and  Mrs.  Harrington  is  generous  with  the  tip.  But  she’s  gone  and Mr. Harrington answers the doorbell. His eyes are red and he sniffles. He says, Are you Irish? Irish? What else would I be standing there on his doorstep in Lim- erick with a batch of telegrams in my hand? I am, sir. He says, Come in. Put the telegrams on the hall stand. He shuts the hall door, locks it, puts the key in his pocket and I think,Aren’t Englishmen very peculiar. You’ll want to see her, of course.You’ll want to see what you peo- ple have done to her with your damn tuberculosis. Race of ghouls. Fol- low me. He leads me first to the kitchen where he picks up a plate of ham sandwiches and two bottles, and then upstairs. Mrs. Harrington looks lovely in the bed, blond, pink, peaceful. This is my wife.She may be Irish but she doesn’t look it,thank God. Like you. Irish.You’ll need a drink, of course.You Irish quaff at every turn. Barely weaned before you clamor for the whiskey bottle, the pint of stout.You’ll have what, whiskey, sherry? Ah, a lemonade will be lovely. I am mourning my wife not celebrating the bloody citrus.You’ll have a sherry. Swill from bloody Catholic fascist Spain. I gulp the sherry. He refills my glass and goes to refill his own with whiskey.Damn.Whiskey all gone.Stay here.Do you hear me? I’m going to the pub for another bottle of whiskey. Stay till I come back. Don’t move. I’m confused, dizzy from the sherry. I don’t know what you’re sup- posed  to  do  with  grieving  Englishmen.  Mrs.  Harrington,  you  look lovely in the bed. But you’re a Protestant, already doomed, in hell, like Theresa. Priest said, Outside the Church there is no salvation. Wait, I might be able to save your soul.Baptize you Catholic.Make up for what I did to Theresa. I’ll get some water. Oh, God, the door is locked.Why? Maybe you’re not dead at all? Watching me. Are you dead, Mrs. Har- rington? I’m not afraid.Your face is icy. Oh, you’re dead all right. I’ll baptize you with sherry from bloody Catholic fascist Spain. I baptize thee in the name of the Father, the Son, the— What the bloody hell are you doing? Get off my wife,you wretched Papist twit.What primitive Paddy ritual is this? Did you touch her? Did you? I’ll wring your scrawny neck. I— I,— Oi, Oi, speak English, you scrap. 327