Leila

by J. P. Donleavy

  ‘You should be put in a cage.’

  ‘Who said that. Sure behind me drum with this bit of chain now I’d undo round me waist I would remove the head off the fucker in this room who said that. That’s a threat. I am only just after lifting a publican up by the scruff down there on the Aston Quay and stuffing his grey old head in his own brown old shit bowl. No one will tell me I’m barred from a premises. And don’t any of youse use the wrong tone of voice with me.’

  ‘No Danno, I’m Buster your friend. Put away your chain, give us a beat of the drum and tell us about the holy revelation you encountered down there on the quay.’

  ‘Me friend here now in that suggestion stated a fact. Never mind the apparition in this place. Didn’t I down there on the quays a June summer evening passing a tree look up in the branches to see the Blessed Virgin herself. She said hello Danno. Instead of saying hello or praying back up to her asking for a fucking miracle on the spot, didn’t I look up her sky blue habit instead. By god by the look of youse faces listening, if I said she had no knickers on you’d dance out of your minds with rage at the blasphemy. And be next asking me to swear on a stack of bibles the height of Nelson’s Pillar, that the immaculate lady had no cunt. And that I swear. She did not have one. And she said, go Danno from this holy spot and spread the news from Inchicore to Sandymount. And now here’s a recent poem now I wrote meself.’

  Sure as

  Me name is Danno

  I’m a fucking terror

  To trust me an inch

  Is a mile of error

  While some ladies love me

  I’m still held in dread

  For the rest of the hypocritical bunch of you

  Would fucking love to see me dead

  A figure emerging from the shadows of the passage. Stepping up behind Danno with a bottle raised and swinging it downwards smashing on the back of Danno’s head.

  ‘And that’s the way you’ll be by god you disgusting insult to religion.’

  A fist flying catching Danno mid nose as he falls forward like a giant tree. His face crunching and bouncing off the side of his drum. Whisky splashing and broken glass scattering across the floor. Buster the Beastly rising slowly on his toes and turning to look down over his shoulder upon the horizontal unconscious body.

  ‘Ah me flattened friend, most prostrate. Sucked every sup your mother had to give you from her breasts. The poor woman in her consternation watching you grow from a babe in arms swinging from her apron strings, into the big violent whore you are lying there. I will give you another poem now, an epitaph commemorating you in case you are coffin stretched ready for Glasnevin cemetery where they’d have to deconsecrate the ground to lie you in it.’

  Behold

  Many times and oft

  In the course of his life

  Was he sad

  But it was nothing

  Compared to the times

  He was mad

  And absolutely nothing compared

  To the times

  He was fucking bad

  Sound of bagpipes outside. The door opening. A voice calling attention. Six tweed capped macintoshed gentlemen, their coats bulging, stepping in. Another shout of command. And the platoon taking up positions over the prostrate Danno. A hand reaching to turn over the unconscious face.

  ‘Commandant, he’s in no fit state now to be executed.’

  A seventh gentleman appearing in the doorway. Wavy curly hair above a domed forehead, taking a butt of a cigarette from his lips and crushing it on the floor.

  ‘In that case remove that fucking criminal’s body from the room and if he wakes up, keep him under close arrest.’

  The body of Danno carried disappearing into the back passage. Conversation and voices seeping back into the hushed gathering. O my god, that broad skulled curly haired visage, the very gunman whose kinky head I baptized with the leg of some piece of furniture one night in Lois’s studio as he was waving both his prick and his Polish nine millimetre Parabellum about the room. Still wearing the same mustard coloured sweater I remember so well. And he’s walking straight towards me.

  ‘And what have the tweedy likes of you got to say for yourself. Is it nothing. Well keep it that fucking way. Now the rest of you bunch of British homosexual bollocks here gathered, hear this. Ireland integral is Ireland free. And no one is to touch another bottle of stout on that table which is of this moment commandeered until my men have had their fill. Pass me a bottle of stout, put out that electricity and let’s have a candle or two.’

  ‘Don’t you dare.’

  Naked Binky shouting from the passageway. A man jumping to pull the light out of the ceiling. A flash of blue flame and in the darkness cigarettes and candles lighting up. Buster the Beastly now disappeared down the passageway, and the Mild Man in the grey suit, previously in attendance, raising up his own bottle of stout among the newly arrived.

  ‘Ah it’s grand by this candlelight to see patriots of the purification squad in action. Up the Republic lads. And will someone sing us Stephen Foster’s My Old Kentucky Home.’

  The commandant lowering his bottle from his mouth and wiping his lips, shouting above the heads.

  ‘Sing the man his song, and that’s a fucking order.’

  ‘Never mind the old kip in Kentucky, sing us, would you live on woman’s earnings.’

  ‘Who said that.’

  ‘It wasn’t me.’

  A voice yodelling. The platoon of patriots in close order drill. Corks pulled out and their bottles at the ready. As their elbows bend to the commands called out.

  ‘Bottles to the lips. Drink.’

  The squad in clockwork unison. As the foaming black beer pours down the stretched back throats. And their arms lift over their heads to throw the empty bottles whistling across the room to smash against the sackcloth draped wall. Strains of a violin coming from the dark passageway. The feet of more arrivals on the steps outside. The door opening. The Mild Man in the grey suit shouting.

  ‘Begorra it’s the socialites.’

  Binky stepping over the supine figures, as he crosses the room. An apron tented out over his erection. His wiry arms outstretched towards the newcomers.

  ‘Just so long my dears that you are not the gobshites, you are my sweetie pies welcome to my little tea party.’

  Beads of perspiration on Rashers’s brow returning to Darcy Dancer’s side. A nervous smile on his face. His fingers gently touching Darcy Dancer’s arm.

  ‘Darcy it’s so good of you to remain so silently patient. Road’s not yet quite clear back there. I fear the dangerous atmosphere down here grows even more dangerous by the second. Some awful gin and lime spivs have just come in the door whom one occasionally encounters in the gilded cage of Davy Byrne’s when one is imbibing one’s Black Velvet. And dear me, they are in the company of a chap from your neck of the woods, a Master of Foxhounds. That lady likes being fucked standing on her head, and is the wife of a top government minister. The chap in cowboy boots and hat, armed with two revolvers, with her is mad, as well as being a damn good bridge player. O dear I do apologize for having brought you here.’

  ‘Well I am about to leave.’

  ‘But dear Darcy, you mustn’t yet. I so need your reassuring company you know. I am a fragile person, really. Among such as this lot. There’s the Sober Judge, his inebriation on the bench is legendary. Just behind him, the Royal Rat, my erstwhile associate who runs our little casino. Pawned his own mother’s sick bed. While she was still in it. Imagine he was pushing her on a handcart down the road when the heavy rain woke her up. You wouldn’t believe such a hunched decrepit figure could also be the brother of Clarissa and the Black Widow. And that man with the hanky is the Mourner. Never without a tear or sob. Très lugubre, mélancolique, funèbre, to put a French word on it. Attends funerals by day. And wakes such as this, at night. A sad evening to be made even sadder. He’ll bring this entire room sobbing uncontrollably to their knees. Tiresome of course if one had more randy things on on
e’s mind. You mustn’t go.’

  ‘Rashers, I really do feel one wants to return to the Shelbourne to bed.’

  ‘But ah wait, here’s the very chap now, getting on the table with his contraption. The vacuum cleaner salesman. As to who would have use of such in Ireland one will never know. Under the suction most carpets would vaporize in dust anyway. You mustn’t miss this demonstration. Ignorant or clever man, one doesn’t know which, but I suppose in our backward way of life, having the end of a vacuum cleaner to stick one’s organ into would help relieve the nationwide celibacy. Summer time he demonstrates how it catches flies. Dear me, he’s engorged already.’

  A single candle left lighting the room. Jeering and cheering. Fist shaking and laughter. The salesman on the table entangled with his vacuum hose, tripping and landing bare arsed among the parcels of unopened bottles.

  ‘There are ladies present.’

  ‘As a decent Catholic and native born Irishman I object.’

  ‘Dear me, Darcy it would seem there are prigs present. And I sincerely hope the root of his penis is firmly connected to the rami of the os pubis and ischium. Else his organ will end up in his dust bag. Of course so many demonstrations have distorted the obtuse cone of his extremity. But by the look of that copious substance coming out of the orifice of his urethra, everything is working. I think I’ll have him deliver me a vacuum at the Shelbourne.’

  Rashers pulling the cork and handing Darcy Dancer a bottle of stout. Smiling as he puts one to his own lips. And reaching to squeeze Darcy Dancer on the arm.

  ‘Dear boy this may I know be the sort of environment you abhor. But you see. We are this moment to be joined by dear friends.’

  In the semi darkness, a commotion at the front door. Binky waving a horse whip, riding on the shoulders of another naked gentleman, plunging their way through the ever tightening throng. Shouting over the heads.

  ‘No more please allowed tonight into Binky’s royal enclosure. O but yes. We do make an exception for my most esteemed and most worshipped employer. Forgive me madam, my perch up here. And welcome too, to distinguished members of the aristocracy. Of course we all know your Lordship that you were previously a Major in the army before joining the Royal Air Force. And that you are also titled in the French peerage. So pleased to have you, and your particularly pretty lady friend.’

  Blowing a kiss to Binky, the Black Widow sweeping in. Followed by the Mental Marquis in his kilt. Someone at his side, a lady in an elegant black coat and black gloves, her black hair shadowed by a hat. And she turns her head. And the faint candle light throws a shadow across her face.

  Rashers turning to Darcy Dancer who groans and shrinks backwards, his heels banging against a crate on the floor. The preliminary insults of a fight, concerning the colour of the sky, erupting nearby.

  ‘Darcy, what’s the matter dear boy. You have haven’t you, found the present company too appalling. You’ve gone completely pale white. Even in this light. Here, sit down. On this soda water crate. I’ll only be the briefest instant nipping again into my hara kiri room. To put pawn ticket and cufflinks into your possession. And take you away. I promise. I absolutely promise.’

  Rashers pushing through the shrieking laughter, tears and growls. His intrepid head, beyond the smoke, disappearing into the dark passage. And across this room. It is. I know. Standing by the Marquis’ shoulder. Beneath the wide brimmed hat, that satin skinned exquisite face. Luscious lips crimson soft. Your purple ribbon. The flash of your eyes. Which have already seen so much woe of the world. With their green that looks so black. So full of mellow sympathy. He dare. Bring your gentle demeanour, your silent presence here. The neck of your coat open, a jewel sparkling at your throat. I crouch. I cower. Hide away from you. Tremble and shake. Heart crushed and damned. Utterly betrayed. As Mr Arland must have felt. When he thought his preciously beloved. Was severed from him by another man. Are you now Leila to be from me. After all the months you seemed so safely waiting in my mind. While I did nothing. To reach and touch you. Before any other should say. Be mine. How late is it now. To plead and pray. Please leave open all the little gates. That lead to the garden of your heart. That once I heard you say. Out of all your sins. And with all your soul.

  Would

  Never

  Close

  19

  Darcy Dancer, through the jostling and stumbling drunken figures, making his way away in the semi darkness. Water dripping in the cold damp smell of this long corridor. Past these vaulted caverns. And shadows. Go by this sallow sad faced blond gentleman. A violin held to his face, bow delicately drawn across the strings as he plays. Hair like the Count’s, nearly to his shoulders. Sorrow instead of lust in his eyes. A naval greatcoat like Mr Arland’s across his shoulders. A long Trinity College scarf wrapped again and again around his neck. One shivers at his sound. Even in one’s despair. He does so play so beautifully. To a man in tears listening. In pyjamas and slippers. Blood trickling from a cut on his brow.

  A hand reaching out to grab Darcy Dancer by the arm. A figure in an arched doorway, drinking a bottle of stout. Pulling him into a dank cellar. Piles of strewn bottles. Broken crates. A mouldering mattress on the floor.

  ‘If you’ve nothing better to do comrade, come now have a closer look in here. At the sight of that. There’s concupiscence for you.’

  Beyond this man inside this dungeon interior. Two naked men. One bent over, his hand grasping a sheaf of bank notes, and propped against the wall. While another stands only in spectacles. Buggering him. Darcy Dancer pulling his arm away. The man pulling him back.

  ‘Now what’s your hurry. Passing up this bit of anthropology. Look at them. No mind given to the cold. Nor was a kindness ever given by that mean fucking eegit, who’s humping. Fist full of pound notes. From profits out of his electrical appliance shop. Putting his horn up that bollocks naked apprentice seaman there charging him a pound a thrust paid prior to execution. And behold the sweaty face on him to get his money’s worth. Up the Republic comrade. And if it wasn’t so funny it would be the most diabolical piece of revolting uncircumcised heathenish commercialism I’ve ever had the displeasure of seeing. But jesus now I’d grease up me own arse and give up socialism for good, if someone were pushing pounds like that into me fist.’

  Darcy Dancer retreating further along the corridor. To stop. Listen. Hear back there in that crowded room. A balalaika playing. Hands clapping. Must now be the Count MacBuzuranti has arrived. Bursting into this subterranean nightmare with a Russian dance. How does one escape. Neither forward nor back. Peeking past more archways leading into other caves, tunnels and cellars. More supine entangled groaning and heaving bodies on more mattresses. Or am I merely standing dizzily turning in a desperate circle. To find my way out of here. Mouth dry. Throat tasting of vomit. A crash. A sound of a struggle. A shout. Of help. Rashers’ voice. This door ajar to this room behind me. Which has a window. Which I’m sure does not open out on heaven. But to the red bleak darkness of hell. My god, two on top of him. In violence instead of lust. A third trying to prise open his fingers. As they hold him down. Pinned over a bed. Knocking over the candle. Which is putting a pile of newspapers alight. To bring us all more bright cheery news.

  ‘Darcy, the buggers, by god. The buggers.’

  One large flame illumined silhouette spinning round turning to confront Darcy Dancer. Pausing to look for a wieldy weapon. And none to hand, his head lowering to charge. To butt me like a bull. Hands reach up to grab. To drag me down. As I let fly with every ounce of one’s might behind a fist, arching up from my bent knee in an upper cut. Connecting to the side of his face.

  ‘Cream the buggers, Darcy.’

  Like an apple squashed on granite. The man’s head rising up. Blood bursting from a great gash across his cheek under his eye. His feet leaving the floor. Upwards he goes over a crate. Falling crashing to the other side. Growls and curses. A struggling shout from Rashers unpinioning himself from the bed.

  ‘Marvellous Darcy. We’ll
soon put paid to you damn thieves.’

  Rashers’s feet kicking out throwing the second man flying backwards across the room. Crackling sound of breaking gramophone records. Just as one now suddenly remembers. In the middle of all this. So clear and distinct. That my god I had an appointment. That one has so rudely forgotten. To meet Miss von B. For social intercourse.

  ‘Darcy, the damn bugger has crashed into my McCormack records. Kill him.’

  Man’s hands grabbing at the Hessian drape to pull himself up. Fittings tearing out of the plaster. The fabric falling, covering his head. Rashers landing a kick between the third man’s legs. Doubling him up in a squeal of agony to the floor. As he rolls back and forth clutching his goolies. The smoke billowing over the room. The man holding his split face together at the door, blood pouring out between his fingers. His two associates crawling towards him gasping. And shouting out into the hall.

  ‘Hit us with axes, the fuckers. Slashed him with an axe down the face.’

  Rashers, his tailcoat torn and tie tightened into a tiny knot. Throws a blanket over the flames. Stamping out the burning newspaper. And turning to loose from a clenched fist, cufflinks and pawn ticket into Darcy Dancer’s hand.