Authors: J. P. Donleavy
Smith taking one last bewildered look. Feel thin, cold and banshee out this long hall. Eyes deceived. Too many months of irregular correspondence. Tripping into walls. Down open sewers. Last only a few seconds with the rats. Should never have come. Could be near Miss Tomson instead of lurking coatless in a latrine. With youth replaced with cunning. Age replaced by worms. Worms replaced with birds. And they go shitting out of a tree on my white linen suit in the summertime.
At the end of the hall. Set in the grey wall a door. Just inside the entrance of the latrine. Says private. Who knows. For mops. For first feels. Like I got from Miss Martin. Open it. In memory of a foot in past pails. Turn the nice smooth round knob. It will click open if not locked. Tug. My Gawd.
Squeezed and crouched. Former master of hunt, hounds and urinary horror. Bonniface. With coat open, two hands held high above his head. Gripping the gallon basket of wine. Turning with a gasp to Smith letting in the light of the outer world. Wine cascading from the bottle aloft. Shower over his head. Unstoppered by his mouth. Pouring upon his person. Unholy red down the white underwear. Drip drop from the sable. Bonniface attempts to bark. Choking under the flow. Hair flattened, full of wine. Struggling to get the bottle down. But blocked by the long handle of a waxing machine.
Cedric Clementine. One afternoon in autumn proud. Pink upon his pale horse. Boots and saddle gleaming. Waiting for the fox to be roused. No hound shall fault in sheep. One capital day of sport through bottoms and spinney. Across frost, furze and fog. From the gravel apron of Laughington Castle. Instead of here, deluged in wine. Employed and mortified. Full grown foundling. Unpromoted and sad.
Hello
Little someone
Anywhere
Dark and cold
T
HE
dreadnaught approaching the web of cables holding the bridge across the water with great black girders and trestles. Ropes of steel all tight and cold. Smith slumped asleep, waking to see the lights ahead. Burning little brains in the buildings. Get to the grave with as many comforts as possible.
"Is there something wrong, Mr. Smith."
"I'm all right Herbert."
"Don't mind me, Mr. Smith, I just couldn't help noticing through the mirror. If you don't want to talk or anything it's all right."
"I was thinking Herbert, all the engine birds and wheels. Roll roll"
"You look tired, Mr. Smith. Maybe if you're not doing nothing, you might kinda like to come home with me and have a meal. Plenty for everybody. You know, if you're not doing anything."
"Thank you."
"Wife's always glad to see you. Says she gets a real kick out of some of your remarks. Steak and kidney, I know it's your favorite."
Smith slunk deeply in the kindly leather. World goes by so grey on these streets. Man stumbling against a wall in tatters. Grey smile, and silver hair. Newspaper wrapped around a shin. Luckier than poor old Bonnif ace drenched red in his underwear. Brought him a dozen hankies with a blue letter C from the gift counter to mop up. I offered him cash and he asked for understanding. And a long loan of the sable.
Granite pillars above the wide steps. In there they administer justice. Only takes a minute to attach the electrodes. Just pop one here on the top of the head, couple little straps around the arms and legs. Dynamo House sadly named.
"Where to, Mr. Smith."
"Left around the park. And down Golden Avenue."
"This is where the money was flying round."
"I remember."
"Human nature had an outlet that day, huh, Mr. Smith. Offer about the meal stands. No trouble."
"Thanks Herbert. Miss Tomson's holding a party later."
"O sure. You want a rain check."
"A rain check."
"Don't mind me saying, Mr. Smith, but she's some girl. And funny, a real nice person. Real nice. You know."
"Yes."
"Where you want me to stop."
"The big building, Hotel on the right. That'll be all for tonight."
"This is The Excelsior."
"Yes,"
"Sure you're all right, Mr. Smith. You know you look very very tired."
"I'm fine, Herbert. Fine. Airport was a little hectic. Mr. Clementine rather takes life lightly. I suppose I'm of the dour outlook."
"You're not dour. Hey look, what about your coat. You want the bag, paper bag. The cane,"
"Mr. Clementine was a little short on garments this evening."
"You take this, now Mr. Smith."
"No, no, Herbert. I couldn't possibly."
"I insist. I really do. I don't like the way you look at all. So you're going to take this, whether you like it or not."
"O.K. Take my stick too never know when it comes in handy."
"Might be a little big around the shoulders that's all."
"Herbert will you keep this paper bag in the trunk and lock it."
"Sure."
Smith stood on the curb. In Herbert's dark overcoat. Coming to attention with a smile and wave to Herbert taking the dreadnaught to its deathy garage. Go back then to his wife and nice little home. Full of kitchen smells, of spice and pretty woman. Ah God. Anymore of this and I'll fold up and dissolve on this pavement. Lean on the apple branch. Guess I just want someone to come out of somewhere, reach my ear. Whisper in. George. O George. You're good looking, trustworthy and kind. And mysteriously exciting. Here's my life, love. Let's waltz the rest of the road together, to get wrinkled and grey. May our distinction and flamboyance be mature.
The lobby of The Excelsior. Faint smiles upon some faces. Mr. Park at the ball room door. A wave. A grin. Like some little hometown coming. Need a haircut. Cheap quick trip into the Barber College. Get trimmed by an undergraduate. The evening bristles mowed down. Otherwise I feel terrible. Brave Bonniface of the strange strength. They drag him down by the heels. He makes a pulley arrangement on the other side to go whizzing up again. Footpoundals ablaze. Hang on by fingertips George. Hang on. Shore up. Company Sixty Two. Deploy left flank. Howitzer die fuckers. Command gone to pieces. Under six months constant shelling. And candied parsnips for chow. Must make it to the elevator as if nothing is the matter with me.
Elevator boy sizing up Smith. That's true sonny, the coat doesn't fit me. Her Majesty's door, grey gleaming gun metal. Printed right across my eyes. See a mirage. Dear Sir, we invite you to dance with joy, before we make you hobble with affliction. Yours very truly. The Hoods. Gentlemen, vouchsafe a dance to the tune of the fandango. Open up, Your Majesty. Let me fall in.
"O. Is it."
"George Smith."
"We've met. On the phone. I'm Lettia Calvin. Do please come in. Her Highness is dressing. May I get you a drink."
"I would cherish a glass of beer."
"Of course."
Miss Calvin. I cannot imagine a connection with a certain Cedric. Lady in waiting, blue lilacs in her hair. Where have all the kings gone. I would be their friend. Her Majesty is such a pleasant queen. Made a country out of this room. I'm her footpig. Reach for this beer with a trembling hand. Forty thousand people agreed to get together to whip out the carpet where I stand. My golden invitation. On the mantel. Must arrange the menu for Thistle Plot. Tureens of giblets supreme. The fried egg miraculous, little sinking suns on the sideboard. And the specialty of chopped livers for the Bonniface. The end is near, when you want it far away. Kids kick all premonitions out of one's head. And then, silence. Death rears. Who dat ahead. What dat up dere. Matilda said God was nervous. Because he's black. And so much white trash elbowing into heaven.
"George, my God."
"How do."
"You're white."
"Of course."
"But terribly white, George."
"I'm fine."
"Let me feel."
"O God."
"Don't crack George. No fever. You're going to be all right."
"I'm not. Your Majesty, the airport is too harsh for Bonniface. Employment too much. But what can I do."
"Give him a private income."
"Your Majesty let me water your plants before they die at this altitude."
"Don't you dare pee on my terrace."
Smith deeply reclining in the feather crimson softness. Her Majesty standing room center. Light glinting on her hair. Laugh lingering around her eyes. Each deft line little magic wings to make her face a wreath to lay upon my mind when I die. Slip down under the waves. Why all the ash flinging. Bonniface at his wedding. Miss Tomson at hers. Never imagine her wagging up the aisle in white. Terrible moments asleep coming back from airport, dreamt she married in black amid black lillies on the altar of the church. In a musky summertime. Her blue eyed face, her blond hair tied up. She threw the black flowers to me. In the third row. Said catch Smith, hold them for me while I'm busy dying with this guy. From this summer wedding.
Dark cloud
Came
And fell
Black snow.
"Shall we go, George. Shall I call down for a car/'
"Take you by horse cab. Where is the Baron Mum-chance."
"He's become a bartender who occasionally mixes me free drinks."
"O my God the decline."
Two strange specimens passing out the lobby of The Excelsior. Her Majesty wrapped in a python stole. Two little glittering eyes in the fur at her neck and twined round to a tail trailing from her own. An attic heirloom she felt like bringing to life again. So easy to worship her. Eyes full of all her escapes from tragedy. A heart sad, worn and splendid. Whispered to George he was incorrigible as he slipped the doorman a valueless foreign coin. An inspiration to begin a collection.
A taxi to the horse cab rank. Where the man said it's you again. Memory for faces. Snap of the whip. Away. Through the cars. Lake edged with ice. And a skating rink flooded with light. All the windows up there where they trim the toenails, lacquer the lips and look down to the terrible doings in the park. In my dream Miss Tomson asked me to the summer place of the man she married. To make music with my trembling organ. Said Smith Smith, soon soon, I'll dump this guy. Then all the black lillies I threw you at the wedding. Bring them, I'll wear them over me and take them off one by one. And I asked her meanwhile. To come to the sale of damaged hearts. Such good value. Buy me.
Clop clop. Smith's face at the window of the horse-cab. Watching the evening marauders trouncing deviate victims. A litde group there. Seven. They turn to jeer. Get a space of distance between us. Give them this gesture. Little insulting shits. Jesus Christ they're running to catch us up. Me and the Queen.
"What's the matter George."
"The kids, they're chasing us."
"George, if this is some more of your mayhem."
Smith looking out through the glass. A nimble double jointed midget ahead of the others, catching up. Whoa. One foot nearly up on the step. Incredible. Just a tiny gesture. And they're after you. Good-o driver, hit him with the whip.
Kid ducking. Horses nervously meandering. Part of the gang branching off, taking a short cut through the woods. May stop to beat up some people on the way. This little incident is growing by leaps and bounds.
Smith holding the door closed. Kid tugging to pull it open. Smith suddenly letting go. Door flying wide. George's hand snaking out closing on the kid's collar whipping him right into the carriage just as his knees were bouncing on the road.
"Sonny, one peep and you're dead."
"Don't kill me Mister."
"Get on the floor."
"Anything you say, Mister."
"The point in your back is the business end of a small blunderbuss also known as a musketoon from an early century with which you may not be acquainted but it will blow your fucking backbone out if you so much as sneeze."
"I didn't do nothing mister. I got a sister studying to be a nun and you're cursing in front of a lady."
"George, please, he's only a child."
"Shut up, while I'm in command, this kid's got to learn a lesson."
"Mister you want to do a deal."
"Shut up. I'll tell you when to talk."
Remaining horde losing ground. Four of them wearing that look of we'll get even. A traffic light red ahead. Gang getting a new impetus. Increasing their efforts. While we stand stopped Such darkness in the trees on all sides. Drag you in there to deliver the stilettos. This walking stick has come in for a lot of little uses. Throughout one's carefree cafuffles. Her Majesty ashen faced, tight lipped in an aloof huff. They're gaining, bobbing heads passing under the street lamp. Driver, onward.
Horse cabbie in a paroxysm of sweaty fear. Gang of six within ten yards. Light turns yellow. My God caution. Green, thank God, go. Five yards. We're moving. This kid's got some white eyeballs looking up from the floor.
"Kid, if you want to save your life, do as I say. Your gang is trying to cut us off. If they succeed you probably will not Eve. But there's one chance. When I give you a poke in the back with this blunderbuss like this."
"Ouch."
"You scream at the top of your lungs that unless they lay off, you get your backbone sent through the bottom of this horse buggy."
"Mister give me a chance, I promise just to do like you say."
"I say there George I will not tolerate this any longer."
"Your Majesty do you want to have your brains beaten out."
"Mere over spirited boys."
"Each with a homemade cannon. These kids could play havoc with a platoon with tactical pieces of armour."
"You exaggerate, George."
"No he doesn't lady that's right we could clean up an army outfit."
"Shut up, you."
"Mister I was only telling her."
"Save your breath. Or it may be your last."
"Mister you're talking like some kind of cowboy."
"Never mind my western experience."
"George such a mountain out of a molehill."
"Under which, Your Majesty, I have no intention to lie. Dead in this park."
"Hey mister, please don't hit me but is the lady some kind of Majesty."
"She's Her Royal Highness, Queen Evangiline."
"No kidding mister, a real Queen. Queen can I just touch you, the guys in the gang would be glad you was a Queen."
"Of course sonny. You can touch me."
"Move one finger kid and I'll kill you."
"George I've had enough. Let this poor boy out. What's he done to you. Let him touch me."
"In a minute his friends will be out blocking the road ahead of us. This driver trying to string out the distance, is taking us around the long leg of a triangle."
"You're such a cheapskate George. I saw you slip the doorman that questionable coin. You're rich."
"You'll have these kids asking for ransom"
"Hey mister what kind of people are you I never even seen people like you in the movies."
"You impertinent little pup, for the last time keep, I said—"
"Ouch mister."
"Keep your mouth shut. I knew it. There's die gang ahead on the road. Driver, you up there, pull up at die group of boys."
"I will like hell, mister you think I want my cab wrecked, what do you take me for."
"They'll panic die horses you thick idiot. I've got this kid as a hostage. Pull up."
Driver laying the lash of the whip on the horses' backsides. Two of the kids with flying leaps catching the reins and hanging on. Horses rearing, nearly plunging back in their traces. Honk of horns. Traffic swerving. George with blunderbuss pressed hard against the backbone of the kid. Hoof sparks on the road. Driver shouting regrettable language. Lashing out with his whip. Taking a more moderate look at the situation when they announce.
"We just want that guy and the member of the gang inside."
"O my God George, they mean business."
"I told you Queenie. O.K. kid, tell them what the score is. For them to stand back or else you get a blast in the backbone. Go ahead."
"Guys, he's got a gun in my back don't do nothing."