The skirling whirl
of a traditional Irish band greeted me as I stood outside Dick
O'Dow's Irish Pub. I handed the burly bouncer my ID and replaced it,
entering through the propped-open green doors and into the darkened
interior. The contrast between the mellow amber glow of sunset and
the perpetual midnight of the pub was jarring; heavy chandeliers
depended from the low ceilings, dim, orange-glowing bulbs made to
look like candle flames were the only illumination besides
half-a-dozen flat-screen TVs tuned to Sports Center. Thick,
scratched, scarred wooden tables ran the length of the room opposite
the bar; the tables resembled hunks of driftwood from a shipwreck
that had been retrieved and polished. The floors looked ancient,
scuffed, weathered gray wood that seemed to have centuries of stories
to tell. I remembered one of the bartenders telling me that the
floor planks were from an 18th century Irish hospital, and
this made me think of the ghosts that must reside silent in the
whorls of the wood grain.
The band was the
pièce de résistance of the
pub, permeating the atmosphere with the lilting, jigging music. The
band is a four-piece: a tall, thin man with angular features, round,
gold-rimmed spectacles, and graying hair receding in a U-shaped
cul-de-sac played the penny whistle with thin, deft fingers; the
fiddler was the diametric opposite, short, portly, red-bearded and
long-haired, sheened with sweat as he sawed his battered, well-loved
fiddle; next to the fiddler was the bodhran player, a man with fine
silver hair neatly parted, an iron-gray beard closely-trimmed framing
patrician features, thumping his hand-held drum and stomping his
polished leather boots on the stage to the rhythm; last was the
singer and guitar-player, an elegant woman, tall and willowy, thick
black hair shimmering in the dim light like raven wings.
It
was her I had come her to see. Her eyes were the color of moss
furring a tree-trunk in the afternoon sun, and she sang flawless
Gaelic in a dulcet, haunting voice. I stood at the bar and ordered a
whiskey, sipped it as I watched her sway with the music. She scanned
the crowd absently, strumming her guitar with red-painted
fingernails. Her gaze swept across me, but didn't see me. This was
reassuring. I wasn't ready to be seen, just yet.
The
bartender, who had just moments ago handed me my drink with a smile,
passed by me without a glance, without even a flicker of recognition.
Moments slid past, slow like sunset, and my anticipation mounted. I
was growing restless, my palms damp and warm, my feet tapping a
too-fast rhythm. Slow down, I told myself. Not yet.
Another
whiskey, another greeting from the same bartender, as if he'd never
seen me before. The set must have just started when I arrived.
Damn. Impatience scoured through me; I gouged patterns in the
bar-top with my fingernail, deep runic shapes incised in the hard
wood.
A
third whiskey, and I was feeling fine now, if burning with restless,
hungry vexation. The set had to be almost over. Ah yes, now they
were thanking the crowd, setting down instruments and filing out to
the alley for a breath of fresh air.
I
followed them out, lit a smoke, approached her with a broad smile
that I hoped seemed genuine and friendly. She smiled back, shook my
hand. Her palm was cool and dry, sending bolts of electric
excitement through me. I caught her up in conversation, droll,
mundane chit-chat. Her band-mates went back in, and I could sense
her desire to end this conversation, to go with them.
It's
not that easy, the fun hasn't begun yet, my lovely. Your fair, pale
skin is far too perfect. I stroked the hilt of the knife in my
pocket; yes, now it was time. Now.
She
never saw it coming, the poor, beautiful, doomed thing.
Oh,
what fun.
