Irish Ghosts

On Grafton Street Jessi passed a scruffy young man who was playing a Bob Marley song on a battered acoustic guitar. A small group of equally scruffy teenagers were gathered around him, two of them singing along: "No woman no cry," they crooned, "no woman no cry...." And the guitarist plunked away in a dirty ska rhythm. The day seemed drizzly, although it wasn't raining. Just acted like it was going to at any moment. But the sun popped out briefly as the song ended, and everyone clapped and laughed. The young man smiled at his small but attentive audience. Jessi left the group just as he banged into a rousing version of "Angel of Harlem."

A whole gaggle of people, endlessly young, were zigzagging around, pausing to look at the street vendor's wares or to watch the buskers or just to chat before dashing into Bewley's, or a book store, or a nearby pub. Jessi looked into every face, searching for details of lives. She saw scores of light eyes, heads with every possible shade of red hair, a million freckles splashed over pleasant springtime demeanors. She saw fair Irish and dark Irish and every possible in between shade of Irish. She saw so many idealistic faces that reflected Ireland's youthful character. But many of these faces carried a sadness too, a reflection of something Jessi wasn't quite able to grasp. She wanted to learn from these people, learn about being alive. And find out what caused that hint of sadness.

Jessi could still hear the young man with the battered guitar behind her, singing: "Lady day got diamond eyes....she sees the truth behind the lies." Then he nearly howled out the chorus, doing his best Bono: "Sooo looong! ...angel of haaarlemm!" Billie Holiday was listening for sure. Jessi smiled.

She stopped to watch a young string quartet that was encircled by a group of tourists. The onlookers appeared enchanted, as if they had come all the way to Ireland just to hear Mozart played by a group of spirited kids on Grafton Street. When the musicians broke into Pachelbel's "Canon" several people left coins in the open violin case on the ground.

The kids kept glancing at each other, as if sharing telepathic messages. A quick smile touched their faces if one of them made a mistake even though these flubs were generally undetectable by the onlookers. The cellist was a slender young woman with long stringy brown hair and nimble fingers that moved over her instrument with blurred grace. The pair of violinists appeared to be brothers: both had choppy dark red hair and the same pattern of freckles across their boyish faces.

Jessi was intrigued the most by the violist. She was wearing jeans and a blue shirt with a white star patch emblazoned across the front. Her mahogany hair was short and wavy. Her light eyes exuded a sly mixture of innocence, humor and quiet charm. She couldn't have been over the age of sixteen. Jessi was reminded of her friend Elsie, who had a similar look of dark naivete. The violist didn't smile as much as the other kids, and Jessi had the impression that she wanted to be someplace else right now, rather than here on Grafton Street, playing over-played classical hits for coin tossing tourists.

Further up the street Jessi saw a young girl in faded rumpled clothes, sitting on the sidewalk, braiding the long hair of another girl who sat in front of her. Next to the hair braider, a similar looking girl was selling handmade jewelry: strings of beads, wrist bands, chokers, and necklaces with ankhs and Celtic crosses. Jessi crouched down and looked at all the necklaces laid out on a cloth. She found a copper colored cross on a black chain that she liked, so she bought it from the girl. It was something her friend Ari would like, Jessi decided, but she didn't really know who she had bought it for. Perhaps to wear herself. She zipped it into the breast pocket of her leather jacket.

Next to the jewelry seller a boy was strumming a guitar that was even more battered than the "Angel of Harlem" singer's had been. He looked lost and hungry, and too tired for someone of his age. And in this musician Jessi clearly saw that strange Irish sadness. Jessi didn't recognize the song he was playing, perhaps it was one of his own. The lyrics were about Mary Magdalene watching Jesus on Calvary. The song's mournful chorus echoed Mary's confused feelings as she watched her savior die in front of her. Jessi left a pound coin in the boy's guitar case and he nodded at her, still lost in his song.

Jessi continued up the street, passing more tourists, more young Irish, and another string quartet. This one was playing a medley of classical pieces that mutated into pop hits, clearly delighting the tourists. Mozart meets Jim Morrison. Jessi found this terribly silly and wandered on. She crossed a busy intersection, leaving the jumble of Grafton Street behind her, and floated into the quiet charm of St. Stephen's Green.

She sat on a bench near a large overhanging tree, its branches dangling into a pond in front of her. It started to rain. The day's long promised drizzle. But Jessi was protected by the tree's natural umbrella. An old man sat down next to her on the bench and said, "Showery, isn't it? Pleasant though." And the Irish in his voice made the English sound so sweet.

"Um, yes," Jessi said. "It's beautiful." She glanced at him. He was wearing an off white tweed jacket over a rumpled shirt. His face was creased with age and experience. She half expected a cane or a pipe, but he had neither.

"Pleasant and showery," he said. "My kind of afternoon on the Green." He had a newspaper in his lap and Jessi could see part of the headline, something about the IRA. "It's all about money, you know," he said, noticing Jessi glance at his paper.

"Oh. Um. What is?"

"The troubles in the North."

"Oh."

"You from America?"

"Yes."

"What's your name then?"

"Jessi."

"'Lo, Jessi. Me name's Seamus." He reached out a weathered hand and Jessi briefly took it in hers. "A bit of Irish in ya then?"

"Um. No. Don't think so anyway."

"What brings ya to the emerald isle then?"

"My friend Ari," Jessi began, "said I would learn about being alive from the Irish."

"Ah, that we are, young dearie. Alive. Heh heh heh! Even the dead still live among us in a way.... Ireland has lots of ghosts." Seamus laughed heartily at this pronouncement and Jessi smiled.

"So, um I came here to see for myself," she said.

"The living or the ghosts?"

Jessi smiled. "Both."

"Well what doya think so far?"

"People are very generous here, very friendly. And they seem very mindful of each other."

"So how'dya explain the IRA then?"

"Um. They're just angry."

"Doya know why that is?"

"Too much deep seated resentment of the English I guess."

"They want Ireland to be free of the British shackles," Seamus said. "All of Ireland, not just the Republic. But there's more money in the North cause the Brits 'ave got a better economy than we have."

"Um. Oh, I always thought it was about Protestants and Catholics."

"There's a bit o' that of course. Sure the Protestants don't want to be governed by the Catholics in the Republic. But that's all changin'. You can even get a divorce here now, not always so. But...you been to Belfast, Jessi?"

"Um. No."

"They got better streets than Dublin, better sewers. The economy up there is dreadful, but they got the British welfare system to prop 'em up, something the Republic doesn't have. They got a better dole. It's all about money. But someday there'll be more Catholics in the North, cause the Catholics breed better." He laughed at himself a moment and Jessi smiled. "And then things'll turn the other way. There are those who believe that Northern Ireland will one day unite with the Republic and I'm one of 'em, but in the meantime those IRA rebels will not rest." He banged lightly on the paper in his lap as if it were really all the media's fault. "It's a damn shame you know," Seamus said after a pause. "All that killin'," he trailed off. "Kind've a heavy subject on such a pleasant showery day." Seamus frowned slightly.

"That's what I don't get," Jessi said. "The way they can justify killing innocent people for their cause like that."

"Put yourself in their place," Seamus said. "Live their lives, search their pasts. Look at the history of Britain and Ireland. You'll see it different. I'm not sayin' that I agree with the IRA's violence, but I can feel where they're comin' from. Sometimes...." Seamus trailed off, looking through the rain out at the pond.

Jessi didn't respond, just tried to imagine the mind of a terrorist. It still didn't work for her. She just saw dead people and destruction, where there needn't be. Finally she said, "So how come the British don't just give Northern Ireland over to the Irish? I mean, why do they put up with all this trouble?"

"Cause it's a democracy," Seamus replied. "There've been referendums. And the people have voted to stay part of Britain."

"But don't the Irish want to be part of Ireland?"

Seamus gazed at Jessi a moment. His eyes were as light as the drizzle that showered around them. He smiled. "Well that's sure an interesting question, Jessi. But you see, many of the Protestants believe that they aren't a part of the Ireland of the Irish. And I think we're back to the beginning of our discussion now." He rubbed his thumb against the opposing fingers of his left hand in a gesture that symbolized what he was about to say. "They only believe that because it's all about money."

There was a long silence. The rain swept over the Green in waves of rainbow colors. On the other side of the pond someone ran for cover.

Seamus unexpectedly broke the silence when he said, "What do you think Jesus would say if he were in Belfast right now, watchin' Protestants and Catholics, both Christians, now mind ya, bloody killin' each other? And over what? A couple of petty religious differences? The pope? Nah! Over bleedin' cash, I tell ya!"

"If Jesus were in Belfast right now...," Jessi started to say, but Seamus interrupted her:

"...He'd bash a few IRA and Loyalist heads together I hope."

"No," Jessi said. "He'd sit them down at a meal together. And teach them humility."

"A wise thing to say, young Jessi." Seamus gazed at her again, his eyes smiling, then they broke into a frown. "But I think," he said slowly, "that if Jesus came to Ireland today, the IRA and the Protestant Loyalists wouldn't even recognize him."

"And that's what's so sad about all of it," Jessi said.

"But you didn't come to Ireland to learn about the troubles, now didja?"

"Um. I came to learn about everything."

"Ah, a curious sort then."

"Yes, very."

"Where've ya been so far?"

"Just here. Dublin. But I want to travel around. See the countryside. I wanna find out why this little island has so much spark."

Seamus watched her a moment, grinning. He had slightly rotting teeth that looked as though they could actually fall out at any moment. "A spiritual sort of journey, then." He stated this as if he knew something about Jessi merely from her demeanor.

"All journeys are spiritual," Jessi said and Seamus's grin broke into a bigger smile.

"That they are, dearie, that they are."

The rain came down a bit harder, but neither Jessi nor Seamus minded. The overhanging tree kept them dry. Together they watched as droplets of clear water fell in dappled patterns onto the pond in front of them. Jessi heard Seamus take a deep breath and let it out slow. It almost sounded as if he were exhaling a dose of foul air in order to take in the needed good.

Jessi turned to him and said, "Um. So tell me about one of these Irish ghosts...."