Authors: J. P. Donleavy
"Smithy will you ever put on diapers and baby's bonnet and go through the street blasting a trombone."
"Most certainly not."
"I like that. Say it again."
"Most certainly not."
"Come on stay for breakfast. Watch the sun come up. Right up over there it comes, red as anything."
Tomson leaning back against her bedroom wall, raises her slipper, scratches the back of her leg. Voice out there among her friends, says where's Sally. And toot toot down there on the river. Her back is shivering. Trembling. After our litde nuzzling. All without warning. She breaks in two. Precious. This flesh. One drop. A tear. Falls on my own black slipper, neatly between the bow. And what she is. As I held her head in darkness between my hands. Put my fingers around her throat. She didn't take them away. As Shirl always gently did. But left them there for me to kill her if I liked. To trust. Calms the nerves. Her death under my hands, a strange beauty.
"Smithy Til never get up the aisle. I know it."
"You will."
"I should have seen you in all those missing weeks. I wondered how you were holding out against the dear Sir, do not be a zurd. P.S. You know the letter we mean for Z. Smithy. I want to hand you one of my kidneys."
"You're tremendously nice."
"I'm sorry, behaving like this. You think, travel light and you'll get far. Should have given me over to you as a bargain, without labels or locks in some kind of phony closing down sale. Like I was a temperamental bankrupt."
"I'd say thank you very much."
"My hand's reaching right in for it. Guess a girl should say, I've never done this before."
"Shades are up."
"Sort of sad no one can look in my window, except from an airplane. They keep building the buildings. Higher. Everyone thinks it's progress and all it is are a few friendly cockroaches infesting at the bottom, sneaking up to the top. They have to pull it all down to get rid of them. If I threw my life away on you. Sort of wasted it. Would you appreciate it. Don't laugh at me. I'm not kidding."
"Here, my noseblower. It's clean."
"I can use my sheet,"
"Use this, please, I'll cherish it."
"Smithy, would you do one thing for me."
"Sure."
"I know it doesn't sound sane."
"Tell me."
"Send me one of your dirty shirts."
"Sally."
"I mean it."
"What for."
"Please. Do it."
"All right."
"I'll wash and iron it."
"MissT."
"Would you do that. Really. For me."
"Yesh, I will. Sally."
"Thanks. But please don't kid me. Smithy."
Against the window panes, a wind. Cigarette smoke turned blue. Leavetaking. Swish of silk. Last tinkle of glass. Little laughters. I'll see you. At the races. In the tops of other high towers.
George Smith, dark strange shoulders in Herbert's coat. Children open their eyes in the dark. Little souls. Teddy bears and puppets. All their own. What you do for love. Take her hands put them on my shirt, shaking it in the suds. Iron it smooth. Send me out into the world. Fresh and neat. With just a wave. To her saying goodbye over the heads. Old fashioned Sally. Another ship. Toot. On the river. Bewildered by betrayals. Frozen your blue blue eyes. Each five little pressures of your hand. Blood pink nails. Kissed you, smack. On each cheek of your ass. Easily pleased you say by beautiful things. And saidyesh to you.
That my
Bitter root
Were a big horn
For you to
Blow
The tunes
Of the wide world
Were there
Such melody
For bitter root
Or horn.
A
FTERNOON
city covered with dark western clouds. Light dry snow flakes falling. Street lamps light up. Smith stepping out from the dreadnaught under the green canopy of Merry Mansions. Which in a wind a week ago, floated right away up into the sky and landed, a big green grasshopper in a roof garden. Now anchored safely from jumping once more.
Herbert waving out the window as the dreadnaught glided away. Two days ago, the warning from Mr. Browning. Completion day delayed by the hurricane. Revised invitations sent out for the last Thursday of November. Her Majesty declined to attend. Said the night of Miss Tomson's party, my nerve knew no bounds.
Look down at this blue carpet up these steps. Times numbered that I will walk into Flat Fourteen. I hear a hymn. Matilda. Right through the steel door. Singing. Strange how we've stuck together. In her heart cooks all the grief and sporty hysterical games, in one big pot.
A key in this door. Whirring little gyroscope, steady as it opens. Matilda's bare foot prints across the film of dust on the hardwood floor. Table with my wax dog wood flower. Stack of letters under a free sample can of baked beans.
Flick on the light. Evening coming, afternoon going. Out the window, the snow thickens. Sent two shirts to Miss T. One pink, one light blue. Goldminers upstairs left three weeks ago on a long cruise. I asked if I could visit their altar for a little prayer I wanted to say. They looked at me. As if I had made an exposure. Said it was blessed and sacred. I put up my nose as high as I could. Two wretched hypocrites. And on the way to the pier I watched as Hugo helped them into their car. They were crying like babies.
"Mr. Smith. What are you doing here."
"I live here, Matilda."
"O sure. But I thought you was at the world championship rodeo."
"No."
"O Mr. Smith, what are they doing to you. Let me get you a whiskey. Never you mind, those guys will come to a smelly standstill."
"Have a whiskey with me, Matilda."
"Thanks, I was going to do that."
Matilda in her green silk. Slit up the side. Her big bosoms. Two vast dark waterfalls. Stand under an umbrella. And still get soaking wet. Glasses look clean. Two soda bottles.
"Thanks Matilda."
"Mr. Smith I've been looking all over and don't blame me. I swear I didn't burn them."
"What."
"Two shirts. I swear they were right on the top of the hamper. I know because it's the tabernacle colors. Pink and blue."
"They may be at Dynamo."
"But they were dirty."
"Only a couple of shirts Matilda, forget it."
"Say that when the next pair of socks are missing."
"Matilda, sit down. I want to talk about something."
"Who dat white sinner dere, want to talk."
"This isn't a joke, Matilda. I'm deadly serious."
"Mr. Smith, you want to tell me I'm fired."
"No."
"What else is deadly serious."
"I may be going away."
"Beating it."
"No. Just going away."
"So you have no need for my further services."
"I'd like you to stay in my employ."
"That what you call this."
"Shit. Matilda."
"What you said, Mr, Smith."
"I just want you to come, at the same salary, dust and clean. Put the mail in the safe. Just stop the place from rotting away."
"Think I need a little sting more in this glass, Mr. Smith."
"I'll have a sting more in my glass too if I may."
Snow drifting on the window sill. Light across the street. Where has the grey headed father gone, holding head in hands. Over his eight curly headed mistakes. Another Christmas coming. Last week strolling by the river I stepped in and stood in the waiting room of the hospital. Gazing down the long halls. Guards toting guns. Wooden benches. Beds and carts. The dirty sheets piled on the dead.
"I'll do that, Mr. Smith, dust and clean."
"Thanks Matilda."
"Mr. Smith, something bothering you. Staring out that window like you got no friends."
"I'm all right."
"A cultured gentleman, a Mr. Clementine, phoned yesterday. He said you were expected as guest of honor at the Funeral Director's Exhibition. Said you weren't at Dynamo. I told him to try The Game Club."
"I was there."
"He phoned back said you wasn't."
"I was. In the library."
"Reading the papers."
"Yes."
"Society columns."
"Yes, as a matter of fact."
"It's that Miss Tomson. Getting married."
Smith turning to the window. Kitchen lights on across the street. Watched that little girl sitting at the table get bigger and bigger. Her boyfriend waits for her on the stoop, smoking a cigarette nervously looking up and down the street. Perhaps she dreams of growing up. A Dizzy Darling. Gay, wild, willing. Up on her high terrace just around the corner, could spit or pee right down on the roof of Merry.
"And Mr. Smith, it's bad. That you should be carrying that gun again."
"Matilda, find my sandals. My foot's hurting in my shoe. Herbert will be back here, in half an hour to pick me up."
"When does my service here abruptly discontinue, Mr. Smith, sir."
"Cut it out Matilda."
"Scared I'll have parties, drink the wine, smoke the cigars,."
"No."
"Why don't you admit it."
"All right."
"You admit it."
"Four cases of whiskey. Have vanished."
"Two."
"You admit it."
"Who dat pagan sittin dere."
"Me dat pagan sittin here."
"When the flock is thirsty the dark complexioned redeemer leads them to drink. Mr. Smith."
"I'd prefer the redeemer to lead them to his own whiskey."
"No hard feelings. What's whiskey, Mr. Smith."
"Expensive."
Matilda's glistening eyes. If the days would unravel. When my guests stand over the polished plates, tureens in Renown. Matilda in her black china silk. Bonniface in hunting pink. Her Majesty could have handed him out The Order Of The Underwear, instead of being insufferable. Send her some smoked eel. Could cross the carpet and kiss Matilda. Hold her close. The terrifying strength. Of her arms. Massive legs. Could put up some fight.
"Mr. Smith, what are you thinking."
"I was thinking of kissing you."
"Come on."
"Herbert's coming."
"We got twenty minutes."
"Not much time."
"Let's break a record."
"We better not."
"Come on. Pull the curtains."
"You were singing a hymn when I came in. Sing to me now."
Matilda in her high and in her low haunted voice. Tip toeing from octave to octave.
How
Much of her
Was muscle
How much of her
Was sad.
Which of her
Was fat
Which of her
Was glad.
Solemn darkness. Autumn leaves gone. Lie on her dark breasts. Fallen on her black steely hair. The tired evening. The city on the way home. Cold chill lurks in all the bones.
"Matilda."
"Mr. Smith. I'm hungry."
"You smell good, Matilda."
Fluttering eyelids on the neck. Crushed butterfly wings lifted from a summer flower. Mr. Smith I'm not hungry, I'm horny. Miss Martin's round white ripeness. Matilda's bulge of tan. Close up Merry Mansions to desertion and dust. Move to The Game Club. Live high up. Each afternoon after a swim and steam bath. Sit staring in my lap amid the silence, the glass book cases, the tinkling kindly chimes of the library's old clock. Chess players murmuring down the vaulted hall. Steam whispering in the radiators. And down below in the streets. The sirens and gongs. To fires and murder everywhere.
"Mr. Smith, why don't you sleep here at Merry anymore."
"Woof woof."
"Down Fido."
"Woof woof."
Smith lightheartedly lowering to all fours, crawling on the rug. Between Matilda's legs. And snapping at a few imaginary flies. Sandals flapping. Bonniface is right. So nice to bow wow. Be someone's little dog. Faithful and true to the last. With a master all of ones own. Little gable roof. Bed of straw. Little roughness on Matilda's ass. Where she sits so much. Silken smooth all the elsewhere. Me Fido. Man's best friend. Woof woof. The buzzer.
"Matilda, that's Herbert."
"Don't go."
"Got to."
"You don't got to go."
"I must, a ticklish task ahead."
"Ticklish task here. Fool around some more. You old Fido. Yummy."
"Bow wow."
"Nice Fido. Good dog."
"Call down, Matilda. Tell Herbert I'll be five minutes. I'll be back later."
"I got a tabernacle meeting, at nine."
"Where."
"Here. Where else. You wasn't expected. It's the Second Communion of the Brown Angels."
"I see. That'll be another two cases of whiskey."
"Don't be mean. Feel me. Right across here."
"Fantastic stomach muscles, Matilda. How do you keep them like that."
"By laughing. And laying."
"Tell Herbert to come back in an hour."
"You sweetie pie, Fido."
"I yam das yingle humperdink woof woof."
Matilda wagging to the foyer. Big dark feet flapping on the floor. Voice mellow and low.
"Herbie, Mr. Smith is deliberately delayed by the unavoidable, you know the circumstances unforseeable and all that commotion. An hour. And fifteen minutes. Good-bye."
"Come here you, you brown angel."
"Herbie says he don't know how far he can go in this snow if you wait. Baby baby."
"You have gorgeous eyes Matilda. And the most smooth skin."
"Hee hee, you don't have to flatter this unhandsome Matilda. What beauty I aint got is enough to go round the world."
Strewn garments. Brown steam engine, puffing away. Delighted to be pulling out of the station. Moving once more. Loaded with a heap of hustlement. Of all the Hildas and Matildas. See you in the black and white hereafter. Without lashes without eyes. Crease gone from all my trousers. Choo choo down the rails. Where you going on that train. Where you pounding on that track. Waving out the window. When the world was waving back.
"Whoohoo, Mr. Smith."
"Choo choo, Matilda."
"Say that little thing again."
"Vas."
"Like dat sumpersink das dinkity rink."
"Mean dat yingle humperdidink. Das woof. Dee bow wow."
"Nice doggie."
A lonely birthday party Matilda gave me. Once when I sat unwanted at the window. She came carrying a cake and candles. No one else remembered. Or cared, happy birthday Mr. Smith. Lights off. The evening street throwing big shadows of the furniture across the floor. No little children with upturned palms. Here daddy, a present. I paid with my money and bought for you. I kissed Matilda then. All that person warm and kind. On this train clickity clack and blind. Take this turning. Before it bends. Or ask what's your style. Dog. And wham. One day dead. At a board meeting. Slumped over a chair. To the mortuary, change of socks, clean underwear. And evening clothes to sport through the longest night of all. Dear little pussy. Big fantastic cat. Waltzing in an old smile. Ice dancing in a hat.
Like petal
Cool
Like yingle
Yule.