A Fairy Tale of New York

by J. P. Donleavy

  ''Well I would. Are you Irish, Mr Vine.''

  ''My mother was. My father was German.''

  Mr Vine's little snap of the head and blink of the eyes, crossing his soft canary carpet. Puts a neat white hand under an illuminated picture. Sunlight filtering through mountain pines and brass name beneath says In The Winter Sun. Panels drawing apart. Shelves of bottles, glasses and the small white door of a refrigerator. He must drink like a fish. Pick him up like a corpse every night. I don't have the nerve to tell him I was raised in the Bronx.

  "Soda, Mr Christian."

  "Please."

  "Now, the way you said that. Just one word. I can tell by your voice you're an educated man Mr Christian. I also like your name. I never had very much in the way of education. I was a wildcatter in Texas and then became the manager of an oil field. Wouldn't think of it to look at me, would you. I left school when I was nine years old. I've always wanted to be in this business but I was thirty before I got a chance to do a high school course. Did it in the navy, then went to mortician's school when I came out. It makes you feel closer to people. It's dignified. And art. When you see what you can do for someone who comes to you helpless. To recreate them just as they were in life. Makes you able to soften things. You're a man I can talk to, a person who's got a proper mental attitude. I can always tell. There are some of them who make you sick. Only thing I don't like about the business are the phonies and I get my share of them. Here, have another, do you good.''

  "Thanks."

  "Some people think I'm outspoken but I've given a lot of satisfaction and people put their whole families in my hands, even in a big city like this. I opened up another branch in the west fifties. But I like it best here where I began. My two little girls are growing up into big women now. You meet people from all walks of life. I 'm a bit of a philosopher and I feel anything you've got to learn you'll learn just through what you have to do with people, in that way I never miss an education. It's a fact, I never graduated. It's especially sad when I bury those who did. But everything is how a person conducts themselves. That's how I know all about you, customs man said over the phone you were a real gentleman. Would you like now for me to show you the establishment. If you don't it's all right.''

  "I don't mind."

  "You'd like to feel that she was somewhere where she's really at home. Come along, we're empty now, there's just two reposings on at my other branch although it's a busy time of the year."

  Mr Vine rising. Gently bent forward. Flicks his head and bends one shoulder up to his ear. Frown around his eyes and hair sticks straight up. Holding door ajar. Smiling with his tilted face.

  "I never want to have an establishment of mine get so big you lose the personal touch. It must be warm and intimate to make people feel at home. I call the other branch a home, bit of an expense to change here because parlor is in the neon sign. I feel parlor is a word that lets you down. Something poor people have. I like the word home. I don't gloom at people, I smile. Death is a reunion. A pause in the life of others. You understand me.''

  A low corridor. Mr Vine touches Mr Christian slowly through the soft lights, soft step by soft step.

  "These are the various suites. These two have their own private rest rooms. Which has been of great success. I wouldn't say it to most people but certain functions get stimulated at the passing of a cherished one. You've noticed how I've used green light and how it glows from the walls, it's a special kind of glass that makes it do that. Only kind in New York. You don't mind me showing you around.''

  "No it's all right."

  "In a few years I'm opening a branch out in the country. For some people the country signifies peace. You saw that picture, the forest, in the winter sun. Looking at that gave me the idea. It's not conducive to peace to come in off the street. And you hear that elevated train out there. Thinking of tearing it down. Won't be too soon for me. Shake the teeth out of your head. But I learned to accept it. And in here is our chapel. I thought I'd make it round just like the world and again green is my motif. And out here again there's the door to our work rooms. We call it the studio."

  "It's all very nice."

  "That makes me feel good. I'm pleased. And I hope you'll be satisfied you dealed with me. I always want people to feel that. You can trust me and know I've got reverence for my work. To love your work is happiness. It means I meet someone like you too. I'm never wrong about people. I know the real tears of death and they don't go down the cheeks. And this is my largest room, the first one I ever used. One or two personages been here. Mr Selk the manufacturer. I had that privilege. And we light a candle behind this green glass when someone is reposing. I think it gives, or rather, let me say, lends a sacredness to the occasion."

  "Yes it does."

  "You go home now. Put all bother out of your head. Get a good night's sleep. Remember it takes time. But time is a friend of ours. And I'm here, remember that, for any kind of request. Our car will be there in the morning. Good night, Mr Christian."

  Mr Vine and Christian shook hands. Vine gave Christian a catalogue. Pushed open the door to the cold electric light of the street. A last smile, a wave.

  The windy canyon of Park Avenue. Crossing a winter city. Cold heels on the pavement. Doormen rubbing hands, clicking feet, looking up, looking down the street. Beginning to snow. Like the first winter I got to Dublin. When the skies were grey for months. And I bought thick woollen blankets at the shop and they smelled like sheep.

  Christian, hands plunged in pockets, takes a lonely subway west and north. Back by the shadows of the museum. And along by the stone mansions. Where I live tonight.

  Music coming from the door with the name under the cellophane. Dim light in the hall, a smell of wax in the air. Dust in the nose. Door slamming. Voice yelling. Pipe down.

  Must go in through this door and sleep. Pull aside the thick red curtain so tomorrow the light will wake me up. Snow streams down under the street lamp. Someone else's house is more your own if it's filled with strangers. Helen, I wouldn't have brought you to a room like this. Makes me feel I'm casting some poverty on you because this isn't the type of place you would ever be. Yours were bathrooms shining with gleaming rails and hot towels. All this plastic junk. Couldn't have been in the studio while Vine and I were talking. Couldn't talk like that. But that's the way we talked. Like pies peaches or eggs. Helen's not a pie peaches or eggs. She's mine. Taking her away. Gone already. Where is she nearest to me. Asleep on top of my brain. Came with me all over the ship when I couldn't stand them staring at me everywhere I went and whispering. Our table out in the center of the dining room. They were all thinking of the day when they had the gala occasion with the paper hats and balloons and Helen just sat there at the table and wept, pink handkerchief tucked up your sleeve and pearls like tiny drops from your face and none of them ever saw you again. They even came up to my cabin door after you were dead to listen to hear if I was crying. And the steward who said they wouldn't do your washing. He stuck his brown face in the door and closed it quietly when he saw me prostrate on the bunk. And he slammed the door in your face. Both of us utterly helpless, could do nothing could say nothing. I held the three dollars in my fist and watched his brown hand come up from his side and pull them out and leave quietly closing the door. The waiter who filled our plates with things we didn't want and came over the second day and said your wife don't eat no more and I said no. And lunchtime he came back saying he was sorry he didn't know, the wine waiter just told him and he got me a plate covered in smoked salmon. He kept as far away as he could until the last meal when hovering for his tip he asked me if I was a refugee. Then I went out, and from the ship's rail I looked at the strange flat shore with the fragile white fingers in the sky. In that cabin, Helen, where you left your soul and I 've got to lie a night here between these sleepless sheets without you.

  Darkness

  In all my

  Grief

  3

  Sound of snow shovelling in the street. Ship's whi
stle from the river. Tingling and banging in the pipes along the wall. Outside the wind blows hard and shivers the window. Knocks on the door.

  ''Mr Christian there's a man for you down stairs."

  "Please tell him I 'm coming right away.''

  Christian looking into the street below. A man in dark coat, green shirt, black tie. No hat over his half bald head and grey wisps of hair. A black long car. Come for me. Can't keep him waiting. Can't stop them putting you in the ground under the snow.

  Mrs Grotz at the door, hunched, breath steaming in the cold air, her hands rubbing. Watching Christian pass and meet the chauffeur halfway down the steps. A solemn soft voice and placing a black cap on his head.

  "You Mr Christian. I 'mfrom the Vine funeral home.''

  "Sorry to keep you waiting.''

  Grotz edging her slippered feet out into the snow. Straining ears to listen. Her mouth open, eyes wide.

  "Hey what's the matter. Who's hurt. Some trouble. You from a funeral."

  Christian stopping turning. Pulling gloves tighter on his hands. Looks up the steps at Mrs Grotz.

  "It's my wife."

  "What's a matter, you got a wife. Where's your wife. What's a matter your wife.''

  "She's dead."

  "Mister. Oh mister."

  The park ahead, little rolling hill in velvet snow. So white and Christmas. Birds taking white baths. Ploughs pushing it up, conveyor belts pouring it into trucks. I've no black tie. But a green one will suit Mr Vine. People we pass look at this expensive car.

  ''You comfortable. Mr Christian.''

  "Yes thanks."

  "They're shovelling salt. Then when the snow melts the guy's tires in front shoot it up on your windshield. Some problem. They know it's going to snow every year, you'd think they'd do something."

  "Yes."

  A morning sun shining in slits along the crosstown streets and in shadows across the park. These tall hotels. All so slender women walk in. Where the lights glow. And everybody's scared of everybody. And maybe Vine and his personal touch.

  Green neon sign. Vine Funeral Parlor. Everybody calls it a home. Sanitation department truck stopped outside. Bedraggled men filling it with snow. Mr Vine waves his arm. Seems red in the face.

  "Good morning, Mr Christian. Had to tell these men to get this garbage truck out of here. Come this way, Mr Christian."

  Vine pushing open the door. A firm handshake, nodding his head and twitching. Shaking water out of his ears after swimming. Now he beckons the way.

  "It's my favourite music I've chosen, Mr Christian. She's very beautiful. She's waiting for you. Our Miss Musk will take care of you. And just press the button when you want me. All right."

  "Yes."

  This young woman steps forth from the shadows. Can't look at her face. Just see her slender ankle and leg. And hear her friendly voice.

  "I'm Elaine Musk, Mr Vine's assistant. May I take your coat."

  "I think I'll keep it on. For a moment.''

  "The music hasn't begun yet. And if there's anything, just anything, I 'm here to help.''

  "Thank you."

  The room dark. Curtains drawn across the window to the street. And the green light flickering behind the glass. Casket gleaming and black. On a pedestal, the wreath illumined in green. My Helen written with the tiny white heads of lilies of the valley. A table with a Bible. Chairs along the wall for mourners. Even has my flowers lit up. He must rake in the money. I'm glad the casket's black. I'd die if it were green. Now go and kneel. So soft and I can't look at you. See just the tips of your knuckles. You don't have to shake Vine's hand, he almost broke mine. If you'd move. Encased in glass and you can't get up. Forgive me because I haven't got the courage to look at you. Because I'd see you dead forever. What happens to all the flesh and blood. No child. You leave nothing except the pain of missing you. And I didn't want the expense because a baby cost money. I wouldn't part with a penny. Only reason I had. I knew you were begging me and I'd always say let's wait. And we waited. Your casket's so smooth. Funny I put my hand along the bottom to see if it's stuck with chewing gum. Vine would never allow that. And although he must be half crazy he's given me comfort because I don't feel you're laughed at or joked over dead. Got to keep my head down or I'll look by accident. Thought I would cry and I can't. Helen, I wish we were different from everybody else. Scream for some sort of thing that makes us you and me. Neither of us nothing. And on the ship you said you wanted to lie down in the cabin. Those first Americans you met just tired you out. And I was so proud of bringing you back to my country. I wanted you to like them. And even after you'd gone, I didn't want anyone to come and touch me on the arm and back with a pat or two and say I'm sorry about it, about your wife, have courage or something, but I did want them I wanted someone to show something. Anything. But not a soul on that damn ship came near me except for money. And each second you get further away from me. Dig the hole with the straight sides and before it gets dark they've got you covered up. And all the times I wished you were dead. So I could be free. They were black thoughts of anger. But I thought them. Must get up. Look out the window.

  Silently crossing the room. Parting the thick curtains to the late morning light of the street. And people hunching by in the cold. Over there Murray's Best For Bargains. Vine said press the button when you're ready. Does he take ordinary lipstick and put it on the lips. Or take it out of a pot they use on everyone. And all sorts of lips. And make them the kind that gleam and don't have cracks, and are red and now over ripe. Vine had a green handkerchief in his pocket. What has he got against the color green. Most of his life must be whispering, nodding, hand rubbing, and the five words, we'll take care of everything.

  Christian turning from the window. Mr Vine leaning over the casket wiping the glass.

  "Must be a little condensation on the inside Mr Christian. But I hate anything to mar such a lovely face. Woman's lips are one of the most beautiful parts of her body. I can always tell a woman who looks at a man's lips when he talks instead of his eyes. Are you all right.''

  ''Yes. Do you think we could leave now.''

  "Yes, a few minutes. Our large reposing room is busy this morning. We never know in this business.''

  "Mr Vine I think maybe you're telling me too much about your business. I don't want to say anything but it's getting me down."

  "Don't get sore. I forget sometimes. I try to make everyone feel at home and not treat the funeral business as something strange. People ought to know about it. My own funeral is already arranged. But don't get sore. When it happened to me and it was my wife, I found I wanted some sort of distraction and because I arranged the services myself it made me feel better. And I thought you wanted to take an interest.''

  ''This isn't distraction.''

  "Take it easy son. You're not alone in this, remember that. If I shot my mouth off, I'm sorry. I don't want to do that with nobody. But getting sore isn't going to bring her back. Beauty is the only thing you can remember. Try to remember beauty. Come on, I like you, be a sport.''

  "My wife's dead."

  "I know that."

  ''Well, what the hell do you mean, sport.''

  "If I understand you correctly Mr Christian, you'd rather I didn't conduct this any further. I can put you in the hands of an assistant if you prefer.''

  "All right, all right. I'm not the kind of person who wants to start trouble. Leave everything as it is. I'm just worried about money and what I 'm going to do.''

  "Look. Listen to me. I want to tell you straight. I don't cut cash out of nobody. I don't conduct this business on those lines. You've got as long as you want and longer. Understand me. And if that isn't long enough I'll think of something. If you hadn't come here alone from another country I wouldn't take all this trouble but you seem to be a nice guy. I even thought you were a type for this profession and that's a compliment as far as I'm concerned. You're a gentleman. And when it's over, if you want to come back and see me, I'd like that. There's a place for you here
, remember that. And if you make that decision, I'd be honored. Shall we close it now, Mr Christian. You're ready.''

  "All right."

  ' ' You can wait with the chauffeur.''

  "Ok."

  "We'll take care of you, Christian, remember this isn't death. All this is life."

  Walking out of the hall. Through the curtained doors. Putting up coat collars. The chauffeur smoking a cigarette,, One of his grey wisps of hair hangs and goes into his ear. Christian coughs. Chauffeur getting out to open the door. A flash of yellow socks with white stripes.

  The car pulls across the road. The hearse draws up in front of the Vine Funeral Parlor. Three men step out, rubbing their green gloved hands, stamping their feet on the hard snow. Elevated train roaring by on its iron trestle at the end of the street. The garbage truck has taken away its pile of snow. Chauffeur blows a smoke ring. And he turns around.

  "Would you like this blanket, Mr Christian. Put it; round your legs in case you get cold. Always a few degrees colder when you get out of the city."

  "Thanks."

  ''They are coming out now, Mr Christian.''

  Mr Vine standing aside, holding back a door. Coffin on four shoulders. Like an elephant, four black legs. Vine twitches his head, bends his ear to his shoulder and rubs. Goes in again. Comes out in a black overcoat, papers in his hand, hatless, eyes bright. Crossing the street. Stepping gingerly with his gleaming black shoes over the ridges of snow. Leaning in the window to the chauffeur.

  "To expedite the journey, Charles, we'll take the "West Side Drive. Go up Park and crosstown on Fifty Seventh. You all right, Mr Christian."

  "Yes."

  Vine pausing, a car sweeps by. He looks upon the rest of the world as something he will bury. His gravel voiced military manoeuvres. I guess we're going. No use fighting over it. He's only trying to be nice. First time anyone ever offered me a job.

  Hearse pulling out. Vine signaling with his hand. And we follow. To the end of the street. Another elevated train. Wake Helen up. Window full of refrigerators there. Say they're giving them away for nothing, almost. Just step inside for bargains beyond belief. I feel like there's nothing around me in the world. Highway on the curve of the earth. Everybody knows why I'm in this car and Helen in hers.