Leila

by J. P. Donleavy

  ‘Yes. Yes. That would be entirely.’

  ‘Entirely what.’

  ‘Entirely enjoyable.’

  ‘Ha, you weren’t were you, because of your slight tendency to pusillanimity, not saying it would be entirely a pain in the arse.’

  ‘No I certainly was not.’

  ‘Well then. We dine together. Provided of course it’s absolutely on me. If you don’t mind.’

  ‘Well I would rather it weren’t you know.’

  ‘Well I would rather it were. Do you mind, awfully.’

  ‘No. Indeed. If you insist.’

  ‘May I tell you something.’

  ‘Do please.’

  ‘You are a bit of a con man.’

  ‘I beg your pardon.’

  ‘You and that Rashers practically make a pair.’

  ‘Madam I really don’t feel it necessary for me to take up defence of myself against such a ridiculous aspersion.’

  ‘O come on. You’re forgetting I’ve long been a lady of the world. And you do take me too seriously. Can’t we have some fun. The pair of us.’

  Following smoked salmon, and more champagne, I had duck. Yet again. We both had duck. A l’orange. Sprouts. Baked potato. And a fairly splendid bottle of burgundy. And one was becoming aware of her quite excellent palate for wine as she ordered another half. One’s formerly achingly hungry stomach filling, my limbs glowing. And one had to admit to absolutely thoroughly enjoying oneself. So marvellous a feeling the expense was not to be branded upon one’s bill. Had a slight moment of alarm as I caught sight of the manager at the door, who instantly bowed and smiled. Clearly it was time for compliments.

  ‘I do like what you’re wearing Baptista, you do dress beautifully you know. That fabric is quite exquisite.’

  ‘Thank you. Well I suppose being the wife of a mill owner does allow one a rather large field of the very best cloth to choose from.’

  Although largish in the quarters, Baptista was surprisingly slender in the joints. And getting by the minute more quite spectacularly beautiful in her candle lit face. Seated as we were away quietly in the corner of the dining room. The blue of her eyes fading to an exquisite grey at the edges. But one could notice sprinkled about, what one was fast realising was nearly every whispering gossip in Dublin. Not to mention those from the open countryside as far away as Galway. All sneaking their glances each time Baptista laughed. Which was getting quite frequent as I stopped trying my utter damndest to be funny as hell, and then, relating an odd tale of previous childhood woe, became quite hysterically amusing. And when my hand was on the way to pour another spot of wine in her glass, she touched my metacarpal.

  ‘Darcy, no, you finish it. I’ve already had far more than my share.’

  Her hand lingered. Mine holding the basket lingered. And following the afternoon’s imbroglios, I did not think that one could again get explosively stimulated between the legs. But my old pole absolutely shot bolt upright and nearly turned the ruddy table over. And god, one really was having such a great good old time. Right up to the moment when I felt a distinct vast barrel of ice water being dumped upon one.

  ‘Of course, my husband should be here any moment now. He’s flying in. In his own airplane. His name is Harold. You know, I think the two of you would get on marvellously together.’

  ‘Do you.’

  ‘Yes. I do. You could go together to rugby matches.’

  ‘I see. Could we.’

  ‘Yes. He shoots. You could shoot together.’

  ‘I suppose too, he fishes.’

  ‘Yes. You could fish together. But you don’t at all sound enthusiastic’

  ‘As a matter of fact, actually I’m not.’

  ‘Ah. False alarm. Darling. I just wanted to see how far I could make your jaw drop.’

  ‘What do you mean.’

  ‘I mean my husband’s not coming.’

  ‘I don’t think I quite like playing this charade.’

  ‘Ah well he is in fact coming. But in a week or so. And he did play rugby you know. For quite a good team. O dear I haven’t have I ruined what a nice little evening we were having together. Two old friends aren’t we now. Well now. What do you think I should do. Now that we’ve finished off the burgundy and Brie. To entice you.’

  ‘Baptista, my dear. I do hope you will forgive me if I suggest that, should you continue what appears to be your idea of a little innocent fun at the expense of my easy excitability, that I may sock your bloody damn jaw across this table.’

  ‘O dear. Horror of horrors. Please don’t do that. Remember you are a Darcy Thormond you know. And we rather haven’t even had our brandy yet. Which let us please request is the very best in the house. And you will won’t you. Have a cigar.’

  She did with her first douche make one’s pole go down. And as equally quickly, merely by purringly lowering the octave of her voice, make my pole go up again. Just as one was recalling her stallion she hunted who once during an attempted gallop across a bog, actually tried to shaft my little mare Molly. And of course I was totally unprepared for what she did next. As I felt a nudging at my crotch under the table. From her shoeless toes. Whose incredible prehensibility actually enabled them to enfold the spheroid shape of my delighted goolies. I of course trying to focus on the arrival of the exquisitely ancient brandy, was rapidly going more than slightly out of my mind. And she, leaving all chiropody and other musculature entirely out of it, absolutely pretended as if nothing at all was happening. God one can really end up paying even when it goes on someone else’s bill. The dust of the brandy bottle could have smothered us. And now uncorked and poured in our snifters it did no help for my heart pounding all over my chest as I nearly swooned. No question, the damn girl is damn lavish. And god. If she said she could buy people. I had just put myself up for sale.

  ‘Darling.’

  ‘You are, ha ha, speaking to me Baptista.’

  ‘Yes. I like calling you darling. Better than dearie, or you old fart, isn’t it.’

  ‘Yes. I suppose.’

  ‘Well. Do you suppose that we can make, when we arise from this table, a conspicuous departure from one another.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘No, perhaps you don’t yet. I’ll go alone to the lift.’

  ‘Certainly. Do.’

  ‘I haven’t finished yet. And you. You darling have another brandy in the lounge.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘My you are uncontrollably pessimistic. Then dear, when you have finished it. Go up the stairs. To number three nineteen. Don’t knock. The door will be open.

  And I

  Trust madam

  It will be

  To enter

  Much more

  Than your

  Room

  23

  Centre lobby, Baptista and I quite formally and conspicuously put out our hands to shake. The Manager coming out of the lounge nearly made me nip behind a pillar. But again nodding benignly in my direction. And bowing to Baptista. Who did stick me for the bill for dinner. Conveniently forgetting at the opportune time it was she who invited me.

  ‘Hello there Baptista.’

  ‘O hello.’

  Dear me she does attract much attention from the gentlemen. Batting her eyes as she smiles looks of vague recognition in various directions and at those who one imagines must be the late night revelling members of Dublin’s smart set. Playing her little role so well, one was on the verge of believing her words.

  ‘Do call on us, won’t you, if you come to England. We are positively infected with snipe and Harold would so like to see you.’

  We parted. And on this, the advent of the greatest carnal conviviality one could ever conjure in one’s wildest randiest dreams, I portrayed a glacial calm. Busying myself with the porter, pretending one was interested in a tip for the next day’s races. One wasn’t listening as he reeled off a series of possible winners. But I certainly was looking and not wanting to believe my eyes. To suddenly see. Over the porter’s sho
ulder and just pushing her way in the door, to plant herself squarely in the middle of the lobby with her mutt. None other than the lady from Greystones. And one had to believe one’s ears. She had of course already called me everything under the sun, but she further loudly announced.

  ‘So there you are. I’ve finally caught up with you at last, haven’t I. The wicked shall be inflicted with their just punishment.’

  Holding her umbrella like a lance, her dog clutched under one arm, she charged. As an American lady screamed. The lance digging me straight in the solar plexus. But happily making no progress whatever through my black thornproof Manx tweed waistcoat. But nevertheless what a bloody nice how do you do. I was about to pretend to faint, which wasn’t too difficult as I was in fact fainting. But I retained enough vestige of sensibility to put hands over my stomach, as I went down. Groaning. Holding to the tip of the umbrella so that it could better appear speared deeply into me. Closed my eyes. Let a sigh of breath from my lips. To sound distinctly like my last. As the porter, quite uncharacteristically, got quite over excited.

  ‘Good god. She’s kilt him dead. And Mr Kildare is private secretary and equerry emeritus to the Earl of Ronald Ronald. Sure he’ll have a fit to hear of this in Monte Carlo.’

  I lay as dead as I possibly could. In spite of my tendency to want to get up and correct this ridiculous role one was being given by that unbelievable bastard Rashers. But at least the two porters were busy escorting the lady from Greystones out of my vicinity, and thankfully, to just the other side of the front doors. One just barely hearing her voice.

  ‘I’ve been wanting to do that to that heinous gentleman all afternoon.’

  I did play the role of murder victim so perfectly that I had to jump up from the surprisingly comfortable carpet to stop the porter telephoning an ambulance and the Guards.

  ‘I’m alright I assure you. Just winded me. I only ask you return her umbrella and please, don’t let that lady back in. Thank you so much. Goodnight.’

  Collecting my key. Jumping three at a time up the stairs. Till naturally I had to pull a ligament. And limp the rest of the way to the third floor. O god. Dare I. Now do what I’ve actually wanted to do. For years previous. And for these last hours especially. To mount upon her quarters which mounds one can pound till dawn do us part. Giddyyap dear girl. Could have used another brandy. Feel now limping in these empty halls that one is the only one left awake in this entire hotel. If I can only make it. Discreetly over this bright crimson carpet. Without being seen. Or shouted at. Or assaulted. Or collapsing in leg pain. Can you imagine. What if that maniac from Greystones ever finds out where I live. Lead an entire fife and drum band up the front drive. Placards aloft.

  REPENT THOSE WHO SIN IN CHIROPODY.

  Darcy Dancer stopping outside the shiny brass numerals on the door of number three one nine. Facing out the back of the hotel, Baptista must require a noiseless night. My private, dear me, is engorged like a crowbar that could splinter straight through this mahogany door. Don’t knock. She said. The door would be open. Turn the knob. And it is. Open. And now it’s pitch black closing it behind me. What a bloody strange smell. Horses and stables. After the marvellous fragrance of her perfume. My god she must have all her saddlery and equipage ready for being whipped back and forth across her floor. I say. Damn strange sort of snort she’s making. Must mean we get down to basics straight off. As equines do. My god she must be insatiably randy. I’m about to sample some real debauchery. Can hear Rashers say. Keep your morals up dear boy, never let your psyche sink into this Dublin abyss of iniquity, get thee Satan behind me is the catchword.

  ‘Baptista. Baptista.’

  O jesus. What is she trying to do. Making that bloody noise. But my god this is exciting. In the pitch black. And even in the slight aroma of horse piss. Just feel my way to enough free space. Get off my jacket, waistcoat, tie. And drop my trousers. To the utter relief of my explosive penis. Ah. Dat ist besser or something to that German effect as Miss von B used to say.

  Darcy Dancer feeling his way towards the bed across the soft carpet. Distant sounds of newsboys shouting Herald and Mail. Imagine this time of night. Still trying to sell a paper. Suppose it would be to a drunk, lurching his way across the forlorn midnight wastes of the city. I’m close. Whatever has happened to her marvellous perfume. I distinctly sniff snuff on the air. Or is it that her saddles need cleaning.

  ‘Baptista. Baptista. Holy heavens. This damn bloody chair. Put on the bloody light. Baptista, where are you. Is it you. I’ve fractured a foot.’

  ‘It damn well is not sir, Baptista or any damn remote resemblance. Who the devil are you sir. In my room.’

  ‘My god. I am most awfully frightfully sorry. I do believe I am in the wrong room.’

  ‘Damn bloody right you are sir. And I’ll appreciate your getting the damn hell out.’

  ‘Yes indeed. I do beg your pardon. I’m just trying to find my way. My garments, I’m just looking for them.’

  ‘Garments. What exactly are you at sir.’

  ‘Don’t turn on the light please.’

  ‘I bloody well shall turn on the light and call the Manager if necessary.’

  ‘I promise you it’s not necessary.’

  ‘I’ll be the damn judge of that sir.’

  The bedside lamp throwing soft bathing rays upon Darcy Dancer, one sock in hand hanging down over a rapidly subsiding recently tumesced penis. The figure in bed bolt upright. Like a gleaming sabre. Which speaking of sabres. Plus the tasselled nightcap gold embellished with heraldic arms atop his head. As well as his fitting a ruddy monocle in his eye. It is. O my god. The highly decorated ex Indian Army cavalry Colonel, and once our former Master of Foxhounds, equally famous for shooting poachers out of his trees and then as they fell with their teeth still sunk in the apples, chasing them slashing a sabre at their disappearing backsides hysterically escaping over his high walls. And god, there is a stack of saddles and what looks like a scabbard. Got to keep my back to him or he may recognize me. Equally risky if he doesn’t. Because I may then get a sabre up the arse.

  ‘Who the hell are you sir. Turn around.’

  ‘I’m trying to put on my socks.’

  ‘I said turn around or I shall make a citizen’s arrest. And come out from behind that chair. I say sir. You’re damn naked. And don’t I know your face. Isn’t your father a member of my club.’

  ‘No. I’m sure not. I’m an orphan.’

  ‘Don’t come the hound with me sir. By jove, I know who you are, you’re that Kildare. Andromeda Park. What the bloody damn hell are you doing coming in my damn door, this hour of the night. And knocking over my damn snuff.’

  ‘I really am most awfully frightfully sorry. I’m afraid I’ve mistaken my floor.’

  ‘Number’s plain enough. Damn woke me up out of my sleep. I should have stayed tonight at the club. Are you becoming some kind of damn sodomite. If you are, do bloody well see to it you find your own bloody right room for that kind of caper.’

  ‘I am not, as a matter of fact, sir, of that persuasion but if I may say so, perhaps you shouldn’t leave your door open.’

  ‘Don’t you tell me not to leave my door open. When there was a bloody damn fire alarm the other morning. With the door stuck. Damn unreliable locks. Damn prefer a trespasser to being burned to a crisp. By the by, are you hunting Friday.’

  ‘Yes indeed in fact.’

  ‘Good show. Scent’s never perfect in this bloody weather, but we’ll have some fair sport. Now don’t bloody well barge in again will you. There’s good chap. Goodnight to you.’

  ‘Goodnight Master.’

  Darcy Dancer standing at the window of his room. The wind blowing hard. The skies clear and pinpoints of stars sparkling. As one again dismantles one’s clothes to a state of undress. And one does sometimes wonder, when certain days will ever come to an end. That bitch Baptista. It’s the last bloody damn low trick that she will ever play. The price of a bottle of cognac from the vintagetime of Char
lemagne. That alone on the bill for dinner could have bought ten calves. Stupid silly girl. My god if I ever get the chance. I’ll get even. One should beware of anyone who hunts a stallion for a start. Make abysmally bad jumpers. Absolutely dislike having their balls scratched by briars and other hedgerow sharpnesses. And she had the gall to tickle mine own goolies with her toes. Knew bloody exactly where she was sending me. At least I can creep now into my own bed. Try to sleep. Jump the women one has slept with, like sheep over a hurdle in one’s mind. Till their buttocks fade away. That’s one, that’s two. Maybe that’s the third. And one has hardly any more to count. No debauchery. And this, as well, is going to be a night without sleep. Bleary eyed to face another day of struggle. Bloody Baptista. She’s like the bite of a horse. Striking out with its teeth. As you stand at what you fatefully thought was a safe distance. One did on the way back from the Colonel, Master of Foxhounds, angrily kick, with one of my better legs, the door of some innocent Americans who were having a middle of the night chat. It really got them terrified out of bed. One simply has to take one’s rage out on someone. And it may as well be on those from a country whose culture could never be regarded as in the least refined. Porters no doubt creeping about still searching for the culprit. Thought I heard a floorboard squeak. A seagull still awake out on the roof gutter. And I know exactly the thing I should like to see. Right at this moment. Her whole big fat behind. Enclosed firmly by my ancient man trap, too long hidden down in its old cellar cupboard. God. Just to see that superior smile wiped off her face with those massive spiked clutches clamped on her big bloody arse. Another squeak. Christ the porters may have tracked my footprints on the carpet. My god am I imagining it, or is there female laughing right outside this door. O god. Could it ever be. Yet again. The ruddy lady. From bloody ruddy Greystones. Go away. Hasn’t enough already happened to me on this day. Is that my name. Whispered. Damn it. My god there is someone out there. Giggling.

  ‘I say. Who is that.’

  ‘It’s me. Baptista. Open up please.’

  ‘No. Leave me bloody well alone, will you.’