Departures Read Free Page B

heart as they’d let the cork fly. . . . She sighed. Still, it wasn’t fair to leave Martin to cope on his own. He was being so patient, too, so charming and polite, while she kept fighting irritation and the urge to be unkind. With an effort she returned her attention to her own table.
    â€œThat’s right, the Franciscan mission,” the man was saying. “There’s a museum of local history in it now. Under it, actually. In the catacombs. I can’t imagine how you missed it; it was pretty well marked.”
    â€œI’m surprised, too,” Martin answered. “We walked around the gardens, of course, and the chapel, but we never saw a sign for a museum.”
    â€œI have the brochure here,” the woman said, pulling a folded leaflet from her bag. Jean leaned towards him as Martin examined it, resting her palms on his forearm for balance, using the moment as an excuse to make contact. Dark, aboriginal faces stared out from the pages, their portraits appearing between shards of pottery, bone and feather jewelry, the chipped and peeling implements of tribal war—all souvenirs from the heyday of the mission. The accompanying text described in detail the primitive peoples to whom the articles had once belonged: their passion for music, their addiction to drink, their idolatrous religions, and violent, unpredictable ways.
    â€œThank you,” Martin said, refolding the leaflet, “I’m sorry we missed it. I still don’t know how we could have; we were right there the whole day.”
    But we spent it in the gardens above the catacombs, Jean thought wistfully. At the end of a trellis they’d discovered the chapel, a small room with stone walls and a low, wooden ceiling, lit only by candles and furnished with four wooden pews. A simple crucifix hung above the altar, its Jesus roughly hewn, the two arms of the cross bound together with twine. It looks like you’re praying, Martin had said, showing her the photo, a product of the Polaroid Instamatic his family had given them as a bon voyage gift. He’d captured her with hands folded, her head at an incline, gazing thoughtfully up at the cross. As he emptied the camera and inserted new film, she’d noted with amusement how he placed the discarded cartridge and scraps of silver paper on the floor at his feet rather than hazard contact with the seat of a pew. He’d been curiously self-conscious, she realised suddenly, from the moment they’d come in. First time in a chapel, was it, Martin? The possibility hadn’t even occurred to her until them.
    Behind them, the foursome were choosing pastry, deciding which of the cakes to split between whom. What’s your favourite, they asked the waitress who stood beside the sweet trolley with a silver cake knife in her hand. She shrugged, her expression amiable and relaxed. Every one, delicioso. But there’s a whole glass of rum in that one there.
    The woman cleared her throat.
    â€œSo, what about you?” she said. “Where are you from?”
    Her husband’s smile was strained. “They’re from Ireland, dear, obviously.”
    â€œNorthern Ireland, yes,” Jean said.
    â€œYes, of course.” The man lifted a sprig of parsley from the chop on his plate, examining it from a distance with the prongs of his fork. The woman coughed.
    â€œDo you live in the country?” she asked brightly. “I hear the country’s very nice.”
    â€œYes, it’s beautiful,” Martin agreed. “We don’t get out tosee it much, though. No car, I’m afraid. We’re from Belfast.” West Belfast, Jean added silently; she could practically see their faces blanch. For some reason she found the reaction gratifying.
    â€œAh yes,” the man said, swallowing deliberately. “Right in the thick of it, then.”
    â€œWell, it does seem that way sometimes, I suppose,” Martin laughed, “but it’s not