Passport to Peril

Eight

“It’s you!”

“I’ll not deny it.”

“You’re here—”

“In the flesh.”

“I...”

She stood openmouthed while he shook his head solemnly. “I’ve had unusual welcomes before,” he said, “but this seems sure to be the strangest. It’s me, and I’m here, as you’ve observed. It’s both of us, actually, and we’re both here. Thee and me. We’re both cold and wet, too, as far as that goes. At least I am, and you certainly look cold and wet. And lovely, incidentally. Hello, Ellen.”

“But...” She caught her breath and swallowed. “What are you doing here?”

“Getting colder and wetter. By the minute. And waiting to see the Rose of Tralee dazzle us all with her beauty. See that one? A double-barreled skyrocket. I love fireworks, don’t you?”

“I—”

“A friend of mine lost the tip of his third finger to a cannon cracker once. We didn’t have a very safe-and-sane Fourth of July that year. But I still love fireworks. I’m incorrigible.” He studied her. “You somehow seem less than delighted to see me.”

“That’s not true!”

“Oh?”

“You just startled me,” she said. She managed a smile. It was one thing to keep running across faces that looked familiar. It was another thing entirely to meet someone when you were not expecting to. “You took me by surprise,” she said at length. “I never dreamed you would turn up in Dingle.”

“Neither did I.”

“When did you get here?”

“Less than an hour ago. I got off the bus and found a room — no mean feat, by the way — and decided to find you. And I thought to myself, now where would Ellen Cameron be on a rainy night? Out in the rain, I decided instantly. It seems I was right.”

“Why did you come to Dingle?”

“I could say that the thought of the folk festival exerted a powerful magnetism that would not be denied. Or that it occurred to me that a visit to this particular part of the Gaeltacht might be in order before I head for Connemara.” He lowered his eyes. “I could say either of those things, but neither one had much to do with my coming. I decided that I wanted to see you again, Ellen. I don’t know whether I would have climbed the highest mountain or swum the deepest river — I’m not the world’s greatest swimmer, as a matter of fact — but I was at least up to a bumpy bus ride from Dublin to Dingle.” He looked down into her eyes. “You’re cold and wet and more beautiful than ever,” he said. “I’m glad I came, Ellen.”

His hand found hers. They stood together in the rain, hand in hand, as the Rose of Tralee’s barge drew ever closer to the pier. The fireworks committee gave vent to an absolute orgy of skyrockets, anxious lest the Rose arrive before the last incendiary device had been properly exploded. Members of the crowd commented in delight upon the various rockets, groaning aloud when an occasional one proved to be a dud, shrieking with joy when an especially effective specimen burst into a riot of color overhead.

“They’ll have to end with the American flag,” David mused. “They always did back home.”

“Silly. Do you think they make fireworks that explode into an Irish flag?”

“Probably not a great demand for that sort of thing. Say, look at that one! Sparks just missed the barge. Be a shame if the Rose got her eyebrows singed, wouldn’t it?”

“You’re a madman.”

“No doubt of it. See those old fellows over there? They’re jumping up and down every time a good one goes off. I’ll bet they tossed a few real bombs in their youth. Shall we go, or do you really want to see the Rose?”

“I saw her in Tralee, but I’m not moving. This is too much fun.”

“Rain and all?”

“Rain and all.”

The barge docked, and the Rose accepted a bouquet of flowers — roses, of course — from one of the town dignitaries. Flashbulbs popped, and cheers came up from the crowd in waves. The band blared forth with “The Rose of Tralee.” Ellen felt suddenly giddy, almost as she had felt the night at O’Donoghue’s. But that time she had drunk oceans of stout, and tonight she had had nothing at all to drink. She was drunk on the cold salt air, on the rain, on the joy of the evening, on the presence, unexpected and deliciously welcome, of David.

The Rose entered one of the waiting cars, and each of the runners-up took a seat in another vehicle. Slowly the procession of cars moved out from the harbor and headed up Strand Street. A wave of people followed in its wake.

“You’ve seen the Rose,” David said.

“I know. Wasn’t she pretty?”

“Lovely. It’s a pity you didn’t have an ancestor from County Kerry. You’d walk away with it.”

She flushed. “Oh, stop it!”

“You would. Ellen Cameron, the Rose of Tralee.”

“Sure, and get off with your blarney!”

“Ah, and it’s a good Irish tongue they’ve tucked in your pretty head! Did you learn to talk that way on your trip? Come on, let’s find someplace where we can sit down and get out of the rain. There’s a pub just up the street that looks decent.”

“You’ve been here less than an hour and already you’ve picked out a pub?”

“We Clares don’t waste time. First things first — that’s what it says on the family crest. But in Latin, needless to say.”

“Needless to say.”

They shared a table in the snug, the little back room of the pub. The barman brought them pints of stout, and they sipped the dark brew slowly and talked without pause. She told him everything about her trip through the Irish countryside. This, she thought, was what she had been missing. All along she had been storing up impressions and reactions and had had no one to share them with. Now she let everything pour out, and he listened to every word, fascinated.

“It sounds as though you had a grand time, Ellen.”

“I did. Oh, I did!”

“And got a lot out of it.”

“I used up all my tapes and bought more and used them up too. I’m fresh out now. And I’ve learned, oh, I don’t know how many songs. I won’t be able to use all of them, but—”

“I don’t just mean music. I mean — oh, the perspective a person gets on a trip like yours. The sense of the country. Even a sense of self.”

She nodded. “Yes. I know what you mean.”

“That could turn out to be even more valuable than the songs.”

“I think it will.”

He took her hand in his, and their eyes met. She held his glance for a moment, then lowered her eyes. She thought of the way she had told herself over and over again that she would never seen him again, that she had been no more to him than a pleasant companion for a few days and evenings in Dublin, a break from a dull September. But now she knew that she had meant more to him than that. He had come all the way from Dublin just to see her. She thought back to that morning, remembering how she had very nearly gone directly to Shannon, bypassing Dingle completely. Her landlady’s words had changed her mind for her, and if she hadn’t listened to the woman, if she hadn’t come to Dingle according to plan, she might never have seen David again.

She shivered at the thought. What a horrid joke that would have been! She might have spent the rest of her life remembering him, wondering what ever had happened to him, never knowing that he had cared for her as much as she cared for him. The road not taken, she thought.

“Penny,” he said.

She looked at him, puzzled.

“For your thoughts. Or are they worth a great deal more than that? If so, name a price. You certainly seemed lost there for a minute.”

“Oh,” she said. “I was just thinking.”

“Of what?”

“Nothing important. What’s that music?”

“They’re having a songfest in the town square. Not the competition — that’s tomorrow afternoon and evening. Just a few hardy souls gathering in the rain and singing their heads off.”

“It sounds nearby.”

“Want to have a look?”

“I’d like to.”

“Drink up. We might as well get wet again.”

The singing, as it turned out, was not near them at all. The city fathers had set up loudspeakers throughout the town, and the music was being carried over them. They walked blindly at first, trying to trace the source of the sound, until David stopped a man and obtained directions to the songfest. The rain had let up somewhat, and they walked arm in arm through the narrow streets to the public square. A small stage had been improvised there, and a giant of a man stood in its center, microphone in hand, singing a Republican anthem at top volume.

“This is where you hear the rousing ones,” David told her. “All year long a man will tend his crops and sit in front of his fire and thank the Lord that the war’s over. But give him a festive occasion and a few extra drinks from a jar of punch, and he’ll be ready to lead an army into the Six Counties, and singing his head off about it. Then the next morning it’s back to work again.”

The song ended, and the huge, bushy-haired man introduced a pair of singers from County Monaghan who launched into a driving rock ’n’ roll number made popular by the Beatles. It seemed so out of character to Ellen that she began laughing aloud.

“Just perfect for a folk festival,” she said.

“But that’s the whole point! Don’t you see? Folk music isn’t all neatly labeled and put in a drawer over here. The people aren’t even apt to think of it as a separate category. It’s just music, and anyone’ll sing any songs he happens to like, and at any time. Oh, there are folk-music purists here, I suppose, like anywhere else. And you won’t hear any rock ’n’ roll at the competition tomorrow. But when it’s just a case of a batch of people standing in the rain and singing, anything’s liable to come out.”

She stood beside him, clutching his arm with one hand and her purse with the other. From time to time they chatted easily, then lapsed into equally comfortable long silences while they listened to the music and watched the crowd around them.

“I wish I knew more about you,” he said at one point.

“You know all there is to know.”

“Do I? I don’t know who’s waiting for you back in the States.”

“No one.”

“Are you sure?”

“Only my agent, and his interest is limited to a percentage of my income. Is that the sort of interest you had in mind?”

“No.”

“Then there’s no one.”

“Honestly?”

“Honestly. Do you really want to know more about me?” She shrugged. “There’s very little to know, I’m afraid. Wait, I have an idea...”

“What are you getting at?”

“My passport,” she said, fishing it out from her purse. “This will tell you everything there is to know about me. Age, height, weight, place of birth, color of eyes, color of hair—”

“I already know that.”

“Well, all those vital statistics.” She handed it to him. “Read on and discover the real Ellen Cameron.”

“‘Name, Ellen Cameron,’” he read aloud. “No middle name?”

“They never gave me one. Isn’t that sad?”

“You were deprived. ‘Place of birth, Belvedere, New Hampshire.’ Well, I am learning things, after all. I thought you were a New York girl.”

“Ever since college. There’s not much happening in Belvedere.”

“Are your parents there?”

“Buried there. My father died when I was small — I can hardly remember him — and mother died while I was at school.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Read on, sir.”

“‘Date of birth’ — ah, you’re, let’s see now, twenty-four? A satisfactory age. ‘Height, five feet five inches.’ Just tall enough for the top of your head to fit under my chin. That’s a more romantic way of looking at it, don’t you think?”

“Infinitely so.”

“‘Weight, a hundred and seventeen pounds, five shillings and sixpence—’”

“It doesn’t say that!”

“Well, skip the change, then. Just a good armful, that’s all.” He flourished the passport. “You know,” he said, “I have an idea. A very good idea.”

“Where are you going?”

He moved swiftly through the crowd and vaulted easily up onto the stage. He spoke in an undertone to the bushy-haired giant, who nodded and smiled and handed him the microphone.

“We’re in for a rare treat tonight,” he announced. “A professional folk singer has come all the way from New York City to sing for us. Her name” — he consulted the passport — “is Ellen Cameron. Her place of birth is Belvedere, New Hampshire, and her height and weight are a secret. And now she’s going to honor us with a few songs.”

There was a roar of applause. She shook her head at him, and he beckoned to her, and she sighed, shrugged, and gave in, joining him on the stage. The applause filled the night air.

“I’ll never forgive you for this,” she told him in an undertone. “I can’t sing tonight.”

“Of course you can. You’re among friends.”

“I’m going to have to learn not to trust you.”

“Never trust anyone.”

“I don’t even have a guitar...”

But the man with the bushy hair was presenting her with one, and she took it and curved her fingers over the strings. David slipped her passport into his pocket and dropped lightly down from the stage. “I’ll be listening,” he told her.

“I don’t even know what to sing...”

“Anything you want.”

“Well...”

“Go ahead!”

She set the microphone in its stand, let her fingers toy with the strings of the guitar, and then, at last, began to sing...

“I think I hate you,” she said.

“That’s sad. Because I think...”

“Yes?”

They were walking together down Strand Street toward her hotel. He had lit a cigarette. He passed it to her, and she drew on it, then returned it to him. The singing was still going on, and the loudspeakers made it sound as though the music were bouncing all around them. It was raining lightly again, but she did not mind the rain. She had sung half a dozen songs on the little stage, with the audience eager for more, and she did not really hate him at all, she loved him, and he had almost told her that he loved her, and she thought her heart was going to burst from it all.

“I wonder if it’ll rain tomorrow.”

“Probably,” she said.

“If it doesn’t, maybe we can go to the beach.”

“Is the water warm enough for swimming?”

“I don’t think so, but we can stretch out on the sand and watch the waves. Maybe we could pack a lunch and eat it on the beach.”

“I haven’t done that in ages.”

“Sound like fun?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Oh...”

“Something the matter?”

“Well, you’ll be needing this sooner or later.” He handed her passport to her. “I almost forgot to give it back to you.”

“I wouldn’t have been able to leave Ireland.”

“No, you’d have to stay.”

I wouldn’t mind, she thought. I wouldn’t mind at all.

At the door of her hotel they stopped and turned to face one another. “I’ll pick you up after breakfast,” he said. “If the weather’s good, maybe we can go down to the beach. We should be able to buy sandwiches at one of the cafés. I’ll bring a blanket to sit on. Or if it’s raining again we can find something else to do.”

“All right.”

“Ellen...”

“There are people around.”

“Do you care?”

“I should, shouldn’t I?” She looked at him, then let her eyelids drop shut. “No,” she said. “No, I don’t care.”

He kissed her. She snuggled up close to him and let her arms slide around his neck. He was so tall, she thought, and so strong, and his mouth was on hers and his arms around her and...

“I’d better go.”

“If you don’t go now I won’t want to let you go at all.”

“And I won’t want to. Oh, David...”

He kissed her gently, then released her. “Tomorrow morning, after breakfast. Good night, Ellen.”

“Good night.”

He loves me, she thought, floating deliriously up the stairs. I love him and he loves me. She wanted to burst into song, wanted to shout her news from the rooftops.

I won’t be able to sleep, she thought, slipping out of her clothes and into her bed. I won’t be able to sleep, because I am in love and the thought will keep me awake all night and...

She closed her eyes and slept like a lamb.