The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman

by J. P. Donleavy

  ‘How mournful for you.’

  ‘I can still hear that awful boy’s words. Ere ere you, control your missus will ya. O God. And I was even pregnant then. Now I’ve got nobody. I want someone to love and someone to love me. Just somebody to be with in the world. Is that too much to ask. Is it. O how would you know.’

  A massive pounding and hammering on the door. Lois sitting back up on her elbow, her hand reaching across to cover Darcy Dancer’s mouth. And her breasts, nipples at attention, sticking out over the quilt. The voice down there shouting.

  ‘I know you’re in there.’

  ‘Madam, what’s that.’

  ‘Dear boy, don’t move, don’t make a sound. While I blow out the candles.’

  The door rattling and banging. The glass trembling in the skylight. The grey cat scurrying across the floor and leaping up on top of the bookcase and knocking a bottle to the floor. A stink of turpentine.

  ‘Open up. Open up or I’ll break the fucking door down. You’ve got some little squirt in there. I’ll kill him.’

  Lois’s muscles stiffening. And I feel at my shoulders the soft edge of her bosom and her heart beating nearly as fast as mine. Requiring one to inquire.

  ‘Is that person referring to a squirt talking about me.’

  ‘O no. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. This sometimes happens. I was telling you. Drunks.’

  The sound of kicks. Foxy said there was nothing as good as a swift uppercut of a boot for opening up an entrance into anything.

  ‘I’ll get that little squirt if I have to break the fucking door down. Are you opening it.’

  ‘He is referring to me.’

  ‘Hush, dear boy.’

  A crash, grumblings and curses. Another crash. Milk bottles. Over which feet are fortunately tripping. And from the sounds. Something tells me I ought to be up and perhaps elsewhere.

  ‘O my god, dear boy. He has broken in. Get under the bed. Immediately.’

  Darcy Dancer out of the bed clothes like a frog. Pushing and squeezing a shoulder against the small gap between springs and floorboards.

  ‘There’s no room.’

  ‘Then get under the drapery. There behind the dais. It’s over the chair.’

  Darcy Dancer feeling his way crouching across the mid-room darkness. More thumping thunderous noises and vituperations on the stairs. As I nearly come a cropper putting a foot straight into my shoe. Knew soon as I saw the new moon through the glass on the train that there’d soon be ill luck ahead. From the feel of this drapery, it was hanging in the back of the Count’s portrait. Lois had just wrapped her hand tightly around my penis as I was right in the middle of the unanimous declaration of the thirteen united states of America, memorized for Mr Arland. That all men are created equal, with certain unalienable rights. And that among them is life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Each latter one of which I’m going to lose by the sound of things. As one wraps up in and under this dusty musty bolt of cloth over this chair. The last time I did huddling like this with Foxy, matters were mournful indeed. And these feet are coming pounding awfully heavy in a toe crushing manner up the stairs.

  ‘Open this door.’

  ‘It’s open.’

  ‘Where the fuck is the little cunt. And give me some light.’

  ‘What do you mean by breaking in here like this. Get out. I won’t give you light. I shall instead inform the police.’

  ‘Shut your fucking gob woman, or I’ll shut it for you. Even in darkness I’ll get the little cunt.’

  ‘There is no other person here but me. And I would be awfully appreciative if you would vacate the premises. In less euphemistic words, get out.’

  ‘I will in a tinker’s tit get out. I’ve fucked you before and I’ll fuck you again.’

  ‘How dare you assume rights over me. You’re clearly drunk.’

  ‘You’re fucking well right I’m drunk. I’m laggards. The Bug came in a winner at twenty to one. And I’ve had twenty bottles of stout. Would I come humping an old whorer like you if I wasn’t drunk. And give me some light before I puncture a halo around your head with a Polish nine millimetre Parabellum.’

  ‘You do have, along with your extremely poor manners, the most amazingly unpleasant command of English.’

  ‘You’ll have obsequies in Gaelic and a poor funeral to attend when I catch this fucker. Lights. And quick.’

  Lois striking a match. The reddish gloom and shadows. Her trembling hand lighting a candle. To bathe faint yellow on this gentleman. Whom I last saw roaring his declarations from the Count O’Biottus’s chaise longue. And who now with an awful thud lays a big black flat sided pistol next to Lois’s paint daubed pallet on a small round table. As she lights another candle. Five big buttons down the gunman’s open macintosh. A stub of a cigarette sending smoke up between his cupped fingers. The knot of a tie just peeking out over the rim of his mustard coloured sweater with a strand of its wool thread unravelling on the floor. His feet flat apart. A great broad domed forehead.

  ‘Don’t you bring guns in here.’

  ‘Sure it’s only me old equalizer. But it’s quieter to knock both your heads off with a fist than it is to blow them off with a gun. Now get him out from under them bed covers or maybe I will start shooting.’

  ‘O god, are you mad.’

  ‘My mental happiness hasn’t been that good lately and you might say I’m not too far from it.’

  ‘He’s not in here. These are my knees sticking up the covers. You awful RAC people.’

  ‘Get the initials right at least, can’t you you awful pommie.’

  ‘AI or RA it’s all the same to me. Well look around why don’t you then. Under the dishes in the sink. Do you see him. Do you see anybody. Hiding behind the paintings. Or even under that drape there. And you have audacity to come breaking down my door.’

  Lois putting her fingers to her temples. The gunman picking up the black pistol, holding it up to the candle light.

  ‘And with a lethal weapon.’

  ‘It’s only me semiautomatic emblazoned with the Polish eagle. But with a muzzle velocity of one thousand one hundred and fifty feet per second it puts a nice tiny hole in you. Sure I’d have to shoot you straight in the head if I was to remind you I meant it.’

  ‘You have no prerogatives. No right whatever, to come transgressing upon my private life in this manner. And stop waving that gun.’

  ‘Every nancy boy in Dublin said you fucking well went off with some school kid. And that’s the fact of the matter.’

  ‘Please don’t continue to use that language with me. And I’ll thank you to go. And come back when you are in a better frame.’

  ‘I’m in the frame for a fuck.’

  ‘Well fuck someone else why don’t you.’

  ‘Because I’m going to fuck you that’s why.’

  ‘That is rape. O God. Tiresome. You’re just full of romance and charm aren’t you. And stop taking off your clothes.’

  ‘I’ve got a horn on me that would whip a donkey out of a bog and he leaping in it.’

  ‘Well take your horn then and whip a donkey as you put it, out of a bog. But do it far away from me please. I’m simply too tired and exhausted. I’ve had a most difficult day.’

  ‘I’ll give you romance. Drag you out of here and fuck you up and down the steps of the Freemasons Hall. Sure the whole place is painted with pricks and balls. Take a look at these live jumping ones now for a start. I’ll impale you upon the spire of my passion. Can’t you see I’m dying for it.’

  ‘Well die. But please cover yourself.’

  ‘I’m going to cover you.’

  ‘O God please. I do beg of you don’t. If you have the least sense of decorum as a gentleman. Don’t please.’

  ‘Sure look at it. With its very veins bursting.’

  ‘O the horridness of it all. Not tonight. Just not tonight. I’ve had the most sad news. Can’t you see I’ve been crying.’

  ‘You weren’t complaining a few da
ys ago with me fucking well freezing posing on that platform up there. Saying I had a pair of balls on me like melons.’

  ‘That was in the cause of art.’

  ‘Well this bloody horn on me now is in the cause of architecture. It would hold a skyscraper up in an earthquake. And it would give you all the good news you’d need, if you’d only open up your legs and listen. You’d be laughing.’

  ‘O how I hate you Irish. Hate you. Why don’t you go and do this to your wife.’

  ‘Because the poor old woman with her belly nine times risen has had enough suffering at my hands already.’

  ‘I’ll bet she has.’

  ‘Come on now. Look at it there, like a branch in a storm trembling.’

  ‘You look at it. I want to go to sleep.’

  ‘You weren’t so fucking reluctant last week. When I bulled you in the alley when you couldn’t wait to get back here.’

  ‘You mean you couldn’t wait.’

  ‘Have you had the little squirt up you already and he went home to his mammy.’

  ‘I don’t know who or what you are talking about. I just wish that you could respect a lady’s wishes and go. That’s all I wish. Nothing else.’

  ‘Move over in the bed.’

  ‘No I shall not. I am English. English. Do you understand. Treat your Irish wife like this. But not me.’

  ‘I said move over. I’m out to fuck the English one way or the other. And make Ireland unsafe for the Sassanach.’

  ‘It’s the wrong time of the month if you must know.’

  ‘Well as I’m marching over the border in the morning, it’s the right fucking time of the night for me.’

  ‘You’re crass. Barbaric. O God. Stop trying to push it in my face.’

  ‘When I was reading gas meters around Dublin I gave many an overeager housewife a black eye with this.’

  ‘Well my gas as it happens has been cut off.’

  ‘Sure I’ll have it reconnected. And when the state’s taken over and I’m president I’ll give you enough gas you could boil the Liffey. Come on give it a good suck.’

  ‘I shall not. Give it to your good Catholic wife to suck.’

  ‘Come on now leave the religion out of it. And take out your gleaming Protestant dentures.’

  ‘No no.’

  ‘Come on now. Do it for a devout agnostic.’

  ‘You’re a devout pig. Get it out of my face.’

  Darcy Dancer shivering. Under the cold musty damp folds of this deep dark green drape. Knees and elbows on the hard floor. Hold my face sideways to peek out. That man’s muscles bulging in his legs and arms. Has curly kinky hair. Came in with a fedora on and took it off. Only gentlemanly thing he’s done. If I were only that peasant jester in the funny stories Miss von B tells me. Who was always abie to escape from whatever dire difficulties befell him. And revenge himself on nasty people. Grab this man’s gun. Shoot him. Just as he’s groaning. Pushing it in Lois’s mouth. Rain rapping on the skylight. Drips hitting me in the middle of the back. Soaking right through. If I did not come to have cocoa, I could be asleep, cosy snug and warm back in the Shelbourne. O my goodness. I’ve farted. Made the gunman turn his head. And put his chin up to look at the ceiling. Must have got bopped himself with a raindrop. Just hope my smell doesn’t pervade the room. And lead to my most utterly terrifying discovery. Be drilled full of holes. As an imperialist. And just earlier this evening Mr Arland had discussed how the King of Great Britain had with repeated injuries and usurpations, established an absolute tyranny over the thirteen American states. Must stop shivering and shaking the drapes. Till some miracle delivers me out of here alive. Could try to pull on my shoes while his back is turned. Get over all that broken glass down the stairs. Not even a bullet could catch me once I get going. The grunts and moans coming from the bed. Has it pushed deep down into her throat. Could be choking her. She does do such an awful amount of talking anyway. Just get across this floor without making a sound. Go slowly on all fours. Under this drape. Looking like a green baby hippopotamus. Get to the gun on the table. I hope before he gets there first. And bang bang. Mr Arland will find me in the morgue we passed. Those gates an omen of death. Start appearing like my mother does as an apparition to Crooks and Sexton.

  ‘True sons of Ireland, enemies of the British Vampire. Ireland integral is Ireland free.’

  This gunman must be very politically minded yelling at a time like this. And making all sorts of rude groaning noises and then shouting up the Republic. Sitting there across Lois’s chest. And he’d surely kill an aristocratic feudalist like me. Time it just right and I could in the middle of his orgasm get up and run like hell. Then he might kill poor Lois. Who looks bulgy eyed and gasping with her head propped back against the wall. Her eyes staring open. His thank god closed. Just move further out.

  Lois from the bed waving Darcy Dancer back. Alright. Whatever you say. And at the moment it’s not much. Twice tonight she’s had a penis in the mouth. Jaws must be tired. Mine I think is even bigger than his. And the same measurements as Foxy’s. Who said that size was a lot but not everything. Almost seems as if she’s having an operation. This gunman isn’t so enormous but his arm muscles look awfully strong. Flexing pressing the wall above Lois’s face. An evening newspaper sticking up out of the pocket of his macintosh thrown on the table. He’s groaning more and more. O God please stop him turning around. It’s the last chance I’ll have to run for it. Why does she keep waving me back. Hear the bells, one here and one there, ringing out again in the city. The sounds of which Mr Arland said he had learned to recognize. And always listened to even if he were tipsy after a Trinity hop. When he would lie sadly back in his college room in his bed. In regret. For if the girl he had invited to the dance was too pretty, others would win her away from him. He said it is wise to keep women secretly. So that other men don’t know. Poor Mr Arland. Wants so much to find a girl of his very own. Said ladies preferred men of beautiful brawn than those with brains. Unless you had a big income and estates. And all he’d been was a scholar who latined grace at college commons. As he did so elegantly those evenings we dined at Andromeda Park. Per christum, dominum, nostrum. And scholars always raced each other in college commons to say grace as rapidly and accurately as possible. And Mr Arland could make me laugh he was so fast. If only the sun would come out in his life. And the birds sing. Instead of the sounds of this gunman groaning and squirming about. Suffer little children to come unto me. Sexton said God said that. And that the almighty took mercy on the young before all others. If I were a Catholic maybe God would get me out of here. Foxy said the whole country was night and day asking God for favours. And you’d never get a chance to slip your own in. Especially if they had any old uncles or aunts to die to leave them a bit of land, they’d say dear Jesus would you ever strike the fuckers dead. And all I want is to be back in bed in the Shelbourne. And not here with this lady’s cheeks billowed out. He’s really shoving in and out of her mouth. Her eyes popping. She’s motioning me to come out. To stand up. And maybe run. Or grab up the gilt frame and tiptoe to clonk him. To be continued next week. It said at the end of one of the films in the town cinema when Uncle Willie took me on my birthday. Gunman’s hands going down lower now on the wall. Could push that long sharp piece of broken glass there through him. Be blood running all over. And dripping down this woman who has tried to protect me. The garda would find her with a dead man. But there is a big mahogany curtain rail. And beyond the steamy train window there was a new moon deep far away in the sky across some back gardens of a country village. Now crisis and predicament befall me. Something out in the planets can set one’s life awry. If you see the new moon through glass. Even Mr Arland admits this is true. And so it was for him, when he first left college to go out into the world. He saw the new moon through a third class porthole crossing the Irish sea. And promptly had all his luggage stolen by a fellow overnight inmate of a cheap boarding house room in London. The thief left only an extra pair of shoes he missed seeing under
his bed and it was all the belongings he had when he reached Paris. And he went to Pigalle to sell them. Meeting a man who said he’d like to try them on for size. Who when he got about twenty yards away, stepped into an alley and disappeared. Mr Arland said that he did not often cry. But he stood there at the foot of Rue Steinkerque on this spring sunny Paris Sunday overlooked high up by the alabaster radiance of the church of Du Sacré Coeur and the tears just streamed down his face.

  Darcy Dancer his head slowly emerging from the green drapery. Getting carefully to his knees and on one silent bare foot at a time standing up. Good lord one’s penis is sticking out. Made constantly to stand by my most lewd mind. Just slip the curtain rings off this big long pole. And noiselessly this yoke should do the trick. If I get room enough to get a good enough swing. She’s waving me back. And I’ve got to go forward. And do it fast. Just like he’s really pumping it into her mouth now.

  Darcy Dancer gladiator, with his eight foot mahogany pole held two handed across his chest. Tiptoeing forward on his bare feet. Nearly losing my balance with Lois’s eyes popping out of her head. Which in her extremely limiting circumstances she is trying to shake back and forth. Waving her hand around his arse to tell me to go away. When I’ve got only this one chance to stun him with just one good belt of this yoke. A hammer like Foxy uses would be better to sink into his head. But if I can sweep this around in a big enough arc it should do the job. If dear god I don’t miss. He won’t know what hit him. The white skin of both Lois’s elbows pointing at me, putting her hands over her eyes. As death gets close you want to live longer and longer. And maybe as old as twenty eight. This man doesn’t seem at all like a member of the Royal Automobile Club. As he gyrates groaning. Wish him no permanent harm. As Foxy used to say to the bull when it broke the fence. But I’ll break your fucking beast’s back end. And I must bust this head good and proper. Sweep this piece of timber in its wide arc over the colours of this quilt to land it thudding and cracking on the back of this curly headed skull. And peace be with you and with thy spirit.