Laethanta Saoire: The Hand Of God, by Gary Grace
Gary Grace, Dublin writer.
The lads are off to Ibiza for the summer - World Cup fever. But I want to do something meaningful, with purpose. Something for my mind. Something I’m leaving for Argentina to find God or whatever is inside me that is worth living for. I’ve stopped taking my medication and the benefits are already evident. I’m no longer lethargic, I’m feeling creative again, and have filled an entire notebook full of ideas to work on while I am volunteering at the orphanage.
The woman at the desk in Dublin airport is looking at me strangely.
I tell her that I depart today. Just before security I drop my credit card in a bin. I’ve made a vow of poverty and emptied my bank account. Nine hundred quid! I will offer the cash to the religious order as a donation. I want to leave myself no option but to stay long enough to have made a difference, become fluent in Spanish, and written a work of merit.
*
I’d anticipated the layover in Madrid and amused myself, doing ghosties with the trollies, having banter with the security guards. I’d anticipated the overnight in Buenos Aires, found a sports bar showing the NBA finals, and walked around all night. What I hadn't anticipated on arrival at the small regional airport, where they draw down the shutters once the daily flight has come in, was the freezing weather and the wild dogs.
I’m in shorts and a basketball jersey. There’s no bus, no taxi, but I’ve the energy so I walk. The dogs follow. If I quicken my pace, they bark like crazy. I figure out the craic. I walk slowly, start talking, and they listen. It’s a long walk so I start telling them my life story.
By the time we reach the gates I’ve gotten to why I here: after playing college basketball in the States, I'd almost gone pro but a voice in my head had told me to come here, that if I really loved the game, I’d give away all that I had, care for others less fortunate, and be happy playing for nothing, in a country that had a real for the game.
There’s no buzzer so I bang away until a priest slides open the hatch and eyes me. He’s speaking fast, seems angry. I get that something is I could be dangerous, that’s true. Tattoos. Shaved head. But he’s pointing at the dogs. I get out my notebook, and try reading off the pertinent information to let him know the story: My brother is a seminarian with you lads, but in Italy! I’m sound! I’m here to volunteer! And look, I’ve a rake of cash to offer a donation!
He doesn’t know what I’m on about but I flex the battered envelope, and repeat:
There’s a pause, then the hatch slides shut and the gate opens just enough to allow me through.
*
All the volunteers here are escaping something, my new friend Ignacio tells me. He goes by shows me the track marks on his arms, blessing himself. He’s showing me the ropes. We are caring for people with life limiting conditions; helping them with getting out of bed, with bathing, and feeding. Nacho doesn’t enjoy the work and complains about everything, the smell, the food, but mainly Father Alberto, the priest who let me in on my first day. Alberto’s the disciplinarian here, and used to be a boxer, Nacho says. He’s a bully, picking on Nacho for the smallest things. I ask him why he doesn’t just leave. He’s not strong enough yet, he says.
I’m having the absolute craic. I love caring for the kids, the When I take them out for fresh air, we go to see the dogs on the other side of the fence. Father Alberto goes nuts when we feed them but I just laugh at him. The only real problem with this place is that you seem to need feckin for everything, especially leaving the grounds. This sucks for me as there’s a basketball club in town that’s gagging for me to join them. I’ve an email explaining this and showed him. But Father Alberto isn't interested. No car, too far and too dangerous to walk. I’ve pleaded articulately, gotten agro, then tried begging. I even went to Mass! Nothing has worked, so feck him.
*
I’ve hopped the fence. My dogs emerge. We tramp towards town. Before long I hear chanting. The club’s crest is emblazoned on the side of an airline-hanger-sized building on the outskirts of town. There’s a massive hole in one of the walls, I can see right inside. There’s a match and it’s pandemonium before they’ve even started warming up. I find the Coach who hugs me and offers me a kit with my number thirteen. One of the younger players feeds me the ball and I shoot three-pointers for a minute or two, then call for it further and further back. The lads’ eyes are wide as I’m nailing shots. In the huddle they welcome the
We’re playing the top of the table, cross-town rivals. The stands are full of flags, fog-horns, someone’s let off a flare. There’s a smell of empanadas and cigarillos. People are pouring in through the hole in the wall, on foot, in cars and on mopeds! Dogs run across the court and the crowd cheers. I cannot see mine but I know they are here.
After we win, the team carries me off the court on their shoulders. The crowd is chanting In the locker room the lads spray me with shaken-up bottles of beer.
*
Father Alberto is fuming. He’s put Nacho and I on kitchen duty. I say, but Nacho is not happy. It’s boiling in here and he’s missing Argentina playing Mexico. The match is on the TV in the dining hall but we’re stuck here cooking up this horrible vegetable stew. I go out to serve the Angelitos and all the other volunteers who are off the clock enjoying the match. Back in the kitchen Nacho is checking on something; some chickens are roasting in the oven. I’m excited - - but he explains, hastily, that they are for Father Alberto and his superior, who are entertaining some visiting priests.
When Nacho takes them over to the superior’s house, I discover the massive freezer down the back. Floor to ceiling chickens! I grab the two biggest ones I can find for me and Nacho and the other volunteers. Nacho comes back as I’m shoving them in the oven. He covers his face, scared, mumbling about Father Alberto.
I say, cracking open a bottle of wine,
It takes a while but I convince Nacho to have a drink and soon we're nice and loose. But guess who bowls in? He's livid.
Father Alberto grabs Nacho by the scruff and demands that he remove the chickens from the oven. I shout. Father Alberto removes the tray himself. He takes one of the chickens and slams it back in the freezer. And that’s it for me. I did Home-Ec, like. Cooked and uncooked chicken,
I scream at Father Alberto.
But he’s in berserker mode, swinging Nacho all over the gaf, knocking trays and utensils to the floor. Nacho is pleading with Father Alberto, who, with an open hand, slaps him in the face.
I think.
I shove my whole right hand up the other chicken. It looks like a boxing glove. It’s warm inside. I pull Nacho aside and hit Father Alberto, with what can only be described as, an absolute beaut of a dig. He flies out the fire exit and onto his back. Dust from the gravel outside rises. He isn’t laughing now, but holding his jaw.
They shouldn’t be inside the compound. Someone must have left a gate open. The dogs have surrounded him. One growls, tugging Father Alberto’s cassock. He’s trembling, pairing his hands, pleading with me for help. I fling the chicken over the fence and all but one of the dogs disperse, who stays to lick my hand. Nacho dries his eyes, and puts another chicken in the oven.
- Gary Grace is a writer from Dublin. He predominantly writes autofiction. His short stories have been published widely in journals including and Gary’s debut novel is scheduled for publication in spring 2027
- For other stories in our Laethanta Saoire series, see www.irishexaminer.com/maintopics/laethanta-saoire
