A Singular Man

by J. P. Donleavy

  The road dips down, cross a bridge over the rapids of a river far below. Over another little bridge and up between dark tall shadowy pines. Light shut out from the sky. Left turn past a farm and red barns. And two little houses sitting like children's toys on a lawn. More woods. An old clapboard house, seven kids standing on the porch and two on a swing under a big tree. The road narrowing.

  "Mr. Smith, is there a hotel way out here. The road's ending. What's it called."

  "Miss Martin, ahem."

  "It's got a name."

  "No."

  "Hotel with no name. But we're at the end of the road."

  "Everything's going to be all right Miss Martin. Now don't worry about a thing. Driver, take the right turning. Through the pines. It's perfectly safe, just a little bumpy. Right, here."

  Miss Martin sitting straight up in her seat, staring ahead and left and right, thick pine needles on either side. Blanket of brown years of needles underneath, dark and snake forbidding. Over a little hill in the road.

  "Mr. Smith, no car's been down here for months it's nearly grown over. Where are we going."

  "Miss Martin. This is not exactly a hotel"

  "What is it."

  "A moment Miss Martin, little trouble ahead with these branches. Driver, just proceed - I'm responsible for any scratches on the car."

  Car squeezing between the low branches and new green leaves of maple trees. Down a little hill and ahead a clearing and the brown faint shingled roof of a log cabin. Stone chimney peeking out of the greenery. Driver turning round smiling through emerald tinted glass. In sight of shore.

  "I'm not getting out Mr. Smith."

  'We're here Miss Martin."

  "I'm not getting out."

  "Don't be silly. The driver is waiting."

  "I'm not getting out."

  "Why."

  "I'm not getting out."

  "Miss Martin, that's the northern office I've spoken about."

  "You've never said a word to me about a northern office. This is utter isolation."

  "There's a telephone in there Miss Martin. A bath room, kitchen, fireplace, fifty wave radio, which sends, receives and even dances when no one's looking."

  "Don't try to be funny."

  Smith with one hand on the handle of the door. Driver out. So discreet. Sensing the fly in the recent ointment. Don't try to be funny. Never been so distant from a laugh. Or hearing this kind of common chat. Such a big world with different kinds of personalities everywhere. A slaughter house.

  "Very well Miss Martin, suit yourself. I'll get this stuff out. And the driver will take you home. Hand me that file please. And my gloves. My stick. I'm sorry there's been this misunderstanding between us. I know this outpost seems unused to you."

  "You said a hotel Mr. Smith. I thought it was The Goose Goes Inn, you had some notepaper from there, that's what I thought. You never said anything about this place. It's all so uninhabited. I'm scared to be way out here."

  "Chauffeur's walking around enjoying it. Hear the rapids down there, the Worrisome River."

  Miss Martin primly sitting. Hands on her knees. Keep an eye on the fingers to see what they're doing. Don't let the golden moment go. Show her the long door back to town at the mercy of the chauffeur. He might look back through the green tinted glass, grinning. How would you like that Miss Martin. Here, you just retire to your little bedroom and I lie out in the big drawing room with the embers of the fire on my face. And sweet dreams. In your little beddy bo you will be comfy save for the giant spiders. Harmless creatures though huge. And when you scream running into me in your nightgown. Of course I'll save and protect you.

  "Mr. Smith what are you thinking."

  "I was thinking, Miss Martin, such a pity for you to go back to town. You do need a rest so. Few days in the fresh air. Away from the grime, dust and dirt of the city. You look tired. But I don't want to distress you. If you feel being out here will in some way make you unhappy. I wouldn't want that."

  "God."

  "What, Miss Martin."

  "My mother will kill me. She'll ask me the name of the people. Then she'll look them up in the phone book. Then she'll telephone them and ask if I maybe left my gloves there or something. Mr. Smith, I'm scared."

  "Now now."

  "I am."

  "Vouchsafe."

  "What do you mean."

  "I don't know myself Miss Martin. I'm just saying the first thing that comes into my head. What can one say."

  "I don't know I feel you're an operator."

  "I beg your pardon."

  "That there's been a whole string of girls up here, or something like that."

  "What are you saying, Miss Martin. You've seen the entrance. Overgrown. Besides I think that's a little uncalled for."

  "Don't send me back with this chauffeur."

  Miss Martin sitting. A frozen silence. Her eye lids go up. And I think I just catch her teeth pressing secretly into the lower lip. But by God I am dying to protect her. Save her from harm and loneliness. From fear of the future. That she should ever want or need. Or go without shoes. Butter or wholesome bread. Lies often have beauty.

  "Miss Martin give me your hand."

  Smith patting the sad metacarpals. Giving them back, gathered as they are in their white softness of flesh, a tender blue vein to keep them all alive. Smile. Help her out of the car. Herbert popping back from the woods to carry items to the cabin. Can't beat Herbert.

  Under the low leaves. Smith struggling with the stiff lock on the door. Finally putting shoulder to it and smashing it open. Herbert and Miss Martin amazed at this casual display of forcefulness from the slender Smith.

  All shifted. All unpacked. Herbert saluting. One smile followed with a little bow. Car roaring, then purring quietly. Disappearing out under the awning of new maple leaves, crackling tiny dead branches on the road. Sun high up. Dancing on top of the green.

  In the log cabin. On the brown mat on the entrance floor. Next to the little pantry full of dishes, and tin cans of food. Lay a white envelope. Smith putting his armful of files on the stove. Miss Martin pushing past, stepping over it. Smith picking it up with the tweezering fingers. Ripping it open. One look. Ah Jesus, it was a sad day some fuckpig picked up a twig and made a sign in the sand.

  We reiterate that

  a sufficiency

  is enough under

  this heading.

  George Smith

  The Cabin (Log)

  The Open Woods.

  Dear Sir,

  We know you are dying to know how we know you are here.

  Yours truly,

  J. J.J. (Rural)

  P.S. Just wait till the full history is told.

  "Mr. Smith, you mustn't get upset."

  "Miss Martin. Ah Jesus."

  "Come sit on the chair."

  "Get your pencil poised, Miss Martin. Got to rattle something back. Attach it to a tortoise and send it on its way. Ready."

  "Yes Mr. Smith."

  "Dear Sir and rural Junior. Your fly is open. Yours sincerely, George Smith. Urban. P.S. Is your real name Wang."

  Miss Martin pressing her pencil on the white porcelain kitchen stove. Writing with her upsidedown left hand. Looks up. A smile at the deflated Smith legs akimbo on the kitchen chair. Head lolling on chest.

  "Mr. Smith."

  "I'm all right, Miss Martin. Just assuming this attitude for a few moments. I'll rear up once again I assure you. For a minute it's just nice to sit here, slain in battle, as the heart beats its last, pluck one final arrow out of whatever they keep them in, and twang, let it loose to find its way to the heart of the enemy."

  "You speak so beautifully at times, Mr. Smith."

  Smith smiles. And stood up. Says this way Miss Martin. This way. Come, let me show you. And by the elbow, steering this left hander into the drawing room. The boulder fireplace. A big round stove. Screens on the windows. Beams across the ceiling. The monstrous radio. A bathroom, small but working. Twist the faucet and rusty water
pours forth. Black telephone in the corner. Which bounces when it rings. And I know from experience you can pick it up and talk to the most strange people all dotted on the map in the miles and miles of these woods.

  "And, Miss Martin, last but, ahem, not least. Your bedroom."

  "O Mr. Smith it's lovely."

  Smith providing one surprise after another. And the maple table for the repast. A bookcase. As Smith opens up the binding and displays the long line of distilled spirits. And wines. Not to mention some unheard of aperitifs.

  "A drink, Miss Martin."

  "I don't know."

  "Have one."

  "I really shouldn't."

  "Bust out."

  "Gee."

  "Full bodied sherry. A round madeira. Iced muscatel."

  Smith at the bottles. The long necks, the litde, the fat. Green, brown, two red and twenty deep dark green. All gently cared for through the cold winter, sealed off safely in their temperate darkness.

  "I'd like a whisky and soda, Mr. Smith."

  "Fine and we'll make a little fire."

  "I had no idea, Mr. Smith. What a place. That where you sleep there."

  "And the embers at night, Miss Martin. Glow. The firelight licks across the ceiling. Like being ushered somewhere precious to sleep."

  "I like the way you speak now, Mr. Smith. Gee, it's nice."

  Smith ladling out the whisky. Into glasses filled with ice. Armloads of logs fetched. Miss Martin opening the can of pressed ham. Corn. Peas. Pans bouncing on the red hot rings of the electric stove. Sun lowering in the sky. Shifting in under the newly born leaves. Miss Martin pausing at the front open screen door. Saw a deer. She sneezed. And it ran.

  Little flowered mats on the table. Steel eating instruments. A vase on the window sill full of wax spring flowers. Which poor Smith would never dare pick from the snake lurking shadows. But Miss Martin went out with nary a thought for the rural dangers. There were daisies. Pick them and wet the bed at night. The afternoon is dying. Sun nearly set. Leaves flutter. Smell of corn. Woodchucks out there. And hear a black snake moving over the leaves.

  Smith doing his little bit. Polishing the glass. Rinsing the dusty plates. Miss Martin opens and closes her mouth as she cooks. Raising her eyebrows. Seams of her stockings dividing each leg neatly in half. Somehow in the skidding about in deals, one never lets the mind rest enough to catch sight of the neat shape of Miss Martin's calf. Out here in the country peace. My God it looks good.

  "Miss Martin this is a nice little morsel you have dished up."

  Smith across the maple from Miss Martin. Thank God he made that tree. Her hands so delicate. A marvel. She twists a spoon so certainly. Puts out the peas steaming on this ornate clay plate. Only need now fresh butter, fresh lemon. Goodness me, there is beastly craving again. Never satisfied. Always want more.

  "Miss Martin you have excelled yourself. You really have."

  "I like cooking. Salt, Mr. Smith."

  "Ah, please. I have always fancied peas. Defenceless little green spheres somehow they don't stand a chance between the choppers. So sad."

  "You seem a different person in the country, Mr. Smith."

  "Shall we have music Miss Martin. Tune in to some wavelength."

  "That would be nice."

  "Do you fancy light, jazz or the serious kind."

  "I like serious, Mr. Smith."

  "Splendid. Fits the sadness of the peas."

  "I never knew you felt that way about peas Mr. Smith. I'd bring some to Dynamo House, could cook them on the burner,"

  Violins came out of the big radio. With some other instruments. A flute. A horn. Smith sat. Looking across the table. Smiled. Behind Miss Martin the screen front door. Two steps down to the ground, and the gathering green darkness down the steep hill to the bubbling, roaring of Worrisome River.

  "Mr. Smith. I'd like to ask you something."

  "Yes."

  "You won't mind."

  "Not at all."

  "What do you want to be. I mean not that you're not something, you know what I mean. Sounds as if I don't think you're important but I do. But is there something you would like to be."

  "A great criminal."

  "Ha ha, Mr. Smith. Really what would you like to be."

  "That's it Miss Martin."

  "But you're crooked already."

  Smith's steely asian eyes. Muscles dropping on his face. General rigidity. Bleak silence.

  "I don't mean that. Now I've ruined everything. I put words into my mouth I don't mean. You're not crooked. No. Mr. Smith I swear you're not crooked."

  "Thanks."

  "You're not,"

  "I'm glad you think that."

  "Gee. I don't know why I said it."

  "Pass me the corn Miss Martin. When one proceeds straight in life there is always an obstruction."

  "You're an honest and good person. Mr. Smith."

  "This is great corn."

  "Mr. Smith pass me the peas."

  "Certainly."

  "I didn't mean what I first said."

  "It's all right, Miss Martin."

  "Gee you're so different in the country."

  Smith ladling up the yellow kernels. Outside a breeze in the leaves. Yellow light flooding out the door. Music featuring a variety of horns. Lifts the spirit. Suddenly one can look at Miss Martin and see her in all her glory as a cook. Out here with all this good loneliness. Wafts away that feeling of the haunted hunted dog. Until the telephone rings. That black thing. Bouncing in the corner. Of this primeval forest.

  "Let it ring, Miss Martin."

  Little jangling bell. Phone tilts to the side. Bounces. Trembling to the edge of the shelf rigged to the corner of the wall. And falls on the floor. Talking handle sliding across the maple.

  "Ah Jesus."

  "Mr. Smith."

  "Shush Miss Martin. We're trapped. Put your hand over the speaker."

  Miss Martin picking up the phone. Putting the part to the ear. Frowning.

  "Mr. Smith. It's someone saying what the hell is the matter with you George."

  "Nothing is the matter with me."

  "Shall I hang up Mr. Smith."

  Smith rotating his hands. Looking across the room at Miss Martin as she stands both hands gripped over the talking instrument. Times in one's life when you think there is good news. And you listen.

  "Mr. Smith. He says he's catching the train. That he has little or no money. And is presently trying to sell his shoes to pay for the ticket. And four embroidered handkerchiefs which he sold this morning for the price of a glass of ersatz orange juice. He says he just wants to talk. And why, O dear, he just said an awful word, the hell are you behaving in this extraordinary matter. Why are you trying to hide. Is there something the matter. I must say something, Mr. Smith."

  "Tell him I've shifted further north."

  "I can't do that, Mr. Smith. He's a cultivated gentleman on the phone."

  "Do as I say."

  "I will not. He's saying, why are you listening and saying nothing. I've got to say something, Mr. Smith, he says he is in an unbelievable nightmare. That all he wants is just a few hours away from it all."

  "All right. Miss Martin. Tell him I'll meet him tomorrow morning. An eleven o'clock train comes from the coast. Tell him alight at Cinder Village."

  "Hello. Yes. Yes. Mr. Smith says he will meet you on the eleven o'clock train tomorrow morning at Cinder Village. Yes. Mr. Smith is all right. He's here. It's only that he's not available at the moment. I'm sorry you've had to sell your shoes. Yes. Certainly. God's goodly wishes to you too. Goodbye."

  "God."

  "Mr. Smith he sounds like a real gentleman."

  Smith with sad reflective eyes. Outside the bark of a fox in the wood. Miss Martin picking up the dishes. Brings them to the sink in the kitchen. Runs the water. Break her long fingernails. Peace. Dark. An evening chill. Another log on the fire. Smell the orange glow and woody fume.

  "Miss Martin, let me help with the dishes."

&n
bsp; "No Mr. Smith. Just sit and be comfortable."

  Smith reclining. Placing the wicker chair near the fire. Reaching behind the bottles. Taking a long cigar from the humidor. Lighting up. Blow a cloud of whiteness out. Flick off the electric light. Moths from everywhere. Bumping the screens. Light is hope. And everyone is after hope. And away from the sad desperation. To become grasping hearts after emoluments. Riches, trusting nothing else. Bonnif ace sold his shoes.

  Bedtime hour. In the woods. Miss Martin came shyly out of the kitchen. Paused looking over the reflective Smith puffing on his cigar. Smith rising.

  "Miss Martin, do sit"

  "It's late, Mr. Smith, isn't it. Perhaps I'd better make up the beds. Are there sheets/'

  "In the bathroom cupboard. But you shouldn't. I'll do that."

  "No Mr. Smith I'll do it. I'd like to."

  Smith took a little smoke down into the lungs. Let it pause there a few seconds. Purifies the blood. The trembletude and strain sleeping alone. Need something to hold on to. A life preserver in this big sea. Two white breasts. Miss Tomson, I thought of you yesterday. That you were stepping from one nightspot to another. In giant strides. With a group of friends.

  At George Smith's shoulder. The bent figure of Miss Martin making the bed. Tucking in the sheets tightly. Popping on the clean pillow cases. When she bends over. Calm these hairy hands. Please glow little light of hope. Everyone is trying to blow you out. Save Miss Martin. Might blow you out myself. Walking down the street smoking a cigar of dynamite.

  Smith looking over his shoulder at the backside of Miss Martin. Puffs out a cloud of smoke, descending in a ring round her bottom. Target of two globes. Wave the smoke away. Miss Martin straightening and turning around. Looks at Mr. Smith. Mr. Smith nods. Smiles.

  "Don't want to smell you up with smoke Miss Martin."

  Miss Martin standing still in the shadows. Fire light across her face. Lashes close once over her eyes. God gave her good lips. Upper resting quietly on the lower. Freckles. Friendly one on the tip of the nose. Fox bark. Little tremor of Miss Martin's.

  "Can I get you anything, Mr. Smith."

  "No thank you Miss Martin. I'll just sit by the fire here and finish my smoke."