Authors: J. P. Donleavy
Bonniface's little key opening his letter box. Bringing forth a white square expensive envelope. Smith spies familiar handwriting. Bonniface nervously ripping it open. White jodhpur legs showing from beneath the black coat, and pair of grey socks nearly meeting the lower band of underwear.
Bonniface smiles over a purple bordered white card. Holding it to the light. Reflecting the engraved gold into Smith's sad eyes.
George Smith
requests the pleasure of
your company at the opening
of his memorial
at Thistle Plot, Buttercup Drive
The Renown Cemetery
on Thursday, 17th November
at 3:30 P.M.
Flat 14, R.S.V.P.
Merry Mansions Decorations will not
2 Eagle Street be worn.
"Smith very yeasty. Your pretensions are exceeded only by your outrageous nerve."
Together standing on the top step outside the apartment house. Where nary a moth will ever come to smash its little dust on a Bonniface window pane. Who stood a strange cold gentleman on the brick steps. In summer there were flowers and ivy grew. Smith waving an arm. Upwards four faint stars. A dry biting wind. The empty stretches of streets bubbling with lonely cars. And the odd scurrying figures disappearing in the beeswax buildings.
"Smith forgive me if I don't reply formally to your invitation. Which I should like to accept. It's the hurried times. How about a slab for me. Tomb of the unknown failure. You talk sideways Smith to present a smaller target, and hunched so the high bullets go harmlessly over. Have your horoscope cast. Know the truth of what lies ahead. Do I look properly shaved. One more weary effort getting nearly electrocuted to lop down the bristles. Hold that bottle tighdy. My God Smith, what an extraordinary machine."
Herbert backing Smith's car into the curb. Stepping out and smiling sheepishly at the two figures, strange in the surroundings, and the stiff trembling far eastern Bonniface.
"Herbert I'd like you to meet Mr. Clementine. We are taking him to the airport. As quickly as possible."
"Howdy, Mr. Clementine. Chilly night."
"How do you do. Indeed, a witch's tit."
Door closing on the two passengers. A deep throated click. Big cat of an engine. Purring. Exhaust tubes leaving white little wisps of cloud. Car rolls under barren branches. Away from this outpost. Pink brick by day. To a red light the end of the road. Along the edge of a cemetery. Up a narrow lane to merge with the fleet of cars beetling by.
Smith tucking up his parcel close under an elbow. Buildings flashing, big empty faces looking down on the traffic stream. Smith's dreadnaught threading a way through the cars ahead. Warm sweet country freshened air floating up under the legs.
"George let me telephone the airport."
Smith putting the nervous Clementine through on the line handing over the instrument. Bonniface's hand clutching it tightly, knuckles white. Eyebrows at half mast.
"Hello. Air Traffic. Fritz. Who is this. Get off this line, imbecile. Fritz, do you hear, I want Fritz. This is Gessunt, air traffic manager. Fritz. Gessunt here. Cedric Bonniface will be late. He was involved in a collision on the highway. Pile up of forty six cars. No. His was thirty eight. He's all right. Just a little shaky. Insists upon reporting for duty. He asks that his makeshift garment be overlooked. I suggest he be given a free chit for the Monarch lounge. Yes. Pity. Quite. He's utterly devoted to duty. However. Goodbye."
High wire fence. Flat lands and beyond, the wide marshes, meadows and creeks. Over railway tracks. How are you ShirL Bonniface unsmiling. Be an asset in my business. Personal all round secretary. Assistant ever ready with a ruse. Or fandango. Miss Tomson lays out her canapés this night. Big ring glittering on her finger. Amusing friends, maybe flicking mayonnaise in their eyes. Said men with big ones should wear long ties. Have her cool blond hand between my legs. Light it up like a torch to shine in any darkness ahead. Her marriage. Her party. To which I will tremble as I did to my first. When I wore a lavender suit. Went with just my innocent heart without presents or invitation. Hoping to get the jello, ice cream and pop. Instead of the two sad words I was served. Feeling aglow and different, little white lace trim around my broad collar. All washed and neatly ironed. Skinny legged down the street under the summer trees. Turn right between the green low hedges. Into the concrete back yard where they kept horses. I petted the blue furry dog on the head. Up the cement steps to knock on the screen door. Could see dimly inside across the gleaming tiles feet moving around a table murmuring with goodies. My idea was friendly. And they came to the door. Opened it, looked at me. And said go home. I waited all the way out to the street again. Tight throat holding down my lungs which pushed out my tears as I walked away. Back up the street. And home.
"Smith you nervously clutch that paper bag. You convert foolish riches in your heart and beautiful dreams in your mind, into worldly cash. Shame. Me think take pneumatic drill to get into this car without a key. Only simple pleasures left. My black liquorice toothpaste. My apartment mates think it strange. Steal some from me. And think I do not know. Yesterday I sold two pints of blood. To buy chop meat for Mr. Mystery. Smith. I took him to the park to meet other doggies of his own retirement age. Who also can barely sniff or lift a leg. But Mr. Mystery turned up his nose at friendship. Like you do Smith. Don't hold the world in distrust. It's nice out here. Provided you have padding for the ribs and protection for the groin. Good of you to take me to the airport. Talk George. Why don't you talk." the airport. Talk George. Why Smith eructing delicately.
"As you wish. Have you switched off the flow of gold to Shirl. Cruel man. Made her work. Wrapped her lawyer up in statutes till he screamed with the lethal legality. The habeas corpus haberdasher. The Otter clause. But me Smith. I don't mind. Others think you hard. But me. I have one request. Just one. I should like to wear decorations to the opening of your memorial. To offset forever the cremation ashes, my father in law threw over us at our wedding. Of a mixture from the family's bankrupts. You like that aspersion. You smile. See. We approach the lights now. Beacons wave round the sky. There. A Thunderbird goes up, full of folk flying to get there. And when they do, fly to get back. Enables more time to fit in misery at destination, than by rail or sea. Fandango. One good heap of heartbreak. Here we are."
"Herbert, stop at the entrance there."
"George give this little slip of paper to Herbert, he can refresh himself at the bar and restaurant without stint."
"I must go back, Bonniface, I have a call to make upon a friend."
"George I want you to see this port in action. Just for a few minutes. Watch me do my duty. Surely the passing of papers, scribblings, figures, dockets, stampings, trampings must be of interest to you. Go wait at the central pillar in the sky ways hall. Please. I ask you to do this. Just to have for a few random minutes, one human being close by who can see me in perspective. Smith, I'm truly sorry you are evil."
Throngs of people. Down causeways, ramps. Roar of engines. Smith in his dark suit. Spying after Bonniface Clementine, walking with Smith's black gloves, black sable coat, stick rapping the floor, blinking unseeing into the crowd, the white underwear covered shanks sticking into a pair of black shoes as they hurried him wayward and trouserless. Other eyebrows raised and faces turned as he passed. And approached the whispering clerks behind die long black counter. Two were pleasant looking women to whom he bowed. And they giggled.
Customers lined up to fly. Smith standing behind the pillar, in the center of skyway hall. Bonniface, the crustacean, back and forth, a white carnation stuck in the sable.
Smith silent. A lonely life watching from this post. Women with baskets. Trailing little children. Wild eyes in sallow faces. An odd executive in the swarm looking at his watch with confidence. Try that significant gesture, and my timepiece halts. There's a corporation president staring ahead into the next deal, chin jutting, hand ready to grip some other fish like appendage appearing at a profit. There goes Bonniface, penniless and amusing. On a mountain of cash one looks down with sad but wide open eyes. At the wailing below. Drop it down to them from the sky, promptly it lands, the eye gouging begins.
This dark journey across the flat lands to see the Bonniface. Share some of his misunderstandings. Least one does for a college friend. Like nights so many years ago. Standing under lamp posts, bottles bouncing in the dark. Find a ragged girl to lay up against some cellar wall. In a smell of rats and dead cats. Dream to be a merchant prince. Marble houses round the world. Run through the streets to Her Majesty's high brick house, shutters closed over the windows. Past stone masons chiselling by candle light with the great deal of dying. Rollick royal. Buds in the altogether. All comes to this. Bonniface scurrying by. Lower legs in underwear. Little sheaf of papers clutched in the hand. Makes a sign language to a customer under the blaring loud speaker. Promptly retreats the whole length of the counter. Stooping under at the end and into the gents. For the fifth time. Wants me to witness his kidney control in these jammed conditions. Goodness. He's back again. Some bladder.
Must get my coat back. Or appear at Miss Tomson's without outer accoutrement. Protection from her smart friend's elbows. Merry big Miss Tomson. I put it. All measured and mild. And upon it you slipped a painful ring of teeth. Feel them wherever I go. Even here, faint and foolish by this pillar. Your silken folds of wondrous little beads of caviar. A step into heaven. Hide me. Passengers swarm. Rest in there. Away from switches and wires ringing and binging. Bound to be a mistake. There goes Bonniface again. Under the flap, across the corridor. Into the gents. In view of your peeing history Bonniface, sprinkle the counter, and be done. Give air company little spray of heartbreak. While Herbert tanks up in the bar. Asks me home to eat with him and wife. Has tropical fish who rush to the surface as they hear him walk across the floor. Mrs. does my darning to save Matilda trouble putting my socks down the incinerator. To go essence of feet. Up the chimney.
A record established. Bonniface working for two whole minutes behind the counter. Pulling open a drawer. Another one, rustling in the paper. Just like Miss Martin does to show she's on the job. Whoops. There he goes again. Ah. He stops. Smiles at me. Gives my invitation a wave, as he streaks to the end of the counter. Under. Across the corridor. Into the gents. Must tell him, I go. Hither. Away from wind socks, control towers, loud speakers, and beams scanning skies. And madness on the tarmac.
Smith leaving the pillar. Threading a way through the advancing ceaseless mob. Side stepping a business tycoon standing in his tracks making an assured decision formulating future profits. Makes one homesick for Dynamo. Relive the thrill of that deportment. When they make the counter offer, smile thanks and regret one must repair to the country where it will receive constant thought till one's return to town when the price will be double, sorry gentlemen. Why you. And next week, triple.
Smith blowing nose. Frighten away nervousness. Push through the black swing door of this gents. A narrow long corridor. Neat row of piss basins at the end. No gentleman would take water from a conduit pipe. Please, a porcelain pitcher poured into a wide basin of same on the marble washstand. Joy of rinse, of towel. As Her Majesty washed, nose a symphony of flared nostril held haughtily with a delightful bone to a soft tip she often pressed upon my eager ear.
And here wash bowls, towels automatic out of machines. Do not pull twice in one minute. I beg your pardon. To such impertinence in the gents. And this square tall room where Bonniface does not seem to be standing. With his usual luminosity. By the hair oil squirter. Press. Personal pomade. Two squirts for the more particular. Prevent hair raising at the next business conference. Never to call a board meeting again. Or sadly sit in the chairman's chair. Faces of destiny flanking down the mahogany. Odd cough and sneeze. Gentlemen please don't be too scared to make a suggestion. I'm listening. Pass the water. Has no one something to say. A scribble or gesture at least. Just so Miss Martin can short hand some minutes. I want contribution from your minds. To cheer the single shareholder in his loneliness in carting all the profits away to his bereft, unloved vault, without bravos or hand clap. Gentlemen, sorry, directors' fees this year will be in the form of free tuition at the School Of Higher Graduation, for the diploma of Satisfaction On Lower Income. Bonniface has already graduated, ghosty and gone. To other confusions. Worry kills quickly in a sober crystal mind.
Smith looking at the small holes in the ventilators along the ceiling of the lavatory. Two oblong windows of a variety of glass impossible to float through. As well as bars on the outside. Over there. Nine booths. Three in use. What a pass to be viewing legs engaged in a function which clashes with my spiritual mood of the moment. No shanks of white legged underwear. In one of these he sounded the horn. Lone call back over yester year. As he sat, master, pink white and black amid the horsey calvacade. Baying chiming hounds, high fat tails wagging. Who blames him for sounding loud and clear in some distant cubicle. To call back the splendid country grass down the vale. Garlic lightly in the air. Bonniface leading the mounted contingent. Her Majesty laughing, as he got them, hounds and all, regrettably lost in gorse. All however right later that night at the randy roundup. The memorable farmyard antics at the hunt ball.
Smith standing dumbfounded in this latrine. Two gentlemen giving him the suspicious eye. A squat person winking and leaving his fly unmentionably open. Stay here and be detained maybe for attempted tinkering. Some sneaky reaching for my particulars. This is what I get when I answer a summons of a last twitching. Bonniface, the mirage at the log cabin window, rendering song on comb and paper. Been haunted enough. Saw you come in here. Wearing my warm coat. Miss Tomson will think I rented it just long enough to go with the car to meet her on the street corner. Instead of it disappearing on a spook.