Brian Friel Plays 2 (49 page)

Trish
Lift your head. Good. Are you warm enough? That’s better.

Frank
I annoyed Trish a while ago. She said I was cheap, joking about apparitions out there.

Terry
She has her hands full.

Frank
Tough life. Courageous lady.

Terry
Yes. So – the clock book – when is it going to appear?

Frank
Another apparition. This time next year, we hope. Actually I was thinking of doing a chapter on apparitions – well, visions, hallucinations, whatever.

Terry
In a book about clocks?

Frank
Time measurement, Terry! Did you know that the accurate measurement of time changed monastic practices in the Middle Ages, when Saint Conall and company flourished out there? See? You never knew that! Before that monks prayed a few times during the day – a casual discipline that depended on nature – maybe at cock-crow, at high noon, when it got too dark to work in the fields. But Saint Benedict wanted more than that from his monks: he wanted continuous prayer. And with the
invention of clocks that became possible.

Terry
But there weren’t clocks then, were there?

Frank
No, no; crude time-pieces; sophisticated egg-timers. But with these new instruments you could break the twenty-four hours into exact sections. And once you could do that, once you could waken your monks up at
fixed
hours two or three times a night, suddenly – (
He
claps
his
hands
.)
– continuous prayer!

Terry
What has that to do with apparitions?

Frank
Think about it. At the stroke of midnight – at 2.00 a.m. – at 4.00 a.m. – at 6.00 a.m. – you chase your monks out of their warm beds. Into a freezing chapel. Fasting. Deprived of sleep. Repeating the same chant over and over again. And because they’re hungry and disoriented and giddy for want of sleep and repeating the same droning chant over and over again, of course they hallucinate – see apparitions – whatever. Wouldn’t you?

Terry
(
laughing
)
Frank!

Frank
Honestly! Medieval monks were always seeing apparitions. Read their books. And all because of the invention of time-pieces. A word of warning, Terry. Be careful at matins – that’s just before dawn. That’s when you’re most susceptible.

Terry
Is that going to be in your book?!

Frank
Maybe. Why not? Anything to explain away the wonderful, the mystery.

Terry
But you don’t believe a word of that, do you?

Frank
How would I know? But there must be some explanation, mustn’t there? The mystery offends – so the mystery has to be extracted. (
He
points
to
the
island.
) They had their own way of dealing with it: they embraced
it all – everything. Yes, yes, yes, they said; why bloody not? A rage for the absolute, Terry – that’s what they had. And because their acceptance was so comprehensive, so open, so generous, maybe they
were
put in touch – what do you think? – so intimately in touch that maybe, maybe they actually
did
see.

Terry
In touch with what? See what?

Frank
Whatever it is we desire but can’t express. What is beyond language. The inexpressible. The ineffable.

Terry
To spend their lives out there in the Atlantic, I suppose they must have been on to something.

Frank
And even if they were in touch, even if they actually did see, they couldn’t have told us, could they, unless they had the speech of angels? Because there is no vocabulary for the experience. Because language stands baffled before all that and says of what it has attempted to say, ‘No, no! That’s not it at all! No, not at all!’ (
He
drinks
rapidly.
)
Or maybe they did write it all down – without benefit of words! That’s the only way it could be written, isn’t it? A book without words!

Terry
You’ve lost me, Frank.

Frank
And if they accomplished that, they’d have written the last book ever written – and the most wonderful! And then, Terry, then maybe life would cease! (
He
laughs.
Brief
pause.
)
Or maybe we’ve got it all wrong as usual, Terry. Maybe Saint Conall stood on the shores of the island there and gazed across here at Ballybeg and said to his monks, ‘Oh, lads, lads,
there
is the end of desire. Whoever lives there lives at the still core of it all. Happy, happy, lucky people.’ What do you think?

Frank
is
now
very
animated.
He
laughs
again.
He
drinks
again.

Terry
That’s us – happy people.

Frank
(
calling
)
Come and join us, Conall! It’s all in place here! (
to
Terry
)
Well – why not?

Terry
Indeed.

Frank
(
laughs
)
Despite appearances.

Terry
Why not? (
He
fills
the
outstretched
cup
again.
)

Frank
Can’t drink it without water.

Terry
Any left in the holy well?

Frank
Enough. (
Again
he
scoops
up
water
and
makes
a
drink.
)
Aren’t you joining me?

Terry
Pass this time. To the book.

Frank
No, no, not to the book. The book’s nothing, nothing at all; a silly game of blind man’s buff. No, to the other, to the mystery itself, Terry. To the goddamn wonderful, maddening, necessary mystery. (
He
shudders
as
if
with
cold.
)

Terry
You’re cold in that shirt. Here. Put this on. (
He
takes
off
his
jacket
and
puts
it
round
Frank’s
shoulders.
) That’s definitely your colour.

Frank
And to my goddamn wonderful wife. Is it profane to talk about her in the same breath as the sacred?

Terry
Is it?

Frank
Look at her. Now there’s an apparition. She’s … miraculous in that light, isn’t she? Fourteen years married and the blood still thunders in my head when I look at her … Have you any idea, Terry, have you any idea at all of the turmoil, the panic people like me live in – the journeymen, the clerks of the world? No, no, the goddamn failures for Christ’s sake.

Terry
Frank, you –

Frank
Of course I am. Husband – father – provider – worthless.

Terry
Your book will –

Frank
The great book! (
He
makes
a
huge
gesture
of
dismissal.
)
She pretends to believe in it, too. But she’s such a bright woman – she knows, she knows. You both know. Oh, Jesus, Terry, if only you knew, have you any idea at all just how fragile it all is …? (
He
calls:
)
Maybe you should stay where you are, lads. It’s not quite all in place here yet … Damn good whiskey. What is it? Coleraine 1922! That’s very special. May I help myself? (
He
pro
claims:
)
Lord, it
is
good for us to be here! Isn’t it …? (
He
moves
away.
)

Pause.

Angela
(
softly,
tentatively)
Oh my God …

Terry
What is it?

Angela
Oh God, is it …?

Trish
What’s the matter, Angela?

Angela
I think – oh God – I think –

Trish
Angela, are you sick?

Angela
There’s our boat.

Berna
Where?

Trish
Stop that, Angela.

Frank
Where? Where is it?

George
sits
up.

Berna
I see no boat.

Terry
Where is it, Angela?

Frank
Are you sure?

Trish
Where? – show me – where? (
to
George
)
The boat’s here, she says.

Angela
(
pointing
)
There. It is, Terry, isn’t it?

Trish
Is it, Terry?

Berna
There is no boat.

Angela
Oh God, Terry, that’s our boat – isn’t it?

Trish
Point to it.

Angela
Maybe it’s only – can you see nothing? – that patch of light on the water – just beyond that I thought I saw –

Frank
Nothing. There’s nothing.

Trish
Where’s the patch of light?

Berna
There’s no patch of light.

Terry
Is it anywhere near that mist?

Frank
Nothing. All in her head.

Angela
He’s right … sorry … nothing … for a minute I was certain … sorry …

Berna
You shouldn’t do that, Angela.

Angela
Sorry.

Berna
You really shouldn’t do that.

Angela
I’m very sorry. I really am.

Terry
There
is
a patch of light there; and if you stare at it long enough it seems to make shapes … Anyhow, no harm done. (
Pause.
Privately
to
Angela
)
I ordered your
favourite chocolate mints. Somebody must have eaten them. I suspect Charlie.

Angela
The boatman?

Terry
My driver. Minibus Charlie. How could you forget Charlie? And the boatman’s name is Carlin.

Angela
Give me a drink, Terry, would you?

Terry
Wine? Gin? Vodka?

Angela
Anything at all. Just a drop.

Berna
(
suddenly
standing
up
and
proclaiming
)
All right! I’ll tell my story now!

Trish
Good girl, Berna.

Berna
I had a different psychiatrist in the clinic last week, a very intense young Englishman called Walsingham. He told me this story.

Angela
(
accepting
drink
from
Terry
)
Thanks.

Terry
Anybody else?

Frank
Quiet.

Trish
Attention, please. (
to
Berna
) ‘Once upon a time …’

Berna
Not once upon a time, Trish. I can give you the exact date: 1294. And in the year 1294, in the village of Nazareth, in the land that is now called Israel, a very wonderful thing happened. There was in the village a small, white-washed house built of rough stone, just like these; and for over a thousand years the villagers looked on that house as their most wonderful possession; because that house had been the home of Mary and Joseph and their baby, Jesus.

And then in the year 1294, on the seventh day of March, an amazing thing happened. That small, white-washed house rose straight up into the air, right away up into the
sky. It hung there for a few seconds as if it were a bird finding its bearings. Then it floated – flew – over the Mediterranean Sea, high up over the island of Crete, across the Aegean Sea, until it came to the coast of Italy. It crossed that coast and came to a stop directly above a small town called Loreto in the centre of Italy. Then it began to descend, slowly down and down and down, until it came to rest in the centre of the town. And there it sits to this day. And it is known as the Holy House of Loreto – a place of pilgrimage, revered and attested to by hundreds of thousands of pilgrims every year. The Holy House of Loreto.

Nobody
knows
how
to
respond.
Pause.

Trish
A flying house? … And it’s there now? … Well, heavens above, isn’t that a –

Berna
And because it took off and flew across the sea and landed safely again, all over the world Our Lady of Loreto is known as the Patron Saint of Aviation.