Authors: J. P. Donleavy
George Smith directed the chauffeur to drive round die lake once before leaving Renown Memorial Cemetery. Near the frozen waterfall car halting. Smith viewing nature through the glass. Ice broken, two ducks swimming. One multicolored male, one drab female. Things are different in the spider kingdom. And over there, a monument sucking in the sky. Stiff stone garments in the cold grey air. Statue of a wife. One hand reaching out, upturned. Come hither.
Forty minutes past twelve. And the car sweeps out the high black gates. Grey guard, saluting. Back across the trolley tracks. Down through the woods again. By a lit-de hill. Children in bright red and blue caps sleigh riding. Ice crystals in the trees. Smith swallowing curious tears from the top of his lip. Christmas has always been so sad. At night when young with newly combed hair, tie and shirt all clean, all full of promise for this eve. I was sad.
Black limozine whistling down die highway, passing across a bridge where far down flowed the litde river into a big river. No one to talk to, to meet, to laugh. When no one knows I'm alive at all.
Black car sweeping by above the piers and ships, under the shadows of stations, by the shut up markets, empty freight yards. Tell the driver to stop by a grey building. The fireboat station. Two tugs tied up. Now walk across the cold windy park. Staring at two statues. A cannon. Out onto the ferry slip. A cruise for the price of a small coin. Until seven o'clock in the dark evening. Passing back and forth across the grey cold waters. Staring up at the towers as they receded and rose. Somehow at the tip. Down here. One can always jump. Somewhere. Or take a ferry.
And up between the canyon buildings. Walking and wandering the streets looking in the windows. By bars. Peer through a grating. See down into a room. A girl lying back on a dim couch under bedclothes. Sad little fire flickering. Against fire regulations. Flames melting on her face. Wan and dying.
A taxi back to Merry Mansions. Manse of rich mischief. More parties in progress. No sign of Hugo. Up the steps into Flat Fourteen. And the dark empty rooms. Light on in the foyer. And then to the sitting room. Where something moves. Shudder of fear. Goodly flash up the keester. And hair up on the back of the neck. Flick on some light. Sitting in black, a cowl over the head. For one second it looks like death. And the next with the veil back. Shirl.
"Hello George. I was waiting for you didn't think you'd come. Hugo let me in. Don't get angry, not his key, got it right here, he got it from a Mr. Stone. Here it is."
"Thank you."
"I'm here George because I'm pleading for my children and myself. O.K. I said things. You said things. But still there are four children. Each with a future."
"Do have a drink, what would you like."
"No. I'm not staying. I just want to say what I've got to say and I'm catching the nine fifteen train. It's Chnstmas eve."
"I know it's Christmas eve."
"I don't want to fight."
"Well what do you want to do."
"I'm here because it is Christmas and I'm asking you to stop."
"Stop what."
"You know what, George."
"I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about."
"Your mausoleum."
"I beg your pardon."
"Let's not beat around the bush George. Please. Not tonight. I'm just asking you not to go on with it. You can't go on with it."
"Why wear that get up to tell me this. Black veil."
"And why are you wearing the get up you've got on."
"That's my business."
"And I know why, because that's what you wear when you go to that infernal cemetery."
"You better have a drink Shirl because that's all you're going to get from me. I have nothing further to say."
"You've been there, haven't you, in that ridiculous car with the radio telephone. As if you were playing cops and robbers,"
"And you've been hanging around."
"There. I knew it. It's yours isn't it. Admit it now."
"Shirl if you don't mind, you're going to miss your train. In short I live here."
"You don't have to tell me that. On your bathroom floor is Matilda. Absolutely unconscious drunk. And practically nude."
"How refreshing."
"Don't be so smug. I call it enticement, not that she probably has to."
"I prefer not to discuss my servants."
"You're such a God damn phoney."
"Now look Shirl I'll clout you across the face if you continue. I've had enough bad news today."
"Why, run out of marble. O God."
"My mother and father are dead."
"Ha ha ha."
"Are you laughing."
"Yes. I'm laughing."
Smith standing stiffly, silently. Shirl leaning deeply back, drawing in a deep breath. Black feather crossing down upon her cheek. Brown eyes. Raising one brow. As the staring contest is engaged. When her mouth moves she's weakening. With both her mouths such soft tilings. And kissed them honeyed blossoms both so many times. She can draw love out of stone. Even now. Four children later. Ripe under linen in summer, soft wool in winter. And clinging and black silk now. Eats an apple while she pops a baby out like a pip. They grow as little kings and queens.
"Aren't you going to hit me George."
"I'm tired."
"What a rotten little trick, mother and father. You try everything. And what's that now."
"None of your business."
"Don't tell meyou're taking snuff. God."
From the tiny turquoise casket Smith pressed a pinch at each nose hole. Shirl crossing legs. Beautiful legs that is her distinction. Means she's got something more to say. And beyond Shirl's head, across the street, out of this dimly lit room, a slattern mother. And her grey husband holds his head in hands. Over his eight mistakes.
"Your train Shirl. This weekend's been enough already."
"I can stop you building that edifice."
"I still don't know what you're talking about."
"I'm talking about one acre, foundations thirty feet deep, imported marble, and the biggest mausoleum built in Renown Cemetery. Doctor Fear."
"What are you talking about."
"That's who you are. Doctor Fear, who's building, whose name is connected with it. None other than George Smith."
"You've been reading too many comic strips, Shirl."
"My legal counsel is going to take steps. Are you pretending I can't stop you squandering what my children and I have a right to."
"You're amply supplied with money."
"And what happens to the rest of that money."
"What money."
"Why haven't you got accountants. Answer me that."
"What do you really want, Shirl."
"I want more. Because you've got more. You're rotten with it. You tried to buy two thousand canes from an antique dealer."
"Two hundred."
"And then walked out with a bronze pig worth a fortune."
"Brass."
"You admit it. And the poor man is hysterical."
"The whole world is hysterical."
"You robbed him."
"I did nothing of the kind. Brass. Recent."
"Bronze and ancient. My detective said so."
"I see. Some detective."
"Yes as a matter of fact he is. And happens to be a college graduate, something you're not."
"This is a problem of yours Shirl. Take it on the train with you."
"And that ghoulish monumentis going to be stopped."
"And I'm going to tell you perhaps for the last time, you're being fed, clothed and housed."
"Don't use that even voice with me. Save your precision for Matilda, you'll need it getting in there."
"This way please."
"O you big shit. You shit. Phoney. We'll get an injunction."
"My advice Shirl is to stay away from the law. It can grind both ways."
"You're not scaring me."
"And I assure you I'm not paying to have it grind me."
"We'll see."
"We may. Meanwhile you've enough money to hire some college kids if you need a quick one."
Shirl lunging forward, slapping Smith across the face. Moving a knee up to pound him in the privates. Smith neatly blocking with a deft thigh. She runs. Clicking across the floor of the foyer. Having caught the side of George's face with one lash of her claw. And a vase with one blossom of the wax dogwood flower. Held above Shirl's head and thrown. And a bark. Matilda. On all fours. Naked. One could charge admission to this zoo. Door slamming. Wince. One more crack sent through Merry Mansions. Smith shouting.
"Get out. Get out of here. Just get out. All of you get out. Stay out. And leave me alone."
Smith in his dark suit. Giving Matilda traffic directions back to her room. Didn't last long at her heaven. Once more step over shattered pieces of delf. And go and sit with a bottle of whisky. Lever off the silvery cap. Put it to the lips. Pour it down the throat. This time of year gives everyone a chance to pass out insult, and if possible, injury. The things that come out on Christmas eve. I beg your pardon. When so many things seem to happen. And you want to cry O God. Sent to a new world. With a father and mother dead in the old. Where all will grow over in white flowered bramble. Sink slowly in bog and be covered by the waves. Tinker people lined the roads. With fires at night. My father kept a hay fork leaning near the door to give them a pike in the ass if they got fresh near evening because that countryside was terrifying after dark. By day once when I was passing on my horse. A blond woman with gleaming eyes beckoned. Nodded towards the bushes and raised her brows, I was a child king who owned all the land. Get down and do something with her. A little awkward with the garb I was geared in. To mix my blood with road louts. But she was young. A woman. And dirty. But hair golden. She said come lay, hush now, with me. Fluttered her dress, held it wide with pretty dots and bows. Covered too, in horseshit. How can I risk my thin fingers with her strong bones. Tangling in the briars. In the yellow hair. And she turned away, aloof. Head high and haughty. And I got down because I thought I was no prince and this woman would do something strange. Something I had never heard of and young as I was I had sifted out a lot of information. She ran. Ducked under a wire in the hedge. And down the field and into the tall standing hay. I thought, Christ the fanner will kill us trampling this. She played with her pink blouse. And blue buttons. Laughed and pushed me back as I got close. Till I tried to grab. Like falling into my own grave. My God how are her teeth. From here you could see the sea. She sang close to my ear. All the fright and fear she blew away. Christ if someone sees us. Got to do it, to begin life. She put her lips there and tasted me. Slowly gently just like the sailing vessel I could see beating its way up the shore this summer time and her voice so low and friendly.
I gave
Her
The young
Horn
She said.
As the
Grazing
Was
Green.
O
N
a day when winter was ending. On a promontory near a dead end of street pushing out into the river by the fish market. Dark sheds. Barges bumping derelict. I walked out here on the first day I moved office and have come lunch times ever since. To watch the ferries, the pigeons scared into the air by hoots. And to conjure up a future for my past.
The new office is two interconnecting rooms where I sit in die back one watching out on the endless white tiled wall of a warehouse. Brought Miss Martin with me. Had a going away party too. Sportsmen from The Game Club. A buffet. With beer, wine and tidbits. It was disastrous. Matilda trooped in to Thirty Three Golf Street drunk with several celestial friends and danced with my topper and hardly anything else. Dispersing the less hardy guests.
I got letters. Delivered by post, by hand, by elephant by God. I objected to some of the innuendo.
i Electricity Street
We are firm in our wish
that the year is immaterial.
George Smith
Room 604,
Dynamo House
Owl Street
Dear Sir,
Do not pretend not to know who we are.
Yours faithfully,
JJJ. & The Associates
P.S. We assume you were attending a funeral.
And to answer these this month of March I sat chilly and wagging my feet on a capstan on a wharf the end of Owl Street. Feeling easier out under the open sky.
Room 604
Dynamo House
Owl Street
i Electricity Street
Dear Sir,
I require details to establish identification. How many eyes have you all got.
Yours sincerely,
G. Smith
P.S. Also be glad if your next letter were accompanied by a brief medical history.
On Wednesday, some days later a note was slipped under the front office door.
i Electricity Street
Our former comments in
this heading will suffice.
Room 604
Dear Sir,
We can do without your crass attempt at jocularity. We inform you that our appointees have been instructed to institute moves. In the light of the seriousness of the situation and in case you are under any illusion we inform you that we are in the possession of two eyes each.
Yours faithfully,
JJ.J. & The Associates (Global)
P.S. There is no need to go into our medical history.
Grey Thursday afternoon to spell out a reply to J.J.J. from room 604, Dynamo House.
Turdsday
JJ.J. & Associates (Global)
i Electricity Street
Dear Sir,
Watch out.
Yours sincerely,
G. Smith (Local)
P.S. I am also blessed with two headlamps, which I should be glad to focus on your medical history.
And on this day. At her plywood desk with a slender vase of chrysanthemums, Miss Martin's shoulders slumped forward and she burst into tears over her typewriter. George Smith went to her. Her hair brown and full round her head. Placing a hand across her back, the little acorns of her spine.
"Mr. Smith, I'm sorry."
"It's all right, Miss Martin. Don't worry. Yon
cry."
"Mr. Smith, I don't want to ever let you down. Bnt I'm scared."
"Is it the office here."
"I suppose I'm just getting used to the long anonymous halls and staircases. It's not like Golf Street. I shouldn't cry like this. But Mr. Smith I feel the whole world is horrible and mean. And the letters."
"Miss Martin, don't you fret That's not your worry. Here try my hanky."
"Thanks."
"Give a good blow. That's it."
"I'll wash and iron it."
"Nonsense, you keep it now."
"I read in the paper that poor boy was shot to death. Just because he recognised someone on the subway train."
"Miss Martin, you musn't take things so seriously. Now wipe these away. Feel better."
"Such a nice smell your hanky."
''Lemon."
"I like it. I feel better now and Mr. Smith this letter just came registered special delivery."
Mount Ararat
March iyth
My Dear George,
I write to you alas for some material aid. At the moment I am completely banjaxed. I am trying desperately to escape from this God forsaken place to make a fresh start in the new world. I hope you will be able to assist me in this. We hear that you are now very successful and a happy family man and I am glad. Can you wire as much money as you can reasonably afford to departing Passenger" Volta Steamship Lines—to their office here or there will get me, and mark it "hold for collection." You will never know how much you will have saved my life. And may God protect you as He has not yours truly*
See you soon,
BONNIFACE
Smith folding the letter carefully, putting it back in its envelope. Miss Martin with liquid wide whites around her eyes. In this room where one is waiting for something awful to happen. Cedric, the awful Bonniface, Clementine. College classmate. Amateur historian of his own recent history. No fear Miss Martin. A friend. It's my turn for tears.
Miss Martin coming each morning to room 604, Dynamo House at nine. She put on a little burner for coffee. She rode two hours on the train. Said it went over bridges and bridges and the salt water was covered all along the shore in ice. She told me how the workmen put boards on the train and it stopped at the middle of the bridge way out over the water and they climbed out in the wind, boards on their shoulders. And her house. Her little tiny bedroom. Wind whistled round it all the night. Heat came up in the morning with pipes creaking. And when very sad she would go down the street in the early morning along the row of empty boarding houses, grey and shuttered up and look out across the flat sea. To watch a sun red and cold coming up. Her ears would sting. Then get on the train, sit on the slippery seats, see the people get in. Same ones sometimes. Until it would get like sardines. Then climbing up out with a crowd, crossing the park by the ferry terminus and through the shadowy streets to the little world of room 604. And the grand dad clock would chime. And nine canes in the cane rack.
Now Miss Martin sits all forlorn. Her voice tired. The vein trembling across her wrist. Shaves the hair off her legs. Grey wool dress with short sleeves. She is twenty six years old. From there step down into years of waiting. For marriage. Light hair on her light skin. Her face up close, new born, all fuzz and peachy. Her lids and lashes lay down over her eyes as she thinks. Want sometimes to gather her up in my arms. Say, little girl you're safe while I hold you. And instead I ask her let's go out. Take a walk in the park.
George Smith leading Miss Martin across the lobby of Dynamo House. Past the great glass covering all the little names of firms right through the alphabet. And at S. There is George Smith, room number 604. Fourth Floor. And down the wide steps. Across the busy street. Passing the little cemetery by the church. Needle spire like a toothpick. Might have had a little plot in there had I been in time a hundred years ago.
Into the park by the barge office. Drizzling rain. Sky dark and heavy. Ferries squeezing along the greased pilings and clanging against the little metal bridge of shore. Cars start engines and off they come. Others go taking the people home to the lights across the water. And a monstrous ship passing down the river. Little circle of people on the fan tail. Two figures pointing and waving at the park. Hear the vessel's engines. Feel them on the soles of the feet, shaking the ground. Passengers1 streamers fall away and land on the water. Gay tidings in the mist.
"Miss Martin, a majestic sight."
"I'd love to go on a ship."
"Yes."
"Mr. Smith, it's letting off steam."
"Hooting bye bye. Takes you away from a lot of things."
"Mr. Smith, you say that so sadly."
"Come, Miss Martin and we'll get something to eat."
Two figures crossing the windy park. Miss Martin taking Smith's arm over the street. And inside where wieners were being turned on a hot skillet behind the steamed glass. Always wanted to have the constitution to eat these fearlessly, perhaps with a glass of orange. I know it will warm up Miss JMartin. Her ears, just showing out of her hair, tinged with red.
Mr. Smith and Miss Martin taking a table in this eatery. A cross section of humanity. One belching secretly over his decoy coffee. Two secretaries with side plates of buns they peruse. A waitress with black hair and large searchlights. Going round the restaurant straightening her hair, training her huge beams on the goggle eyed. The other waitress slipping out among the customers with a broom flashing among the legs. To scare up dust for hay fever and sprinkle debris on the cups of coffee. The chef roasting, slipping coins into an oversized trouser cuff.
And as George Smith stood at the counter to get his cups of coffee and plates of wieners in a roll, there was a hissing sound. Growing louder and louder in the coffee machine. Chromium steaming tank. Now starting to scream. Customers looking up. Counter boy deftly moving away as the sides of the tank were bulging. The quietest customer of all, huddled over a decoy cup of coffee was up like a flash and out the door. Two secretaries screamed and held their ears. Miss Martin ducked over. George Smith cowering. The chef trembling behind a display of doughnuts. As Smith could see the decoy coffee drinker now safely on the other side of the street, with his hands up round his eyes like binoculars to witness the thunderclap.
All tense. Waiting. Crouched. Come in here to renew. To give Miss Martin fuel for her tummy. And find a little team of barefaced shirkers. Bent upon feathering thek own nests at the expense of the absent proprietor. If you don't shut your eyes to some things, the cheating and chiseling that goes on would drive you out of your wits. Now we're to be blasted to kingdom come. And I've not made a will.
The unmerry group frozen at positions of hopeful safety. Beep. A tiny pop from the coffee machine, a whistle and wheeze. A final whimpering into silence* The all clear. Customers slowly stand again. Smile. Old friends now. The decoy coffee drinker returning from across the street. He takes a look through the glass in at the now silent cylinder. Pushes open the door. Nods to these embattled wiener patrons. Sits down on a stool and emits a nervous laugh. Ha ha. Girl with mountains gives the peaks a twitch. Whoosh. An avalanche. Endangering anyone making the way up the slopes.
Miss Martin finishing her wiener licks her lips. Wipes away a little crumb of meat. Her nose red round the nostrils. And shiny just at its tip with a flat spot like streamlining. Tiny ship sails round her mind. Stopping at ports where perhaps I am some naughty foreigner. And just four days ago I was passing outside a great department store. Suddenly stopped. Recognised a face on all the manikins in the battery of windows. Wearing spring evening gowns, swim suits and negligees. Miss Tomson. Figure and face. Same slight puzzled look around the eyes, same blue, same blond and careless flinging out of limbs. Find her standing there. All night in plaster looked at by the empty street. And Miss Martin here is not a Miss Tomson nor a Shirl. And were one to enter a kiss in her ear. Make her thrash legs in the air, cause mayhem. Pant as Shirl did on the carpet, the neighbors hearing her out in thek gardens, while tending cabbage. Or thek own ears. Of corn.
George Smith and Miss Martin walked back towards Owl Street. Passing in front of the great grey darkness of the custom house. The little round park of green in the middle of the road. Miss Martin feeling better for her wieners and coffee. Smith silent and protective. No boyfriend to take her out at night. Said she curled up with a magazine while her mother cooked the supper.
Turning the corner of Owl Street, Smith stopped and bought a bag of roasted peanuts. Threw one high in the air, caught it neatly in the mouth. Miss Martin chuckling, wide eyed, stopping in the noisy thick traffic of the street. Sad the world made such a din. One whole afternoon sitting in Dynamo House, hot water bottles hanging over each ear. Go to the mausoleum while still alive and live in it. Withstanding the regulations that say you must be dead. A pity. Be quiet there, on the marble, satin pillow under head. And through the tall iron fence round the cemetery, Shirl would point, level the finger, hire attorneys, fat necked to recite off laws and say I can't do what I'm doing.
"Miss Martin, I like your eyes."
Smith viewing the way ahead. Then stealing a glance at Miss Martin who was all eyes cast down. Whispering in Smith's heart were little words, nearer my God to thee, and please, never force me to wear shoes of grasshopper skin. For leaping high out of all the terrible traps set everywhere these days.
The lights on in the blocks of windows. Tune of afternoon sadness. Sky all threatening and dark. Wind picking up the torn newspaper in the gutter. Outside these merchant banks, houses of exchange. Sugar, cotton and fish. And approaching the wide steps of Dynamo House set back from the street and overshadowed by two tall buildings on either side. Miss Martin and George Smith slowly climbed the steps.
Half way up. Great blobs of rain fall Rumble of thunder. Lightning streaking blue on the buildings. Miss Martin stopped and caught George Smith by the arm. Two figures stepping from behind a pillar in front of Dynamo House. Smith raising an arm across his face. Blinding camera flash bulbs. Smith and Miss Martin running into the entrance. Across the lobby and to the stairs. Pounding feet behind them. And more flashes of cameras. And shouts.
"That's him."
Smith had Miss Martin's hand. Speeding up one two three flights. Making one abrupt detour on the fourth. Where Smith pulled open a door just off the landing.
"Into this mop closet, Miss Martin, fast."
"God."
"That's it."
"Will we fit, Mr. Smith."
"Got to."
"But they'll find us."
"No they won't. I've got the key. Lock us in."
"God."
"Miss Martin I'm not making you too uncomfortable. My foot's in this pail. Quiet now. I hear them."
Feet outside the mop closet. Two of them stopping to tug on the door. Locked. Moving onward. Silence. Heavy breathing. Had they put an ear to the key hole.