A Singular Man

by J. P. Donleavy

  "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 re
grettable 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."

  "Now tell them to stand back off the road."

  "Hey guys there's a real Queen in here, a real Queen, leave her alone. But get the guy it's no gun he's got but just an ordinary cane, I saw it."

  Smith with a swift motion catching the kid by the hair and raising him to the window. Encircling his neck with an arm and compressing it to a sudden strand of shoe string, mouth open, tongue out, eyes popping.

  "The first one of you to touch this carriage and I break his neck."

  Across the spidery tree tops the sound of a siren. Gang gesturing to the half strangled speechless kid. George Smith's calm hard eyes. The driver relaxing waiting for his male passenger to be dragged out and kicked to death in the short bushes. A small gurgling noise coming out of the hostage's throat. The gang wide eyed, yelling at the steamy glass window.

  "Hey mister you're killing him, he's choking can't you see."

  "Step back or I snap his head off. Back further."

  "You better let him go mister, we'll get you."

  "Driver move on. One of you takes a step after this cab and I throw him out dead."

  Gang leader holding up a staying hand. Faces peering out of the quickly passing cars to view the parkland spectacle. While running up their windows and locking their doors. A population to which you could appeal for help. If you wanted to share your money.

  Clip clop. Forging on. Smith releasing the kid's neck. Her Majesty leaning over him as he collapsed gasping in a heap. A flash of lamplight striking his face. A choir boy. For a moment. Law of averages have failed to prevent one disaster following another. Smart kid, with the right idea. Call the bluff always, because if the other guy's got the gun you won't live anyway. Her Majesty silent. Constricted in her fur. George out the window to the driver.

  "Slow down. I'm dumping this kid out."

  "Bring him to the police."

  "Slow down. Wretch."

  "Hey mister what's wrong with you bring the kid to the police."

  "I said slow down."

  "It's my cab mister, dump the kid at the precinct."

  "See this stick, you want it wrapped around your neck."

  "Look mister, don't get hot under the collar, I'm slowing down,"

  "O.K. kid, I'm kicking you out. But I'll be in this park every night rill I track you and the gang down and strangle each one of you, so enjoy life till then."

  "Mister ain't you got no mercy."

  "Just for myself sonny."

  "This is a jungle, just what I told my sister who wants to be a nun, kind of people around like you don't understand human decency."

  Smith's foot pushing. Boy leaping. Landing on a bridle path. Standing up to make a rude gesture at Smith as he waved goodbye. Clip clop. Strings of light and flashing beams across the trunks of trees. Along by a lawn and the vacant back of the museum.

  Smith paying off the horsecab. No safe way to travel. Cross this road to that coffee shop. Full of fluffy haired debutante girls. Buy Her Majesty a box of cheeroots. And get into this phone booth. Little clicks, tiny beeps. A bell.

  "Herbert rescue me."

  "Why sure, Mr. Smith. Where are you."

  "By the entrance to the Art Museum in the park. I've just had a rather unfortunate canter in a buggy through The Ramble, should be renamed."

  "I'll be right there. Maybe take me nine minutes. I'll use the siren."

  Her Majesty so white and diminutive. Chilled, wrapping her arms round herself. Bonniface cruelly said of our relationship. She was robbing the cradle as I was robbing the grave. Look up under the great portico of the museum. Pigeons huddling in there, cooing in the shadows. One couldn't help finding the little rough neck charming. And ideal business partner.

  "George, can't we wait in the coffee shop instead of the cold."

  "Evangiline. Your pomp and my circumstance, why don't we live together far from mayhem, up there in the contemporary sky."

  "Are you proposing."

  "Yes. Bonniface best man. Baron Mumchance usher.

  The Excelsior a refuge."

  "I'll tell you later."

  "Yes Ma'am."

  Siren up the avenue. Approaching. Smith smiling. Gives one the inner sense of running everything. Boss. Big wheel. Sitting back in safety. Glad to see you Herbert. With the vehicle. Seems only a minute ago I stood in front of Miss Martin's one man firing squad. Sure enough she shot me. My Prep School diploma reframed. Everything coming together. Old friends. Reception at Renown. Will bring a new letter from ShirPs lawyer. Tie him in one more legal knot. Help Her Majesty into the car. She's gone all silent. Maybe Mr. Park has tried something funny. Off duty.

  "Stop at Merry Mansions, Herbert. I've got to change."

  "Siren, Mr. Smith."

  "Please."

  Dreadnaught singing out its wailing tune. Pedestrians turn heads. Cars stop. Guilt spreads everywhere. Had I run Bonnif ace to the airport with it blaring he would have refused forever to leave that hilarious safety.

  "George."

  "Your Majesty, you think I'm overdoing it."

  "You're a dreamer."

  "You forgive me for peeing off your terrace."

  Crosstown streets. Between darkened stone houses, brown, grey, the tops lit like skulls. Dreadnaught's tiny green light glowing on the black roof above the windscreen. Stands at the moment for go. And disturbing the peace. Police always salute. Think I'm the chief. Chief thinks I'm the commissioner. Commissioner thinks I'm the mayor. Mayor thinks I'm the governor. That's how God was made. Head of heaven.

  "George, will you have a butterscotch. Will Herbert."

  "Thanks ma'am."

  "Herbert, butterscotch."

  "No thanks, Mr. Smith."

  We are so pleasant sucking the sweet. Twice escaped near certain death. Miss Tomson. That's why must ask you. A little message. Can't we lie quietly in each other's arms. My pole against your arse. Whispering against the back of your ear. No. Not The Goose Goes Inn. Or. Like to get you right there. No. Just Miss Tomson, Sally. Together. What can be more than that. Until I die. For if a whisper means anything. If it means you'll hear it. Believe it. Be like my first little girl friend when they twisted her arm. Made her tiny note drop to the floor. Followed by her tears. When they made fun of her. And I loved her ever since.

  Guess now

  Comes

  All winter sky

  Purple pink and sad

  Crossed

  By tree twigs

  Waving mad.

  23

  "GEE Smithy, glad you came. Take your coat."

  "Nearly didn't get. Got attacked by kids in the park."

  "You're kidding."

  "Sally Tomson. Evangiline Voninnocent."

  "Hi."

  "How do you do."

  "Evangiline will vouch."

  "That's O.K. Smithy, I believe, little kids are always trying to beat you up."

  "Alas."

  "Now come meet everybody. My fiance. There he is. Gee I'm glad you came. I was just thinking the second before the door slid open, where's the missing link. And you look so smart. You rent that."

  "Sally, not so loud."

  "Claude here he is. The one and only. I'll miss out the first eight initials. Claude H D N. And it's Van in, gee."

  "Voninnocent, Sally. Evangiline."

  "Gee, see. Well I know you're George Smith. Sorry Evangiline."

  "Not at all."

  "How do you do."

  "Hello."

  "Glad you could come Mr. Smith. Sally talks about you. Quite a lot."

  "Gee this is tense, isn't it. Let's break up. Claud
e you take Evangiline and introduce her. I'll take this cookee."

  "Sally you're drinking."

  "Smithy, I am not. Hey I am. Here, you too, best bubbling wine. How do you like it. The place."

  "Little breathtaking."

  "It's something isn't it."

  "Where does the staircase go."

  "Up. Two more crazy floors on top of this. And there's one room you're going to like. I always think of you when I'm in it. Don't get any ideas I'm not paying my way. I mean at least part. This is my place. I want you to like it, I really mean it. Come on. Take a drink. You don't want to meet people."

  "O.K."

  "Isn't this nice, this staircase. Goes round. All the way up. I drop golf balls from the top. Like a crazy roulette. See which one of the stairs it bounces back up on. O Smithy."

  "Sally."

  "Smithy."

  "Gee let's run up the stairs. Hold my hand. Bedroom's this floor. Another little library. And a crapper there too. What I always wanted. Books and a crapper side by side. Isn't that a crazy little table. There. I polish it every day. Put the fresh dog flower there. Still got yours. Pressed it in a book, how to succeed in business or something like that, so it would sort of help you along. Now. In here. How do you like it."

  "Miss Tomson."

  "Isn't it something."

  "An altar."

  "Yesh."

  "I don't know quite what to say, Miss Tomson."

  "I play organ music. Burn insense. And I sit in there. Have die delicatessen bring me around smoked salmon, potato salad, olives and maybe ham. On rye bread."

  Smith standing in the gloam. On the last step down into this high ceilinged room. An altar set with tabernacle. Candles flickering. Reflecting on Smith's shimmering lapels. Miss Tomson's dress floating out from her hips and narrow waist. An emerald set in silver above her milky white breasts. Her long slightly helpless arms.