Читать книгу Future Popes of Ireland - Darragh Martin, Darragh Martin - Страница 27

‘Howda ya rate my godfathering so far?’

Rosie laughed at Dev’s terrible accent and joined him by the skylight window, an array of Sabharwals and neighbours below, in the New Jersey back garden of his childhood home.

‘Well, you didn’t drop the baby.’

There was Sara, happily gurgling away, as old ladies passed out food she couldn’t eat.

‘Phew.’

‘And you did some excellent uncle-work.’

The children who could talk were already asking ‘Where’s Dev?’, ready for another spirited dodgeball game.

‘Helps that my mental age got stuck at seven.’

Rosie took a drag of her spliff.

‘Though I’m not sure that sneaking up to your bedroom to find an old stash of weed is the best godfathering.’

‘You’re right,’ Dev said. ‘I should have invited Sara.’

Rosie laughed.

‘I won’t tell Gabriel if you don’t.’

‘Deal.’

At the mention of his name, the dreaded brother-in-law looked up; Dev ducked and pulled Rosie down with him.

‘Smooth.’

‘What can I say, I’ve had practice.’

Rosie settled into the floor and took in the room, bewilderingly stuck in time, with its games console and high school textbooks and posters of The Matrix and a periodic table.

‘I was cool,’ Dev said, following Rosie’s eyes.

‘Your parents didn’t want to use this room.’

‘No, they kept it like this in case I moved back,’ Dev said, with an eye-roll, every parental gesture of affection taken as an insult.

‘Right.’

Rosie hadn’t been inside 7 Dunluce Crescent since she ran away. She doubted that Granny Doyle had left the walls painted purple. Or carefully stored her crystals and dreamcatchers. For the best, no good getting bogged down with material things.

‘So, wanna play Mario Kart?’

Dev used a tone that suggested a joke, though he seemed amenable to staying longer, picking up a Rubik’s Cube and playing with it.

Rosie was in no hurry to return to the christening either. She’d agreed to come because she’d thought that Peg might appreciate an ally. But then Peg had felt sick after the ceremony and hadn’t wanted any company on the train back, quite the contrary, and Dev had seemed so sad that Rosie agreed to stay, even though she felt an eejit, with her blue hair and Peg’s dress too tight on her and the thin smile from Mrs Sabharwal, which assured her that she was used to disappointment from the Doyles.

Rosie needed a glass of water; she took another drag. It had been a mistake to come; she should never have left Clougheally. Apart from Peg, New York had nothing for her and suburban New Jersey was just as bad, if not worse. She had been a fool to think she could cross the Atlantic on a mission. She hadn’t mentioned Pope John Paul III, let alone Aunty Mary’s letter. It was as if Peg had some invisible force field which deflected any mention of the past and kept all talk small. She had nearly exhausted the generosity of the comrade whose couch she was crashing on; it was time to cut her losses.

‘We should probably go back down,’ Rosie said.

‘Probably,’ Dev agreed, rolling another joint.

Time stretched, the sun too.

When Rosie finished her joint, Dev was still playing with the Rubik’s Cube.

‘You’re pretty quick.’

‘Not bad,’ he said, scrambling the puzzle again. ‘My record was fifty-five point four seconds.’

Rosie let out an impressed sound.

‘It’s nothing: the record is twenty-two point nine five seconds. Or used to be, anyway.’

He didn’t check Wikipedia, tossed the cube up and down instead.

‘Dad entered me into a bunch of tournaments when I was younger. Like if I won, I could make it to the moon or Mensa.’

‘You were a cool kid.’

‘Oh yeah, I’ve got the medals to prove it.’

They were probably in the room somewhere, though Dev didn’t search; he put on the voice he used to make fun of academia instead.

‘Of course, it’s really the unscrambling that’s important. You know, there are approximately forty-three quintillion incorrect permutations but what if beauty lurks in truth? What if the Rubik’s Cube is really a type of mandala, a portal to enlightenment, the gateway to nirvana!’

‘Was that your pick-up line? No wonder you’ve got a poster of the periodic table.’

Dev pretended to be hurt.

‘I’ll have you know, your sister was very impressed by that speech. She made me a miniature paper Rubik’s Cube for our first anniversary, little notes written on every surface!’

The smile on Dev’s face faded.

‘Well, our first month anniversary. For our wedding anniversary, she got me a brown paper bag …’

Peg was the problem that brought them together but neither of them knew how to talk about her. Rosie stood and joined him, no sign of the baby below.

‘I should give it to Sara,’ Dev said, looking out the window, where the dusk was clearing the garden.

‘Yeah, she’s bound to solve it in under twenty seconds,’ Rosie said.

‘Or, she has, what, forty-three million—’

‘Quintillion.’

‘She’s got forty-three quintillion ways to fuck it up; I’m sure she’ll find the one that works for her.’

Dev laughed but his eyes remained sad. Rosie followed his gaze down the length of the garden, where he looked at sundry nieces and nephews attempting to climb the cherry tree. She saw them, she imagined, the phantom offspring that Dev watched, the boy and girl who joked at their dad’s jokes and their mam’s food and smashed every record the Guinness Book had. Or perhaps his eyes tracked those alternative histories, the ones where he didn’t give up on everything – Rubik’s Cube tournaments, dissertations, marriage. Or perhaps he was looking at the young woman standing by the tree, some neighbour probably, Rosie hadn’t been introduced, but perhaps if they’d shared the right sentences when they were teenagers, she could have been the person to make Dev happy.

‘Perfection is overrated,’ Rosie said, taking the cube from Dev. ‘I think it looks better when all the colours are mixed up.’

Dev let out a laugh.

‘Right! The completed Rubik’s Cube is so big on colour divisions it’s practically racist.’

Rosie laughed, relaxing into the conversation, as they ran off on absurdist tangents and composed imaginary letters to whoever Rubik was about the dearth of brown and black coloured squares. Perhaps it had not been a mistake to come, after all, Rosie thought, finding the scrambling of the cube strangely soothing – possible, even, to imagine some universe where she and Peg might talk. Granny Doyle might have stuffed all of Peg’s possessions into St Vincent de Paul bags, but they had history together; the Blessed Shells of Erris and Miraculous Fish Fingers could be summoned, still. Standing in Dev’s childhood bedroom, high on weed and vicarious nostalgia, Rosie resolved that she wouldn’t abandon her mission yet.

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