picked up the umbrella, and walked to the door, the eyes of all upon him. He stopped, closed the umbrella, exited, and opened it, lifting it protectively over his head as he strode off.
Silence. Finally, the woman turned to her husband, nudged him, and said solemnly, “There’s no doubt about it:
Koesler laughed aloud, resolving to tell that to Inspector Koznicki when next they met.
His attention to the present returned as he entered a small town. So preoccupied had he been with his Irish humor that he had forgotten to look for a sign. But it was about the right distance from Dublin and there were some railroad tracks nearby.
He stopped, rolled down his window, and called to a passerby, “I beg your pardon, but could you tell me, is this Boyle?”
“It is that,” said the man, who then noticed Koesler’s clerical collar. Promptly, he whipped off his cap and stood bareheaded. “Is it the parish house you’d be wantin’, Father?”
Most of the Irish, Koesler was learning, pronounced ‘Father’ as if it rhymed with ‘lather.’ He was also being made ever more aware that the Irish never used a simple yes or no in answer to a question.
“No, not really. I just sort of wanted to look around. My maternal grandfather came from this town.” Koesler surprised himself by laying such ancestral claim with a touch of pride.
“Did he now? And would he have been a Boyle, by any chance?”
“Yes. Kevin Boyle.”
“Ah, well, then, Father, have ya given any thought that some of yer relatives might still be here?”
“No, I haven’t,” Koesler admitted.
“Well, it’s just possible, definitely possible, you know. The place is crawlin’ with Boyles,” the man exaggerated. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Father, and meanin’ no irreverence, but ya might just want to reconsider yer decision not to visit the parish house. Father’d know which among them might be yer kin. And he’d be pleased to be tellin’ ya.”
“Well, maybe,” Koesler responded hesitantly.
“The parish house would be right down at the end of the street, Father. Ya can’t miss it.”
Koesler thanked him and drove on. He had no intention of calling at the local rectory or searching out any possible relatives. He wanted only to absorb some of the atmosphere and see for himself some of the things that his Irish ancestors had grown up and lived among.
He turned off before he reached the end of the street and drove through what seemed to be the center of town. Almost every parking space on the main thoroughfare was taken. That surprised him. Without quite knowing why, he had assumed that not many in a small Irish town would have cars. But there they were in a variety of vintages and makes, all compact or subcompact.
Eventually, he found a space at what seemed to be about midway down the main street. He pulled in, set the brake, and got out of the car. It was good to stretch his legs after a long drive. He began walking at a leisurely pace.
The people he encountered seemed genuinely pleased to see him. They were accustomed to seeing no priest but their own. So a stranger in clerical garb was a pleasant surprise, and there weren’t that many surprises in Boyle. Since he was a priest, it was a pleasure for the deeply reverent Irish to greet him. All along his walk, men tipped their hats and women performed an abbreviated curtsy. All wore ear-to-ear grins, and the greeting, “Good afternoon to you, Father,” was heard in the land.
He certainly hadn’t received this sort of heartfelt welcome in Rome, London, or, for that matter, anywhere else—other than from the Sisters of Mercy in Dublin.
Ordinarily, Koesler yearned to be greeted in a neutral, matter-of-fact manner. His complaint was that people met him as a priest prejudiced either for or against him. And he considered either premature judgment unfair. But he had never been greeted with such evident warmth and almost childlike openness. And, he had to admit, he liked it. He remembered overhearing two Irishmen talking. “They don’t apologize for bein’ priests in this country!” one had said with vigor. Now, he understood.
Turning left at the corner, he found himself walking toward a bridge over what had to be the Boyle River. He reached the bridge and stood looking around at the town.
For its size, it held quite a few stores and shops. He wondered how many, if any, had been standing when his grandfather had left for the States little more than a century before.
More probably, this had been farm country owned by absentee landlords in England. The native Irish would have been fortunate indeed if they had been allowed to work the fields. And, in those years, they would have been lucky to harvest enough from the tortured land of that time for them to survive.
But the Boyle River, now boiling away in a swift current beneath him, would have been flowing. His grandfather had possibly fished the river from this very spot. In his imagination, he began to anthropomorphize the river as Hammerstein had done with the Mississippi.
He walked back to the main street and set off for the other end of town. It was there he came upon Boyle Abbey, or more properly, the ruins. The outer and some of the inner walls were standing, but that was about all that was left of it. That and the memories that were inseparable from it. It would have been no more than a remnant even in his grandfather’s day. Cromwell or someone of his ilk undoubtedly would have made sure that no more prayers were offered within it.
But, as Koesler stood at the outer wall looking in, he could easily picture the monks walking reflectively through its corridors while meditating. He could almost hear the swells and diminuendos of Gregorian Chant. The people who lived in this area centuries ago must have heard those chants and felt comforted that while they were toiling for their very existence, there were dedicated men interceding with God on everyone’s behalf.
Years before, Koesler had visited the Trappist Abbey of Gethsemani in Kentucky, where silence enjoyed a sacredness that may never be recaptured. He remembered being deeply impressed, especially by the silence. All those men going about performing their chores and duties and no one saying a word. One could almost slice the silence with a knife.
It must have been like that here . . .
Now that he had recalled Gethsemani’s monastery, Koesler recalled also his first evening there. He had been ordained a priest only a few weeks earlier. One of the monks asked if he wished to say Mass. When Koesler answered in the affirmative, the monk asked what size alb he needed. Already aware that most albs were too small for him and further that there was no way of adjusting a vestment that was not large enough, Koesler had confidently said, “The biggest one you’ve got.”
Next morning, he would have sworn the monks had spent most of the night making that alb. It had been at least a foot too long for him and he had spent several minutes rolling up the sleeves. The monks must have decided to fix that wise guy. After all, there was such a thing as silent laughter.
All in all, this was becoming a most satisfying trip down Nostalgia Lane. Koesler decided he just might follow the advice of his nameless tour director and call on the local parish priest sometime before returning to Dublin.
But not now. He wanted to get settled in at Teach Murray and begin to start experiencing what it was like to live in an Irish pub.
If Koesler thought Boyle was a small town—and he did—he was quite unprepared for Gurteen. The name, his friend had informed him, meant “small, tilled field.” And that pretty well described Gurteen.
First there was a cemetery—a rather imposing one if he could trust the glance he was able to steal as he drove by. Then a string of small homes and a few shops on either side of the only street in sight—a little less than a mile in length. Aside from that street with its modest houses, shops, and establishments, all else, as far as Koesler could see, consisted of little plowed fields. Whoever had named Gurteen had been proven inspired.
He drove as slowly as possible, looking attentively at each edifice on the north side of the street, for that was the side on which Chris Murray had told him the pub was located.
Approximately halfway through the village, he came upon Teach Murray. The large letters identifying the pub extended across the front of the building, which looked exactly as it had in the picture—neat and well-kept. There was something to be said for truth in advertising, even if one rarely encountered it.
Koesler stopped the car in front of the pub and looked about for a parking place. Only then did he notice the
