enemies. Usually she focused on the living – her family provided ample material – but if Pope John Paul II could be counted as a nemesis, then she should try to overcome her anger and send him love. Her eyes opened quickly: she couldn’t picture it. And was nowhere safe from popes? Surely, here was a square that was safe from his reach, the home of Saturday Night Live – or its general vicinity, Rosie didn’t care about the details. Hadn’t Sinéad O’Connor stood in one of these buildings – or somewhere close; her aura remained, that was the important thing – and held up a photograph of the future saint, only to rip the picture into fragments. ‘Fight the real enemy,’ Sinéad O’Connor had said and twelve-year-old Rosie had known that the words were for her. This is the man who stole away your sister, Sinéad O’Connor might have said, as she ripped the photo into bits, while Rosie, curiously, had felt the opposite process, the formation of a solid identity, a core of steel inside the dreamy girl with her head in the clouds; in the aftermath of catastrophe, watching the Pope ripped to nothing on television, Rosie Doyle became a fighter.

Rosie stood mesmerized by the news ticking across the side of some building, but there was nothing more about the Pope. No sign of Sinéad O’Connor in Times Square: nobody to get upset about the news at all. The crowds around her showed no signs of perturbation: necks continued to crane upwards, fingers snapped at disposable cameras, voices squealed at the sight of women dressed as candy or cowboys wearing nothing. She had to leave, Rosie realized. It had been a mistake to come, foolish to knock on Peg’s door after all these years. Rosie started to walk. She didn’t care which direction, abandoning her desire to descend underground, charging past tourists and Sesame Street characters and a military recruitment centre that made her want to spew a kaleidoscope of vomit.

After a couple of minutes, she realized where her legs were taking her. She was walking uptown on Broadway, billboards disappearing as the streets hit the fifties. As if her legs had their own agenda, Rosie thought with a rueful smile. Manhattan was difficult to get lost in, another general point against it for Rosie, who was a great meanderer, but a feature that was useful at this current moment in her life, with sweat on her brow and turmoil in her chest and a giant rucksack on her back. The friend she was staying with lived uptown off Broadway so she could probably walk it and then she wouldn’t have to worry about taking an express train to the Bronx by accident. She was on a mission, after all; she couldn’t forget Aunty Mary’s letter.

Would Peg want to discuss Aunty Mary’s letter? Would she even talk to her? These were questions that Rosie might better have asked before her flight across the Atlantic, ones to be brushed away now. They’d find the words, Rosie was sure of it. She imagined her aura: turquoise, loving, strong. She’d get the best of this city and her family. Rosie Doyle was a fighter (wasn’t she?).

A breeze arrived as she reached Columbus Circle, some magic wind sent to ease her travels. Things would only get better from here. Soon the bodegas would outnumber offices and people would smile on stoops and the smell of green would rush across from parks and at the end of the path, waiting, would be Peg. They’d find the words, Rosie resolved, the soothing wind on her face a sign from the universe that everything might work out grand. The word sounded odd in her head – it had a different meaning on Broadway – but Rosie clung to it, anyway, appreciating its solidity, the smell of Ireland off it. Yes, Rosie thought, marching down Broadway towards a long-lost sister, everything might turn out grand.

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