Part II

Of course, I was saving my best Ronan story to tell to Liam in person.

What a rare delight it had been for me to actually meet Ronan O’Farrell on his last tour, at the backstage door after his show in my hometown! He was older, of course; no longer in the shining light of his heyday, and clearly ailing in some vague and chronic way, but he still played and sang like no one else. A pity indeed that the show had been so sparsely attended, and my boyfriend and I the only people waiting outside the door to greet him afterwards.

Ronan had played that night as if his meager audience was a gathering of thousands. Heart and soul laid bare, he went on for hours, giving everyone far more than their money’s worth. Even so, superb as he was, people began to leave as the night wore on, until finally there were maybe a dozen die-hards left standing before the stage. If Ronan was disappointed, it didn’t show. His expressions never once betrayed him, and it seemed that no one but me was perceptive enough to feel the waves of hurt pouring out of his guitar, or to notice how his voice cracked under the burden of his sorrow. That roughness in his voice might easily have been mistaken for fatigue by anyone else, but not by me. Ronan had a direct line plugged into my heart that night, and I ached with him and for him, tears in my eyes.

My boyfriend was annoyed with me for insisting on waiting to see Ronan after the show. It was damp and cold by that exit, and we really had no idea how long we would have to stand there. Just as I was about to tell him to go ahead and leave, if that was what he wanted, the door creaked open, and Ronan O’Farrell stepped outside.

He leaned against the door for a moment, looking weary beyond belief, his heavy-lidded eyes narrowed to slits, and when he started walking, he seemed unsteady on his feet. We moved forward and caught his eye, and he faced us with a warm smile and managed a short, pleasant conversation. He autographed the booklet from my copy of his latest CD, then asked if we could show him the way to his hotel. It never occurred to me to ask why he was alone when his band-mates ought to be accompanying him, nor why he would walk, rather than hiring a taxi. I was just delighted with the unexpected opportunity to spend time with the man: to learn firsthand that all the tales of his kindness and courtesy were true. My boyfriend and I flanked him protectively as we made our way along the shabby, poorly-lit streets. No one was going to accost Ronan O’Farrell: not if we had anything to say about it. We reached the hotel in a few minutes, without incident, and in the lobby, Ronan thanked us profusely, then put his arm around me and allowed my boyfriend to take some pictures. The resulting photographs were still among my most treasured possessions, though I’d jettisoned the boyfriend a few weeks later, following a nasty argument in which he’d accused me of being in love with Ronan. In retrospect, I think he might have been right. I sure spent more time thinking about Ronan than I had any business doing in those days, even though I knew that a relationship with him was nothing short of impossible. He was at least ten years older than me and all but lived on the road. Even if he’d been attracted to me, how would we have fostered that attraction, to make it grow into something more enduring?

My fantasies of Ronan were just that: fantasies, and I could no longer justify indulging in such foolish dreams. I did my best to abandon them, but Ronan still crept into my thoughts more often than I cared to admit. I remembered him fondly, hoped we’d meet again someday, and looked forward to hearing news of any endeavor that might bring about such a meeting.

A few years went by without a word, and I guessed Ronan must have decided it was time to take a break. Well, the man certainly deserved it, and I was not one to begrudge him his rest. He’d get back into things eventually, and until then I could enjoy his earlier recordings, and pay more attention to other people’s music.

One day after work, I stopped by the bookstore to pick up the latest issue of a music magazine I liked to read. Though I didn’t go to as many concerts as I had in years past, I still bought CDs and wanted to know what was going on in the music world. Once at home, I settled down on the couch with a cup of tea and opened the magazine. Much to my surprise, the table of contents listed an article about Ronan. Expecting word of a forthcoming album, I flipped to the page and began to read eagerly. Within moments, I was gasping in shock, tears flooding my eyes. Could I have misread? Had there been some terrible mistake?

I dashed the tears away and re-read the short text.

Oh, God. It was true!

Ronan had collapsed in the middle of a concert in London just a month ago, the article said, and been admitted to a nearby hospital. His sudden illness, first diagnosed as flu, turned out to be pneumonia. For the first few days, he appeared to be fighting it off well. Then, quite suddenly, his fever skyrocketed and sent him into violent convulsions. Fearing he would injure himself, the doctors had sedated him heavily, not realizing that by then he was too weak to tolerate such a large dose of the potent medication. His convulsions did indeed cease, but soon afterwards he slipped into a coma. The doctors had done everything possible to save him, to no avail, and he rested now in a quiet grave on Inishmaan, “the Island of the Mournful Wind.”

Oh, the hours I had wept, listening to his music and recalling his kind but careworn face, eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled at me! Why had I not talked with him more while I had the chance? Why had I felt so certain that there would be some other time in the future?

Poor Ronan. All his tomorrows gone forever, yet how could that be? He was too talented, too full of life, energy, and enthusiasm, and yet—it was true, and I grieved for the loss.

It had been over five years now, and still the reality of his passing hadn’t quite sunk in. Though I had seen photographs from the funeral—friends and fellow musicians shouldering his coffin, bearing it from church to hearse, and the crowd of mourners by his graveside—my mind refused to accept it.

I hadn’t dared to broach this subject with Liam. He might very well think I was crazy, and that wouldn’t do at all. Still, I was burning with curiosity. Did Liam feel as strongly about all that as I did? Did he have a sense of Ronan’s spirit still wandering, aching to commune with people, sometimes breaking past the barrier of death?

I shivered as I remembered my last encounter with that restless spirit, about a week before I boarded my plane. Sleepless one night, I had taken out my guitar—a diversion I so rarely had time for anymore—and played softly for awhile. At one point, I detected a presence behind me; a presence so palpable I turned around several times to look. Each time, I saw plainly that I was alone, and yet—

I felt a pair of hands descend on my shoulders, leapt up from the couch with a sharp cry, and hurried to put the guitar back in its case. I hadn’t slept a wink the rest of the night.

No matter now what Liam might think of me for asking. I was dying to know, and I would know: had anything like that ever happened to him?

***

The layover in Australia passed quickly, as did the flight to Dunedin. This plane was smaller than the previous one, and even less comfortable, and I was relieved when it finally touched down and taxied to the airport. I was standing, personal belongings in hand, before the door opened. At the first opportunity, I slipped into the exit line, thinking, ‘Hurry, hurry, hurry. Let me out of here. I’ve got to find Liam.’

Customs inspection came first. Thank God it was fairly swift and painless for me, compared to what some of the other passengers were enduring. I collected my things and walked out, made a quick visit to the restroom, then went off in search of Liam.

Of course the airport was busy. Children skittered about and people met, greeted one another, and embraced, while I wandered slowly, feeling lost and out-of-place. I didn’t see any man wearing sunglasses, and my heart sank. He hadn’t come after all. It was a joke, and I was a fool…

Well, I could still enjoy New Zealand. I had maps. I would rent a car and go to my hotel. The South Island was not so large. How far a drive could it be to my lodging in Manapouri? An hour or two, perhaps, and that was no big deal, but I felt profoundly lonesome and disappointed as I made my way toward the rental car kiosks.

Then I noticed someone standing at the end of a bank of telephone booths, alertly watching the passersby: a man, his back pressed against the outside wall of the last booth. He wore black trousers, a white fisherman’s sweater, and a charcoal tweed fedora, its brim seated low on his brow, almost covering his eyes, which were further obscured by a pair of wire-framed aviator sunglasses. There was something vaguely familiar about his posture, and the way he pushed himself away from the phone booth and moved towards me. Could this be Liam? Possibly, but I doubted it. I’d never even seen a picture of him, so how could he seem familiar in any way?

Yet there was no question that this man was seeking me, even before I heard his voice. He was walking too swiftly and decisively, as if he knew that even a moment’s hesitation might cause him to miss me.

“Hullo, is that you, Sarah?” His voice was soft, but rough-edged, and as eerily familiar as his physical self.

“Y-yes,” I stammered. “Liam?”

“In the flesh,” he replied, with a grin, and reached for my biggest suitcase. “Here, are you wanting a hand with that, then?”

I surrendered it and we walked to the door.

He jerked his head at me and said, “It’s cold here, Sarah. Not as cold as it gets in the States, but it is nearly winter. You’ll be needing to put on your pullover.”

I remembered that “pullover” was what some Irish folks called a sweater, and with a name like Liam O’Malley and an accent as thick as his, he couldn’t be anything but Irish. He waited patiently while I put on the one I’d been carrying, and then we continued walking.

“For someone who has so much to say to me online, you’re certainly quiet,” he observed. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. It’s just—I’m sorry, Liam. This seems so odd to me. I know you so well, and yet—I don’t know you at all.”

“Now, now, don’t be fretting. I’m feeling a bit strange about this myself, and there’s something I don’t understand.”

“What’s that?”

“Well, now, it started with your pictures. I was sure I’d seen you somewhere before, but I’ve no idea how such a thing could be.”

“We’ve met in dreams, maybe?”

A dimple winked near the corner of his mouth as he replied. “Maybe.”

We were in the parking lot now, and suddenly Liam halted at the rear of a small, Jeep-like vehicle. He opened the hatch, stowed my bags, closed the door, then faced me, smiling nervously and twirling his key ring on one finger. “Shall I take you to your hotel first, or would you like to come out to my place and have something to eat? I’ve made dinner, and it won’t take long to re-heat. It’s not fancy, as I’m not what anyone could call a gourmet cook, but it’s good and hearty. You like stew, don’t you?” he asked, sounding anxious.

Well, I loved stew, but—to go to his place so soon?

Against my better judgment, I decided to take the risk. “Stew is one of my favorites, and it’ll be especially welcome after all that awful airplane food.”

He grinned as he slipped into the driver’s seat. “I did have a hunch you’d say something like that. Well, then. Buckle in. We’ll stop for a quick snack and be on our way. And please—I’ll not be saying this more than once, so listen now and believe that I mean it. My home is your home. Be comfortable there and treat it as your own. Crash in the guest room if you like, or on the sofa; take a shower or a bath; raid the refrigerator any time of the day or night; borrow my car. If you want my company, it’s yours whenever you like, but if you want to be alone, don’t be shy about saying so. I shan’t be pushy or try to take any liberties, so if you’d just as soon forget about that hotel reservation—”

“Oh, Liam, I couldn’t!”

“You certainly could, and welcome, but the decision is yours to make. I think, though, that once you’ve seen my place, you’ll want to stay.”

“I’ll let you know,” I promised.

“Fair enough.”

“How long will it take to get there?”

“I’m almost afraid to say, when you’ve been in transit so long already.”

I threw him a mock-frown. “Now, look here, Liam O’Malley! I’m not in the mood for surprises. Tell me already, will you?”

“All right, all right!” he exclaimed, laughing. “About four and a half hours.”

“Four and a—well, I really underestimated my travel distances! I thought it would be more like two hours.”

“The maps are deceiving, aren’t they? But if you really can’t bear the thought of being stuck in a car that long just yet, we can spend the night here in Dunedin and head out to Manapouri first thing in the morning. I’ll hire rooms for us, and we can have dinner in a restaurant.”

“That’s tempting, but—” I yawned. “Right now I’m more tired than I am hungry, and I’d like to get out of the city.”

“All right.”

“I feel terrible about your doing so much driving in one day, though. If I had done my math right and known it was such a distance—”

“’Tis no bother. I drove into Dunedin yesterday and stayed the night, you see, so I’d get a good sleep and be fresh for today’s trip. Now, relax and feel free to sleep if you like. I’ll put some music on, and we’ll be there before you know it.”

“You have something of Ronan’s to play, I’m guessing?”

“Yes. It’s a rare one—strictly unofficial, of course—but I’m sure you’ll like it. It’s quite mellow, though, so if it puts you to sleep, don’t worry about that. We’ll listen to it again sometime when you feel like getting into it more deeply. For now, just relax and enjoy it.”

He pressed the power button, and the most exquisite acoustic instrumental flooded the space.

I closed my eyes and leaned my head back. The music was gentle and soothing, with a Celtic melody and rhythm. “What is it?”

“Just a little something from a project Ronan always wanted to do, but never managed to complete.”

The notes shimmered and cascaded over me. “My God, how do you manage to get hold of these things?”

“You might say I have friends in high places.”

“Very high places. This is exquisite.”

“You like it, then?”

“Very much.”

“Good! I chose well.”

My eyes were still closed, but I could hear the smile in his voice. “You did. Thank you.”

“You’re quite welcome. Now, please rest,” he said. “We can talk over dinner.”

***

C.P. Warner
© 8 May 2007

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