Seirpánach and the spirit of Neverland

I have always liked settings, lights, action and, of course, characters that provoke my senses, that, instead of memorizing the lines and ellipses, searching for untimely expressions, embodied the role, giving it the life that the writer had left in the pauses between what he described and what they themselves wanted to feel. Improvisation was essential. Today I knew why, faced with this dark sky, with distant and mysterious stars and constellations, with this dry cold giving pleasure to my face. Routines killed my spirit, condemning me to progressive apathy. He read the faces full of oppression and pain, of restrictions and dreams of all the characters and always drew a more beautiful final outcome, without the weight of grimaces and sighs, only if they were of love or passions struck at first sight, of a time that could not be faced again, because it contained the virginity of the beginnings and the sagacity to take advantage of moments of joy. I saw myself as Tinkerbell who lived among the seven hollow trees of Barry, there, in Neverland, where, after all, it was forbidden to be an adult, to grow up. The child that lived within us overcame time and took control of spaces, without the pain or discomfort that were inherent to growing up. I was bothered by the stillness thought out and measured by the clock, by calendars and by all the human ways of limiting the adrenaline of the precipices. I preferred spontaneous rituals. Facing that immense plateau, I saw disappear at my feet, now, only now, the stagnation of all the years I had lived, to which I had dedicated myself, tides, tides, many, to mourn, others to survive the turbulence and challenges, since the day I was born. And I never reached that level of joy and serenity, except in the so-called serpentarium alongside Émile and many others who shared my passion for the arts. Now that I say goodbye to Bantry Bay, I realize that I have never stopped searching for the ghosts of my broken loves. The stage was all theirs, when my exuberant joy faded into the faces beyond, in their languid gazes of the peace they lent me.

I do not remember exactly the faces or the smell or taste of the air I breathed for the first time, but I remember with astonishing clarity that the curtains were transparent and thin, with cornucopia decorations that waved across the rarefied space of that seventy by forty centimeter window. This is the preserved memory, the first, after sixty-eight years counted in the Gregorian calendar. In my lost heroes' calendar, I wouldn't have more than six or seven. I also remember that the light, the brightness and the reflections of the mirrors captured me and I followed them, hearing and perceiving, long after the adults around me found it funny to see my gaze following these reflections. I even thought they were angels after reading Peter Pan and Neverland. I was born in an old city, on a narrow, central street, where the sidewalks were also narrow and made of grids - on the extreme side of the sidewalk, two thick lines separated - the gravel now soaked in asphalt, 3 centimeters high. The window I remember, where I was born, looked out onto the sidewalk, was lowered and had a thick, enameled iron grille, serving as protection against thieves. Now painted bottle green, but from my time, they say, and it seems to me that I can still see its primary color, a golden brown. That over time, the paint was tearing, releasing dust over time.

The curtain waved lightly in those servants' quarters, where my mother and father slept, and later, four siblings, Liam the oldest, Kiara, Briana who was me, and the little head of the pot, my youngest brother, Donald. I remember that when I tore the veil, what I saw was still the same veil, a continuation of it, and I compared it to the spider webs that I studied on my travels, in that ancient mausoleum, while I grew up, served and saw others serve. There was no sky, there was that undulating veil, laden with webs and imperceptible ties, visible through the light that passed through them and came from the candle, the light from the candle, although a little later, kerosene was the most used fuel at the end of the day, in that cellar, to light the end of the evenings, when we all sat wherever we could, around Mirela, who was our mother, and we all had to pray the rosary. I remember that this was the part of the routine that I liked the most and that would become, for me, the first magical ritual of my life. On the first stage. The first scenario. The applause and boos, in the chorus of voices in synchronicity, praying as if they were singing. And I sipped those moments like a warm, delicate chamomile tea. This part of the prayers was a kind of denouement to the prophecies that, at the time, were only interrupted by Liam's dry cough or by one of us sniffling, catching a cold or starting to run to urinate in the latrine, in the same basement. My beliefs were to change with Diderot's pseudo-anarchic philosophy. At the back of the basement, there was a reddish curtain that separated a counter and a pantry from the bedroom, where there were two porcelain basins, side by side, next to the latrines, with their respective enameled jugs, with the face towel, changed frequently, sometimes by Kiara, sometimes by her mother and then, by me, when I grew up. The father, who had been a driver for Mr. Doyle O'Brien, our boss, had died after a bout of whooping cough, despite the fact that the bosses had done everything they could, from calling in doctors and paying them to trying to import medicines that could be of great help. The father, the mother told us, during work breaks, in addition to polishing the car and running countless errands for the boss, was his right hand man and also his left, said the mother, with tears in the corner of her eye, who always played checkers with him, or when Mr. Doyle read his books aloud, asked his opinion on current affairs, on revolutionary outbreaks and wars taking place in the world, always considering his advice.

I vaguely remember the figure of the father and, just as vaguely, the figure of Mr. Doyle O'Brien and his own boss and wife, Mrs. Briana, from whom I had inherited the name and, later, the entire house and the lowered attic of that basement, as a concert hall. This room that I live in and that saw me born, would not see me die. Fate would have it that I would be spoiled by my mistress, with an education beyond our possibilities. That I had learned piano, French and even frequented with Dona Briana, while my boss was mourning, the best tea rooms, showrooms and theaters, where the curtains went up and the world could be reduced to the stage in front of me. Where I had ventured, after mother had gone upstairs, of Kiara having been married to a nephew of Mr. Burke, the master's tailor, and moved to his accommodation outside the city, after Liam had infiltrated the invading French military services and perished in Cork, at the hands of Pellew himself, he and many others, on the ship that evoked human rights as the foundation of its existence, during the beginning of that winter of 97, Don, my brother, had already moved to the lands of His Majesty, the enemy, and we had lost track of him at the time, I, who always had a mania for the arts, and after some studies and incentives of social importance, declared open the season of the gatherings, for late afternoons and early evenings, where poetry and its declamation were mixed with some plays, with opinion articles, discussed secretly, by half a dozen people closest to me. My excitement never went unnoticed by Mrs. Briana, who later told my mother everything, saying that her daughter knows how to appreciate beauty and goodness. In this basement, right after the opening of the will, which the mother, weakened by the loss of the lady and ill herself, had already been informed that there were no relatives and we were the survivors, that large house, which had initially been lent the basement to us for services rendered, had become a theater and painting room, where people would discuss new values ​​and new talents in society, long before my godmother left. It was my own way of continuing the Neverland of the world, which had been given to us by Scotland.

The Serpentarium began early, in the 1792s. It had initially been named Neverland. To the friends I associated with, I was called Bri. To others, it was Briana Carroll. With the social changes typical of that time, everything was gradually segregated, as if joy was forbidden. It came to be. When a group of liberal Frenchmen occupied the building at the narrowest part of the main street, awaiting instructions, Neverland began to be called, at first mischievously, and then officially, if it weren't for me Briana, goddaughter of Briana Doyle, patron saint of the arts, the Serpentarium. With the unusual presence, near Bantry Bay, of young French liberals who wanted to be hidden and protected by revolutionary factions, which I included, political notes from conservatives circulated that the state was being simmered there against the British and that "coups d'état" were being prepared via culture to expel the English, until that harsh winter arrived that presaged both the manumission and the possible plunder and occupation of the French, and from Brest and Cork it was heard that the nights were dedicated to the construction and reproduction of propaganda against the social and political repression of our colonizer. Neverland had been carefully chosen to divert attention from the country's sovereign institutions, but it was only the motto for the birth of the Serpentarium, which, after all, was the space where we met. However, the real poison was the production of this conservative and traditionalist group that had accommodated itself to the silence and comfort of our legal invaders, who were fighting, or so they intended to do, the hotbeds of French rebellion among us, who many agreed that, by expelling the British, they would appropriate us, the Irish, but society also worked against our artistic space as a way of eliminating the joy of the arts and the propagation of freedom of expression. And if it had obtained results in other cities, in ours, the dissident focus was this room, where, now sixty-nine years old, I see the mist entering through the tiles of the still small window, with the twisted iron painted green. There were tables and chairs scattered around, some armchairs where the pantry had once been, an old platform with some projectors and its curtains open, lightening the atmosphere. The floor was covered with a satin covering along the seven steps that took me to the rest of the mausoleum. He rarely climbed them with the same joy as in previous years. Gael and Lana were still present friends, but just like time, they would be absent, as would Fiona and I. I myself, in that corner of the Serpentarium, would fall silent like the lights of the street lamps, like the stampede of French liberals, like migratory birds, I would follow the sun. 

I lived with Fiona, who was responsible for cleaning and organizing the house and reminding me of the chores and countless nonsense that still needed to be done to maintain order within the spaces, so that I myself would not forget to eat, and Wendy, who was the setter dog that had been with me since my sixtieth birthday. The piano was one of the few survivors that saw dusting very frequently. My fingers searched for the chords that took me back to previous years. If Gael arrived and heard the keyboard from outside, he would come to the small window and sing a short chorus of the song that he thought he heard me playing. At that time, the Serpentarium came back to life, the laughter without the shadows of time, as if we were all young again. Whose decadence was idealism and the prohibition of prohibiting life.

I turn my eyes to the hall where the lights from outside cast shadows on the walls and furniture. I felt that there was a hidden revolt within me that was not, legitimately, just mine. Which came from my own godmother who had never had children and had always dreamed of having them, taking them on trips to see the infinity of the world and its upside downs. Patron of the arts. The other part was all mine. From the shadows that inhabited me since before I was born until the middle of 1798, when my life hung on the smile of the musician and philosophy scholar who had passed by there, when Neverland was replaced by the Serpentarium. Émile Leblanc, whose presence stole my heart and for whom I waited until the rumors and the anguish of time itself freed me from waiting, murdered, according to what we were told on one of his trips to France, at the border exit by my own brother Donald, who had become a true Englishman with a military career, whose whereabouts I never wanted to know again, having become, despite being an exiled younger brother, a pariah, crossing enemy lines to become one of them, authoritarian and murderer of the only man I loved. The only one who built Neverland to its deep origins, from the innocence of childhood, from the arts and crafts, from the gifts of theater and painting and sculpture, from literature and music, which was, after all, the essence of my life.

That night, it was still the year 1795, we met behind closed doors, due to the indecency committed against us, and Mirella, my mother, had already passed away, embittered by Don's unknown and uncertain whereabouts. Lana had appeared nervous, saying that the news she brought required us to close our doors, for our own safety. It wouldn't be the first or the last time this would happen, for this and other reasons. We stood there, whispering while Blaze or Dylan strummed the piano keyboard or a 29-string harp, while our voices became inaudible to all those curious about the arts or denouncers of political propaganda on that central street, where Neverland diluted itself into Serpentarium, as if space itself were a character that disobeyed time and refused to grow. Émile played the piano and violin like few others and was a devotee and follower of the ideas of the philosopher Diderot. A little taller than me, with straight, black hair and skin whiter than mine, Émile had almond-shaped amber eyes in a rather long face with prominent cheekbones and a bit of a beard that he trimmed whenever he could, when fighting or rebellious movements allowed him to. As he made a point of it, when he went up on stage at Neverland, to accompany a recitation or show a new musical composition. Émile had first appeared in those parts at the end of 1794, and only later had he begun to frequent his place, through friends and friends of friends. The complicity between the two was not based on ideals, cultural and artistic affinities and chemistry itself broke through possible linguistic dilemmas and soon, with the knowledge of very few, their affair became a love affair, despite the religious and political conservatism on both sides of the family. Émile slept for seasons in his house, in his room, with the defense and protection of Fiona, who hid their romance. My pregnancy began to become so evident that I was rarely seen going out to the square or walking around the bay, taking refuge in the space where, every day, the word Serpentarium could be heard more and more. The connection between these two poles where I intermittently lived was, after all, fateful for me. Until now, I looked at the walls and caressed, above the stone cross fireplace, the portrait drawn by Gael of my Émile, whom Don, without mercy or pity, had taken from life. Knowing, according to Fiona and also Kiara, my own sister, the great love I had for him. On that date, Émile was late because of a controversial text by Diderot, from which he had taken notes and added his ideas, to be debated there, in our arts space. Émile knew I was expecting a child. He was greatly concerned about the sleepless nights that were becoming more frequent in late 1796 and then in 1797, when three artists were taken to Five Fingers Gaol in Inishowen, which led us to close the public door more often to lovers of the arts and to others, more given to other arts such as stealing our political and social ideals. The child's name already existed, which for me would be Fireann and for Émile Hamelin. Then it would be seen, depending on their sex, their visible qualities and the time of birth. Against the familiar and biased morality that forced the most audacious to take extreme positions. I threw myself into the armchair, upon the entrance of Fiona, already as old and worn as I, having seen my hand take the portrait of Émile, made of natural pigments, from the pig's bladder, and having shuddered at its arrival, I sat down, anguished and sighing, with it in my hands. Fiona tried to dispel the tense afternoon of my gaze and her own boredom. And he asked me, in a cynical tone: Tea, Bri? I smiled at him, easing my longing for Émile and answered: Yes, hot toddy tea! And we both smiled, each one disguising our own shadows in the sum of the shadows in the room. - Serve me double and serve yourself too. - And so it was, time brought on the occasional cold in my eyes and I fought them at Fiona's suggestion in the way that Émile himself liked. Strong and unforgivable. 

I lost my Fireann and that same day, Hamelin. I rushed down the staircase that separated me from the rooms to the first floor and then, ending up in the hall of the public entrance to Neverland, covered in blood and having been taken to the Bantry Dispensary and then to the hospital in Cork, having returned home two months later, emaciated and refusing to mourn that such a loss required. A double mourning, the loss of Émile and our son would always require double hot toddies from me. It was not at that time when the announcement arrived as a somewhat untrue rumor of Émile's possible death that I had any idea or awareness of the scope and details of his death. And the name of the killer. It was later, when Kiara visited me in Cork and told me, in between words, without ever uttering a full sentence, about that fateful moment in 1797. When I returned, Fiona was waiting for me, smiling and crying at the same time. Helping me up the stairs, while Gael, Lana, Kiara and her husband followed us, carrying bags, flowers and supplies. The first thing I did, before reopening the Serpentarium, was to remove the original Neverland sign, apologizing to Barry, Peter Pan and Wendy, and Tinkerbell herself, and replacing it with the popular name it had become known by at the time of rebellion, when I had also lost my lover, my son and with them, the will to live that kept me passionate and attached to the arts and their promoters. I survived another two dozen years among visual artists and writers, among press lovers and folk musicians. Then I got tired of everyone. And I would sit in the darkness of the basement, wandering between the keyboard and the scores, the books and the memories, in a vain attempt to catapult myself into Neverland. In 1851, in early spring.

Despite my lack of desire to continue, I stayed there alone for almost 50 years, and I asked forgiveness from my godmother, Briana Doyle, the former patron of the arts in that Irish city. 

Now, almost seventy years old, I had decided, after Wendy's death, to retire far from the mausoleum, closer to Kiara, and a buyer had already appeared for the beautiful attic and its entertainment hall, which I learned, three years later, had become a kind of casino and, above it, its buyer had set up his own home, leaving the middle floor to be rented by the press, the virtuous disseminator of the first Mezzanine, with its humorous and satirical tone, much less segregated than my living room. The Serpentarium.

While they waited for us, already with bags guided by other means of transport, Fiona, Kiara and I were able to look at the medium-sized golden metal plaque that said: SEIRPÁNACH by Briana Leblanc, in memory of Émile Leblanc. A sign that would have its days numbered.

In a single day, several seasons of life ended there, where I had been born in the shadows of a serpentarium and, seeing no way out, I had tried the safe haven of Neverland, having been driven by Irish society at the time to grow up. I took one last look at the house and the dark, narrow central street. I no longer felt like I belonged there and everyone who lived there, all the artists and nights of rebellion, all the French liberals and ideals of hope left with me. I was returning, without knowing it at the time, to my Neverland, long before this existence, from where I heard Peter Pan's voice sounding outside the seven hollow trees, where my wings had the liberty, fraternity and equality of Émile and where Denis Diderot himself and even Laurence Sterne had interceded, without knowing it, to make Leblanc unique to his anarchist heart.