Authors: J. P. Donleavy
Smith phone in hand. Miss Martin, her hunched quivering shoulders in the doorway. High on the wall behind her a shattered glass and hole in Smith's prep school diploma. Standing in her stockinged feet. Looking down on her wet twisted handkerchief stretched between her hands.
"I'm sorry, Miss Martin."
"O no no. Let me go. Please let me go. I'll have my baby. I won't bother you. I swear."
"I'm sorry. Miss Martin."
"O Mr. Smith, please forget everything I said. I'll be a good girl. I'll die in prison. My baby. I'm just a working girl. Please. Please. I'll put on my shoes now. Where are they. There. And I'll go out the door and you'll never see me again."
She has nice little feet. All parts of her put together won't flash in beauty. But each is shaped with grace. So sweet cruelty. Love every one of her sad crying words. Fighting for the baby I gave her. Hello spider.
"All right, Miss Martin. Go back to the couch. I still must make a phone call but it's not to the police. Shut the door."
Soon one is driven to take the blood blot test. It reads a red hand ready to grab at the coat collar. Remember some whispers from Her Majesty. Why don't you get out while you're ahead. But suddenly I'm not ahead. She said Cedric Clementine had invited her to the airport. Where he treated her like a queen. Rushing back and forth in his dark suit, keeping Mr. Mystery in a little tent with water, gruel and a sign do not disturb. Ah, a voice, clear and heartless.
"Excelsior, may I help you."
"Yes. Suite eighteen B. Please."
"Thank you sir."
"Hello."
"Your Majesty, did I leave the bag of toadstools at your digs last night."
"This is not Her Majesty."
"Is this suite eighteen B."
"Her Majesty's secretary speaking. Who is this please."
"Get Her Majesty."
"Who may I say is speaking."
"You may say I am speaking."
"What name shall I give."
"I just don't feel like saying my name this morning. Please, do you mind. Her Majesty. Please."
"I'm sorry, but I must have a name."
"Are you trying to make life unbelievably painful. What's your name."
"I don't see how that matters."
"Is it Hilda."
"No."
"Olga."
"I'm afraid I shall have to hang up on you."
"I'll kill you."
"I beg your pardon."
"I'm sorry. I have a terrible hangover. But I just cannot bear to have to say my name this morning. I've just been through a rather distressing fifteen minutes here. Not that this could possibly matter to you, however there's something rather important that I must ask Her Majesty."
"About a bag of toadstools."
"Yes. Collector's items. Botanical rarities."
"I see."
"I may have left them there. You do have a kindly voice. Now if you would just ask Her Majesty about these foolish fungi for me."
"Very well."
"Wait. I know it's rather reversing the situation somewhat but I would like to know your name."
"Lettia."
"Strange. I knew it ended in a."
"Ha ha."
"Ha ha. Lettia."
If only I hadn't made such an entrance that night. I might use Her Majesty's as a retreat to hide. Vague memories. In suite eighteen B. Vouchsafe decorum devoid. Was a Bonniface motto. I feel close to life again. After nearly being out of it. And in the round darkness of last night. I remember getting up to wee wee. A decanter of brandy gripped in the fist. Walking out through an open door to a roof garden. Wisteria. A little wooden door, balcony with vines shrubberies and trees. Must have disgraced myself. A sundial and paved red brick chevrons. Remember sitting on a cold stone bench staring at them, thinking I once had a suit, put together just like the floor. Please. I did not pee off the balcony eighteen floors down into the street. Laughing as the wind turned it to spray. Feeling I was doing a favour for window boxes everywhere.
"George Smith."
"Your Majesty."
"I have several rather unfortunate things to convey to you, my dear boy. Which cannot be said on a telephone."
"Your Majesty, I was terribly drunk last night."
"Obviously."
"Still am. But is my bag of toadstools there."
"Don't you remember."
"Remember what."
"Dear boy. What a pickle."
"O God."
"Just take a peek in the papers. Even now die police are trying to control the traffic and crowds."
"This is a nightmare. I thought I dreamt it."
"No dream dear boy. I would say one thing, however, at your age you ought to have more sense. If it's your idea of fun, I find it in extremely bad taste to say the least. I will of course see you. Provided, one, you're sober and two, you ask to be shown to the water closet in future. Goodbye."
George Smith stood over Miss Martin. Touched her on the hair. And lifting up some old newspapers, covered her. She sleeps. There may not be rain today but one feels the need of an umbrella. And lip mask.
The hall empty outside 604. A shadow moving across the glass of The Institution Of Higher Graduation. Must be a candidate. First sign of life I've ever seen in that establishment. Ironic when my neighbors on this floor begin to prosper I languish.
Opening the umbrella down the hall. Passing the mop closet. Miss Martin will make a good mother. In that pail behind that door began our first feeble indelicacy. Hounded by gazeteers. Shut Her Majesty out of my heart all together if that's the way she wants it to be. Very best people use basins, parapets, balconies and alas, Bonnif ace says, when there is no bone china, there is only the open honest window left. Ask to be shown to the water closet, what crass presumption.
On the first floor landing a messenger running blindly up and nearly into George Smith gave a squeal of fear at this somnambulant slowly stepping down. Few little accessories and one easily spreads the fear of God. Presently possessed in abundance. After all the solid months I sat entrenched in Golf Street. Each morning prancing purposely out of Merry Mansions. Man of decision. Delegating authority. Striding in all weathers along the river. Nearly running when Miss Tomson worked for me. The sweaters she wore. Blue vision of blondness. The pearls. If Miss Tomson has a little one too. Be a whole bunch of babies born together. Later in some side street by the river, could all play in a garden. Start their own band.
At the kiosk Smith buying an afternoon newspaper. Tucking it under the arm. Umbrella miraculously parting the crowd ahead. Walking east, threading through the noon day rush. Further north to disappear in an entrance marked, Suppliers Of Ecclesiastical Pyrotechnic Fireworks. And emerging, a large box under his arm, umbrella blossoming black in the mid day sun. Ambling south along the river past the Watch Museum, where so often one means to visit but never finds time. And a chauffeured car flashing by nearly running Smith down, containing a face one knew but could not place. Life is spooky.
Facing the river piers, a little coffee house in which Smith sat with a cool glass of lime juice and a confection of chopped walnut flavoured with goat's milk butter and drenched in honey. Spreading out the newspaper on the little table. Looking up and down the columns. A headline.
IT RAINS DOUGH AT DAWN
While most of the city slept an eerie scene of groping bent scurrying people started what later led to a full scale riot extending from Breevort to Constola Streets along Golden Avenue which fully lived up to its name just before dawn this morning.
Witnesses to the early spectacle said that out of nowhere money began floating down in the semi-darkness and accompanied by a fresh wind, was blowing in all directions over the Avenue. At first, the bills, which were of a high denomination, were happily being collected by only a few pedestrians.
It was claimed trouble first began with the arrival of the Department of Sanitation's cleaning vehicle whose three occupants jumped to the roadway and declared that the money was technically litter, which as servants of the city they were empowered to collect. Fighting quickly broke out.
As word rapidly spread the crowd grew. Office cleaners, watchmen and night shift workers were joined by stevedores and porters from the nearby fish and produce markets. By eight o'clock, motorists were abandoning their cars in side-streets, blocking traffic and hampering police and ambulances hurrying to the district. Captain Tigerson whose mounted patrol men threaded their way in, said he hadn't seen such inhumanity between persons in his twenty seven years on the force and that the street could have been a beachhead.
One man retreating to a doorway to slip money into his shoes was pounced upon before he could lace them up. To be seen a few minutes later in his bare feet being helped to an ambulance bleeding from wounds in the head. He was treated on the spot for abrasions, four sprained toes and mild shock.
An elderly gentleman stood weeping against a cigar store window, with eyeglasses shattered, nose bleeding and coat ripped, still clutching a torn bill in his hand. He said, "Look at me, I'm a grandfather, and look what they do."
More severe injuries were sustained by a young man who received two stab wounds in the chest from a woman's umbrella. He was removed, as were the many other victims, to the Mercy Hospital two blocks away where the nuns described his condition as critical.
One of the lighter moments was related by an unidentified witness whose glass eye fell or was torn out in the hostilities. As he later searched the gutter for his hand made optic, a woman approached and handed it back to him none the worse, saying it had found its way down her cleavage in the shindy.
For nearly three more hours the bitter bedlam raged up and down Golden Avenue before mounted police finally quelled and dispersed the mob. At its peak there were estimated to be between four and five thousand people involved. Two fire companies stood by throughout ready to use fire hoses if necessary.
Police are now conducting an investigation to trace the source of the money. Because of the large sum and fresh condition, the notes were at first thought to be forged. However, Captain Tigerson said there was no question but that the money was real and was dropped, swept or thrown from a building somewhere below Breevort Street and blown north by the wind. He also said it was a crying shame to see the human teeth marks on some victims and a sad comment on people's greed that hardly a note survived intact, and the only ones to gain were the pickpockets who swarmed to the neighborhood and had a field day. Three income tax Inspectors were also in evidence in the area but refused Inspectors comment.
"Waiter."
"Yeah, mister."
"Another lime juice and one more baclawa."
Big trucks rumbling up and down the avenue. Passing shadows of public people by the half curtained window. High up over the entrances to the piers, ship's funnels poking. Bottles of soda pop and cardboard images of frolicsome girls, mouths full of teeth ready to be refreshed. Shoulders just like Sally Tomson's. As they were in my arms, so neat and smooth under her hair. Please see me in my recent romantic antic. Generously scattering a drop of my fortune on an early morning sea breeze. Should have jumped after it. Grabber at life's banquet follows a fortune to doom. As folk fleece and fisticuff in street.
"Waiter. Check."
George Smith at the counter. Reaching and digging in his pockets. Back ones, front, the waist coat. Empty wallet. I am without funds. Just two coins the person gave me at the fountain. My God. And these are not enough. When I could have bought the whole street last night.
"Look."
"Yeah, mister."
"I'm sorry, but it seems I'm a little short."
"Yeah."
"I can pay for one baclawa, and one lime juice."
"You had two baclawas, and two lime juice."
"I can only pay for one."
"Cash. Guys been coming in here all day trying to pass torn bills."
"I understand."
"Hey, Lucifer, come out here a second."
Two swarthy persons viewing Smith with his little box tucked under the arm. A couple of whispers. Lips dry under the lip mask. Umbrella flapping at his side.
"O.K. bud. We have fifteen cans of garbage back there, need to go on street."
Lucifer lifting up the flap of the counter. Smith following with umbrella, parcel, into a back steamy interior. On chopping boards, mounds of sliced onions, carrots split in four, and potatoes ready for hot fat. Don't fight it. Go with it. Till there's a chance to go elsewhere.
Through a door into an alley. Smith apostate, darkly noble, nostrils flared to the sweet reek. Lucifer jerking thumb towards a green shed. Up the dim narrow alley the light of the street. Distantly above, a square patch of sky. Under which I work for the first time. In foot-poundals. To lift with a hand. The satisfaction deep. The rewards are small. The smell overpowering. Taste brandy in the sweat dripping down my nose.
Lucifer standing watching. George Smith staring stiffly back. Driving him into the kitchen door with aloof chill distaste. Adjusting his lip mask. Kneeling to retie tightly each shoe. To look like one is making ready to work, instead of run.
Smith wafting his hanky, taking a scent of attar of roses up the nostrils. Wheeling out a barrel of banana skins. Raising a foot up. A push. Leave a little skating rink behind.
Smith spun around the corner. Briefly looking over a shoulder at the two hefty proprietors standing shirt sleeved in the street. After a struggle up a slippery alley. Sorry gentlemen, must rush to a board meeting. With my gavel, crystal pitcher of water and newly sharpened pencils. To announce a regrettable deficit. And avoid a woeful winding up.
Smith sitting heart thumping on a bench in the wide open space of the park. A little boy with a jumping toy on a string. Mother rocking a baby carriage ten feet away. To take him by the hand. Too near the strange man. True madam.
Room to look out. Across the harbor. Grey water chopped up by ferry and barge. Over there stands a little round fort I could use. After free refreshment. Lose one's self for a moment in fancy figments and land arse first in reality. Miss Martin mounting a machine gun in Dynamo, In the cabin in the woods, nature tells you go ahead put it in. Rest it there in softness. Off it went like a cannon. Didn't mean to pull the trigger. Bonniface in the morning paper, me in the afternoon. Both of us in a noose. Miss Martin please don't tell your mother.