Aylin couldn’t sleep. It didn’t matter too much, though, because tomorrow was March 17, which was a public holiday, and she could sleep in. As she waited for the sun to rise, Aylin listened to Madonna and the Eurythmics on her Walkman. Pop-rock was the best music in the world. She stayed up all night, swaying in front of her mirror. Tomorrow in the afternoon she would meet Garret for the Saint Patrick’s Day parade in the streets of Dublin. He was funny, and caring, and she was madly in love with him. Garret was a diamond in the rough. He was all she thought about. He was so cute with his collection of caps and pins. He had the face of an angel, with movie-star good lucks and a playboy smile. Even Harrison Ford didn’t have much on him. Unfortunately, these days they couldn’t have sex in the carefree way they did before. It was sad. AIDS was everywhere, and the terrifying disease was on every screen.
In the streets of Dublin, crowds were swelling around the beer carts. There was ale and lager and dark, creamy stout. The people were out in form. Soldiers had gathered from all over Ireland to honour Saint Patrick. Everyone was dressed in green. The firemen paraded, flipping their helmets in the air and dousing firecrackers with their hoses. Cultural and charity organisations also participated in the Saint Patrick’s Day celebrations. He was a great Saint, and the patron Saint of Ireland. Legend said that he converted thousands of Irish pagans to Christianity, explaining the concept of the Trinity using the leaves of a shamrock: the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, all part of the same whole. Aylin was a proud Catholic, and she believed in the Holy Trinity. She had even drawn a shamrock tattoo on her cheek. Today, they would all be dressed in green and wearing shamrocks. Aylin cut through the crowd in search of Garret. “Meet me outside the Austin Pub!” he had told her. She could not see far ahead of her. How would she recognise Garret? Everyone was wearing green. Women carried bunches of shamrock in their hands. They danced, they sang, they bounced in all directions. Those who had started drinking early began to stagger. There was Garret, wearing his favourite cap.
“Do you love me?” Aylin asked him.
“More than anything. More than St. Paddy, even,” Garret said, kissing her.
“I didn’t sleep all night. I couldn’t wait to see you.”
“Well, you’ll sleep tonight after a feed of pints.”
At the Austin Pub, the atmosphere was febrile. They played the best rock music in Dublin here, but Madonna was now the queen of pop, and Queen had been knocked out of the top ten. Their singer, Freddie Mercury, had the most incredible voice Ireland had ever heard. People said he’d caught AIDS. It was tragic at his age; he was only 45. “You look tired, love’”, Garret told Aylin as he ordered a pint. Aylin put a shamrock in her glass and filled it with whiskey. She drank it down in one go, toasting Saint Patrick. Her glass emptied, she took out the shamrock and threw it over Garret’s shoulder. It was a tradition that brought good luck.
“My poor Freddie...they say he’s sick,” she answered, kissing him.
Alan Alfredo Geday
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