Green Shadows, White Whales

“Yes!”

“That’s the First Ring of Hell! Do you see them young fellows on bikes with flat tires and no spokes, pumping barefoot in the rain?”

“Yes!”

“That’s the Second Ring of Hell!”

The old man stopped. “And here … can you read? The Third Ring!”

I read the sign. “ ‘Heeber Finn’s’ … why, it’s a pub.”

The old man pretended surprise. “By God, now, I think you’re right. Come meet my … family!”

“Family? You said you weren’t married!”

“I’m not. But—in we go!”

The old man gave a great knock on the backside of the door. And there was the bar, all bright spigots and alarmed faces as the dozen or so customers whirled.

“It’s me, boys!” the old man cried.

“Mike! Ya gave us a start!” said one.

“We thought it was—a crisis!” said another.

“Well, maybe it is … for him anyway.” He jabbed my elbow. “What’ll ya have, lad?”

I scanned the lot, tried to say wine, but quit.

“A whiskey, please,” I said.

“Make mine a Guinness,” said Mike. “Now, introductions all around. That there is Heeber Finn, who owns the pub.”

Finn handed over the whiskey. “The third and fourth mortgage, that is.”

Mike moved on, pointing.

“This is O’Gavin, who has the finest bogs in all Kilcock and cuts peat turf out of it to stoke the hearths of Ireland. Also a fine hunter and fisher, in or out of season!”

O’Gavin nodded. “I poach game and steal fish.”

“You’re an honest man, Mr. O’Gavin,” I said.

“No. As soon as I find a job,” said O’Gavin, “I’ll deny the whole thing.”

Mike led me along. “This next is Casey, who will fix the hoof of your horse.”

“Blacksmith,” said Casey.

“The spokes of your bike.”

“Velocipede repair,” said Casey.

“Or the spark plugs on any damn car.”

“Auto-moe-beel renovation,” said Casey.

Mike moved again. “Now, this is Kelly, our turf accountant!”

“Mr. Kelly,” I said, “do you count the turf that Mr. O’Gavin cuts out of his bog?”

As everyone laughed, Kelly said: “That is a common tourist’s error. I am an expert on the races. I breed a few horses—”

“He sells Irish Sweepstakes tickets,” said someone.

“A bookie,” said Finn.

“But ‘turf accountant’ has a gentler air, does it not?” said Kelly.

“It does!” I said.

“And here’s Timulty, our art connoisseur.”

I shook hands with Timulty. “Art connoisseur?”

“It’s from looking at the stamps I have the eye for paintings,” Timulty explained. “If it goes at all, I run the post office.”

“And this is Carmichael, who took over the village telephone exchange last year.”

Carmichael, who knitted as he spoke, replied: “My wife got the uneasies and she ain’t come right since, God help her. I’m on duty next door.”

“But now tell us, lad,” said Finn, “what’s your crisis?”

“A whale. And … ” I paused. “Ireland!”

“Ireland?!” everyone cried.

Mike explained. “He’s a writer who’s trapped in Ireland and misunderstands the Irish.”

After a beat of silence someone said: “Don’t we all!”

To much laughter, Mr. O’Gavin leaned forward. “What do you misunderstand, specific like?”

Mike intervened to prevent chaos. “Underestimates is more the word. Confused might be the sum! So I’m taking him on a Grand Tour of the Worst Sights and the Most Dreadful Truths.” He stopped and turned. “Well, that’s the lot, lad.”

“Mike, there’s one you missed.” I nodded to a partition at the far end of the bar. “You didn’t introduce me to … him.”

Mike peered and said, “O’Gavin, Timulty, Kelly, do you see someone there?”