An Dochtúir Áthas

Liam Mac Cóil

- Inniu. Breathnaímis ar phictiúr. Tírdhreach.

Chuala mé clic sa dorchadas. Chuala mé comhla sa bhos thíos uaim ag sleamhnú isteach agus ansin ag preabadh amach arís. Léim pictiúr lán de dhathanna éagsúla – buí, oráiste agus dearg – suas ar an tsíleáil. Ní fhéadfainn é a dhéanamh amach.

- Cuirfidh mé é sin i bhfócas duit anois.

D'éirigh an pictiúr níos cruinne go mór agus paistí áille bánghlasa agus iliomad línte tanaí dúghorma ag lúbarnaíl trí dhathanna ómra, agus paistí beaga ilghnéitheacha eile - glas, bándearg, corcra, dubh, liath - chomh maith le línte beaga gléineacha dearga trasna na línte beaga gorma.

- Rorschach de mo chuid féin é seo. Bhuel ní liomsa é dáiríre. 'Paranóia' atá air. Is le healaíontóir Dúitseach é. Emil Van Roon. Tá mé an-bhródúil as. Anois, inis dom cad a fheiceann tú ann.

Lig mé liom féin oiread na fríde, agus tharla rud aisteach. Bhí sé mar a bheinn ar ais arís sa ghairdín sin a raibh mé ann agus mé ag léamh an scéil úd in Comhar os cionn seachtaine roimhe sin. Mhothaigh mé an t-aiteas céanna orm arís, iarracht den ghliondar agus den sceon. Ansin mhothaigh mé ciontach, damnaithe, aonarach, ar bhealach gránna. Ba bheag nár aithin mé an tinneas a bhí orm.

- Ha, arsa Áthas, feiceann tú rud éigin ann.

Shíl mé gur cheart dom cur síos a dhéanamh ar a bhfaca mé. Ba sheo é an saol, agus bhí mé ag breathnú aníos air ó tholg an amhrais.

Translated by Oisín Thomas Morrin

- Today. Let’s look at a picture. A landscape.

I heard a click in the darkness. I heard a shutter being slid across and bouncing back again. A kaleidoscope of colour – yellow, oranges and red –jumped out onto the ceiling. I couldn’t make it out.

- I will put it into focus for you now.

The image became much clearer; pretty pale-green patches and a multitude of thin navy lines wriggled between shades of amber, and other small patches – greens, pinks, purples, blacks and greys – along with small bright red lines that crossed over the thin blue ones.

- A Rorschach painting of my own. Well, it’s not really mine. It’s called “Paranoia”. It is by a Dutch artist by the name of Emil Van Roon. I’m very proud of it. Now, tell me what you see.

I relaxed myself, and something strange happened. It was as if I was in the garden again reading that story in Comhar over a week ago. I felt the same happiness again, the sense of joy and the satisfaction I had. Then, I felt guilty, damned, alone, in an awful way. I came close to recognising the illness I had.

- Ha, said Áthas, you see something.

I thought I should describe what I saw. For life was a play and I was now looking down on it from the gallery of suspicion.

- Feicim, a dúirt mé go trialach, go bhfuil an saol seo briste suas ina phaistí, ina chodanna éagsúla, is d'fhéadfá a rá go bhfuil a dhath féin ar gach paiste, agus a chruth is a dhéanamh féin. Is tá na paistí gormghlasa ann ar nós uisce a Meánmhara maidin earraigh, is tá na paistí maotha ómra mar a bheadh coilearnach beithe tráthnóna fómhair. Agus tá oiread sin paistí idir gach paiste gur dócha go bhféadfá a rá nach gairdín atá ann ach cathair - cathair ghríobháin. Ach go samhlaítear dom anois nach sráideanna atá idir na paistí ach srutháin, canálacha domhaine dúghorma. Feictear dom gurb í seo cathair na Veinéise. Seo iad dathanna San Marco. Agus feicim droichid bheaga dearga anseo is ansiúd thar na canálacha sa chaoi is gur féidir leat dul áit ar bith is maith leat sa chathair seo.

- An-deas. Molaim do shamhlaíocht. Canálacha agus droichid. Cá dtéann na droichid sin? ...

- Droichid shóisialta iad. Úsáideann daoine iad. Is ar an gcaoi sin a dhéanann paiste amháin teagmháil le paiste eile. Agus is bealaí sóisialta eile iad na canálacha. Ach ní teagmháil dhíreach í; ar na canálacha. Agus tá na canálacha ar fad ceangailte le chéile. Ach ní mar sin do na droichid. Bíonn na droichid ceangailte le paistí daite. Agus is aisteach an chaoi gurb iad na rudaí a scarann na paistí ó chéile, gurb iad sin na rudaí a chuireann i dteagmháil lena chéile iad.

- I see, I said warily, that this life is broken up into patches, in their various parts, and you could say that each one has its own colour and shape as it deems itself. And the pale-green patches are like the water of the Mediterranean on a spring morning, and the amber ones like a birch grove on an autumn afternoon. And the multitude of patches between them… it’s more like they are a city, no, a maze. But now it seems to me that there aren’t roads between the patches, but instead streams: navy-blue deep streams. It looks like the City of Venice. It’s the colours of San Marco. And I see little red bridges here and there over the canals in a way that allows you to go wherever you want in this chair.

- Very interesting… What an interesting interpretation. Canals and bridges. Where do these bridges go?

…

- These are bridges that link society. The people use them. It’s in this way that one patch can connect with another patch. And the canals are another means. But they’re not a direct means – the canals, I mean. And the canals are all interconnected; but, it’s not so with the bridges. The bridges are connected by the coloured patches. And isn’t it strange how the things that divide the patches from each other are the things that bring them together.