Schultz

by J. P. Donleavy

  “Thanks for the information. It’s amazing isn’t it how these vine swinging upstarts think they own the world suddenly when they got a few snake infested steamy acres of impenetrable jungle to crow over.”

  “I think sir that you might find if you cared to investigate that there is more than just some steamy jungle to crow over.”

  “Well look at the guy, he can hardly stand up with all his medals. His wife looks like she just escaped out of some Harlem jewelry store in the middle of a riot. By the way who are you.”

  “I am the Foreign Minister of the State whose Sovereign you have just attempted to describe sir.”

  “O hey I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t hurt your feelings.”

  “Sir while I was at one of the better known schools in England situated on one of its best known rivers, I learned that one must be charitable to those who speak out of ignorance.”

  “Well Minister, if you’ll excuse the undiplomatic language, I put my fucking foot into it didn’t I.”

  “Well perhaps. But a foot at least is not your entire leg sir. And by the way Her Imperial Highness is His Imperial Highness’s sister.”

  “Well at least let me wish you entire luck with your whole nation Minister.”

  “Thank you sir.”

  Schultz crushing between his teeth several creamed mushroom and smoked salmon canapes washed down with three glasses of champagne. And watching the African political celebrities, he avoided all further loose talk. Till another fanfare and drum roll. A major domo announcing dinner. The assembled guests following King Buggyboo proceeding down the curved grand staircase. Through crystal chandelier lit reception rooms opening out on a covered terrace and down steps to a vast marquee stretched over a large garden. With even a fish pond and fountain. White tables on which candles flickered. A dance floor built over the grass. Gloved waiters behind long linen counters of heaped up victuals. And on a raised banquet dais a floodlit table gleaming with gold plate.

  “Boy these rich wog bastards don’t fool around when it comes to fucking lavish feasting. They make the British look like the stingy fuckers they really are.”

  Schultz looking the way his face looked, took up a lonely vigil at a table set amid the thicker shrubberies. Examining the silver George III candelabra decorated with Egyptian female figures, oak leaves and fan motifs. Sipping a glass of champagne. And taking up to his lips a piece of toast heaped inch deep in Beluga, that he was just about to bite.

  “Holy shit.”

  At the high table set for the King. His Imperial Highness carefully peeling and holding up a grape between his fingers. To place the skinless green ripeness between Pricilla’s opening lips. Who sat smilingly seated at the King’s right elbow which at the moment is nudged deeply into her tit.

  “Jesus I get invited and she takes the glory.”

  The clank and clang of delph and cutlery. The string orchestra at the far end of the tent playing a medley of English boating tunes. Waiters hurrying platters of chicken legs, pigeon legs, pheasant legs, turkey legs and all matter of other parts of roasted and non roasted beeves and birds not to mention lobster, smoked trout, prawns and the endless pouring out of this booming Echezeaux and Chablis grand cru.

  A dark shadow hovering near Schultz. A smiling beribboned dark complexioned gentleman bowing and touching the back of a chair.

  “Ah sir, may I.”

  “Sure.

  “I should first like sir to present the compliments of His Royal Imperial Highness King Buggybooiamcheesetoo.”

  “Sure. Who are you.”

  “I have just had the honor as recently as last week to present my letters of credence as Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary from Boohooland to the Court of St. James’s.”

  “Sit down. Great little country you have, Your Excellency.”

  “Thank you sir. His Majesty hopes you will not be offended for his having rather commandeered your most attractive lady friend this evening. He sends his apologies but she is so striking and it is the custom of our country, that the King always pays his respects to the most beautiful woman present. And he hopes you will not mind.”

  “Tell the King to help himself and make himself at home.”

  “Then you do not mind.”

  “Your Excellency. Just let me take off my sunglasses for a second. And take a look at my face. What do you see.”

  “Dear me sir.”

  “That’s right. Guess who gave me all this.”

  “I quite understand sir.”

  “Hey out of interest. Back in your country. If the King likes a girl he sees.”

  “It is the custom that he takes her sir. Which of course, being a gentleman as well as a King, he would not dream of doing.”

  “And if some guy objects you cut off his hands or something.”

  “No we cut off his ears. Cutting off so many pairs of hands would affect our economy. But I do thank you sir for being so understanding. And I will convey this to His Majesty.”

  “You do that.”

  “He will be most pleased. Although His Majesty is a warrior and soldier he prefers not to transgress upon the sensitivities of others.”

  “But Your Excellency before you go, there’s another little thing you ought to know.”

  “And what is that sir.”

  “Well it’s a rather confidential and intimate matter. And I hope I can rely on you to keep it that way.”

  “But of course you can sir, you have my word as a gentleman as well as an Ambassador.”

  “The girl has a social disease.”

  “Ah. I see. That is most extremely good of you to be so forthcoming sir. But I do not think that will matter in the least. His Majesty’s doctors take such things in their stride so to speak.”

  “Well they’re going to have real fun getting in stride with this one let me tell you.”

  The Ambassador regaining his seat. Schultz tucking into a nice dark bit of turkey and taking a sip of Echezeaux. The Ambassador’s silk cuffs each linked with a massive diamond set in an ingot of gold as he folds his black white palmed hands carefully together on the linen. His chin lifting as his eyebrows closed together over his broad shiny dark nose.

  “Do please sir, enlighten me further.”

  “Well this humdinger is called the Oriental Venereal Plague.”

  “Excuse me please sir I am not familiar with that word. What is this humdinger.”

  “It means something remarkable. Out of the ordinary. Every doctor in London is trying to cure me at this second.”

  “Sir you must tell me immediately concerning this.”

  “That’s exactly, as you might say, what I’m doing. My balls are swollen out like grapefruits.”

  “I must sir, excuse myself and get to the King at once.”

  “You do that. You wouldn’t want the King’s testicles to come plummeting off.”

  Schultz, not a man to imbibe too deeply, drank off his glass of Echezeaux in a swallow and poured another. As the Ambassador, nearly tripping on his face, pushed his way through the throngs of feasting people. Rushing now around a boxwood shrub manicured in the shape of a peacock. And bam. The Ambassador upsetting a lady’s drink on her dress. Patting her about with napkins and summoning waiters and flunkies from the royal entourage. And just managing to pay his last apologies to the lady as the master of ceremonies announced.

  “My Lords, Your Excellencies, Ladies and Gentlemen. His Royal Imperial Highness will now start the dancing, thank you.”

  Schultz watching over the rim of his wine glass. As the King of Boohooland led Pricilla by her hand held high out on to the dance floor. The assemblage breaking into applause. The orchestra playing. And the big bellied King and Pricilla gliding about fox trotting cheek to cheek in the many hued splendors of flashing light.

  “Jesus now she really thinks she’s the fucking Queen of Sheba.”

  The Ambassador standing at the edge of the now crowded dance floor undiplomatically rubbing his anxious hands together. N
o doubt contemplating that the King’s medical advisers will never find a needle big enough to penetrate deep enough into the royal fat black arse and are really going to have to go digging all over the jungle to find herbs they think are strong enough to cure their Sovereign’s humdinger dose of Oriental Venereal Plague.

  Six coal dark drummers in loincloths joining the orchestra. Faces streaked with paint, ankles jangling ivory bracelets and hands slapping their double ended tom toms. Bugles blowing. Dancers making room for the King as he erupted into a sweat flying, bug eyed, lip licking war dance hoofing in all directions. With Pricilla, hands wagging over her head, cavorting to the throb of drums, her hips pumping, legs kicking, arms writhing and head flung back and forth like her tonsils were exploding.

  “Jesus christ the two of them look like they’re going to fuck right there and now. The son of a bitch’s big black hand just grabbed her straight on the tit. She smiled. I’ll kill her. What the fuck does she thank she’s doing. Making an ass out of me all here alone like I had leprosy at this table.”

  On the sidelines, the Ambassador patting his white hanky at his ebony forehead. The King and Pricilla center floor. Surrounded at an admiring distance by the other frenzied oscillating guests. The King’s whooping mouth wide open. Medals bouncing on his chest. Fist shaking around his head. The diamond studded gold braid of a Field Marshal hanging askew off one shoulder. Any second now his fly is going to bust open. To treat us to a flash of his big black famous prick.

  “And look at that fucking bitch will you. In a hula, a shimmy, can can, belly roll and cha cha cha, all rolled into one. And doesn’t even know I’m alive. This is the fucking thanks you get for taking a person to a party.”

  The Ambassador from Boohooland still waiting for His Imperial Majesty to come in off the dance floor. A military attaché at his shoulder. The two of them in urgent conference. No doubt worrying about their own balls being chopped off and being hung in the sun to dry when His Imperial Highness’s private parts go swelling up like canteloupes and clatter off bouncing around their jungle kingdom like stale coconuts. This would be exactly the right time to slip away from this undiplomatic incident. Except no fucking two bit King is going to take a fucking girl away from me. Just throw back a big shot of this excellent cognac. And go cut in on that big black bastard. And maybe get some fucking justice and fair play and peace of mind for one night.

  Schultz setting off to the dance floor. Stepping and dodging between the couples and putting his ligament out of place once more. And just as he reached the swirling King and Pricilla with a finger poised ready to tap His Imperial Highness on the shoulder, Schultz tripped over a loose royal foot. Grabbing as he did so a balancing hold on the Field Marshal’s gold braided epaulette. Which ripped off as Schultz fell. To suddenly find himself with the aid of five uniformed members of the royal entourage being forcibly air lifted from the floor.

  “Hey get your fucking hands off me you cunts.”

  The Ambassador from Boohooland covering his face. Schultz shaking and twisting loose from the grasping enclosing arms. Regaining his feet. Swinging a looping haymaker. Catching an equerry smack on the jaw. And sending him flat on his arse. As shouts went up and the lights suddenly went out. To the deafening screams of the ladies.

  “Assassination.”

  “Save the King.”

  “Fuck the King.”

  Reinforcements called. With members of Scotland Yard’s Flying Squad on duty in the street rushing inside. And Schultz immediately overwhelmed by an army from Boohooland, was knocked unconscious dreaming. Of standing one youthful day on an apartment house stoop. With his violin. The pink setting sun flashing on windows. As all the little girls on the block collected to listen. Smiling in admiration. Adoring as they heard.

  This

  One time

  Child prodigy play

  The battle hymn

  Of the Republic

  12

  Police bells clanged around Belgravia that night. Folk who had fled in that dangerous direction, got soaked falling flat faced in the fish pond. Schultz knees cut crawling over crushed glass, slipped under a tent flap, and attempting to climb over a garden wall, was apprehended not only by a spike ripping his tuxedo in half but also by a Scotland Yard detective lurking in an alley. And frog marched back. Pricilla was staring daggers and dirks at Schultz.

  “That’s right I came with her.”

  “And that’s all you did. You got taught a lesson didn’t you. And if you ever try and touch me again the King’s bodyguards will kill you.”

  The host Ambassador, all kindness, protocol and understanding had Schultz, for decency’s sake, wrapped in a damask table cloth and looking suitably and suddenly Arabic, he was conducted by a solicitous chargé d’affaires across to Four Arabesque just as Big Ben was booming two in the morning. Picking slivers of glass out of his knee and undressing for bed, he heard car doors slamming. With a painful head, aching stomach muscles, and sore ribs he stood in his pyjamas shaking a fist at the front window.

  “Nobody, fucking nobody pushes Sigmund Franz Schultz around and gets away with it. That’s fucking gospel you cunts, believe me.”

  Under umbrellas in the pouring rain His Royal Imperial Highness flanked by flunkies, went down the steps of the Ambassador’s house. Pricilla just behind him surrounded by military attachés. Ganged up on. That’s what I was. Look at that. That bitch. I even had to claim I came with her. Ratted on me the first opportunity she got. Doesn’t even give this house a glance. Heading in clothes I own to that first car in a caravan of limousines. Leave me in the lurch. Getting right in behind the King. Who’s going to fuck her ass now and worry about the Oriental Venereal Plague later.

  Schultz this following windy wet day at one thirty p.m. in the office of Sperm Productions. Having dispatched a stage carpenter, scene designer and two assistants to Arabesque Street to effect repairs. Now reading the newspaper under Court and Social.

  His Royal Imperial Majesty Field Marshal King Buggybooiamcheesetoo was guest of honour at a banquet given last night by His Excellency the Ambassador of Zumzimzamgazi.

  Schultz’s bitten fingernail underlining the small print listing attending guests. Pricilla’s name first following members of the peerage. And his last, following everyone else. And before that night was over, Schultz had also seen descend from the Ambassador’s doorway, along with Her Imperial Highness the King’s sister, Pricilla’s mother. All two tons of her. Maybe three tons. If she got loose for any length of time among the food.

  “Jesus the pair of them are a team of shameless bloody social climbers.”

  Shiny wet under the lamp light, the stream of chauffeured cars came down the street one after another, stopped, people climbed in under umbrellas and the limousines pulled away towards Belgrave Square. Pricilla’s mother getting a vehicle all to herself which lowered considerably on its suspension. That was that. A nice little night of social relaxation. Taught one more lesson I already knew even in Woonsocket. That women go ga go over kings.

  And further down the Court and Social page under Forthcoming Marriages, Schultz’s eye alighted upon a familiar title.

  Earl of Eel Brook Common and Miss Violet Clutterbutterbucks.

  The marriage has been arranged and the wedding will shortly take place between Basil, the eldest son of the late Lord Nectarine, eighteenth Earl of Eel Brook Common and Lady Nectarine and Violet youngest daughter of Admiral and Mrs. S.O.S. Clutterbutterbucks D.S.O. of Castle Cranockity, Moss of Barmuckity, Scotland.

  “Ah Schultz early to work are you and as usual, taking up the seat of authority in the chairman’s chair. And also as usual looking the worse for wear. Upon how many au pairs did you perform your rite of simulated procreation last night.”

  “Jesus christ Binky, did you see this. His Lordship is getting fucking well married. Right here in the paper. I knew he’d see sense at long last and fucking settle down.”

  “Ah Schultz, trust you to use your own inimitable adjectiv
es to describe what is for his Lordship and myself too, a sacred step in life. If you will, please just do cast your eyes further below in the same listing.”

  Mr. Jeremy Balthazar Binky Sunningdale and Lady Jane Pricklygorse.

  The engagement has been announced and the wedding will shortly take place between Jeremy, eldest son of S.U.N. Sunningdale Bt. and Lady Sunningdale and Lady Jane youngest daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Putney.

  “Jesus, what are you guys, a fucking team or something. What are you doing this both at the same time for. Getting tied up like that.”

  “Schultz I hardly think the word tied is appropriate. And did you not express your approval at his Royal Grace settling down. My little lady is quite a nice lady and his Amazing Grace and I are in fact planning to have a joint ceremony. With religious, gestative and social difficulties permitting of course.”

  “Jesus Binky, you guys. You do nothing but try to treat yourselves to thrills in life.”

  “Thrills. Good gracious me. Whatever do you mean Schultz.”

  “The whole thing is like it was preordained. I mean to me, christ imagine going to bed with a girl wearing a tiara right at the top of the peerage and fucking the tonsils and titled tits off her. How did you do it, land a Duke’s daughter.”

  “Ah Schultz you do have the most graphic if not charming way of putting things. Well of course marrying a Duke’s daughter does mean stepping up the ladder a wee bit but dash it all Schultz, I do possess a very modest little bit of social standing myself you know. And I did of course further flatter my way into the Duke and Duchess’s confidence by getting their daughter absolutely pregnant beyond retreat.”

  “Then how about an investment from your future mother and father in law for the show.”

  “Schultz you are aren’t you completely without shyness or scruples.”

  “Come on, with all that’s happening to me these days, I got to fast reach that sacred moment when the show is financed, cast, the theatre booked and all that’s left is just the ratting, treachery, backbiting and insubordination of rehearsals. Then opening night. And Jesus then may the gross never grieve. And that’s one thing I know. That there is nothing, but nothing, more beautiful in this world than the money made out of the box office of a theatre.”