A Fairy Tale of New York

by J. P. Donleavy

  The two black vehicles swiftly moving across Fifty Seventh Street. Past the opera house on the corner. People huddled up under the marquee waiting for the bus. The sky opens up where the city ends and the Hudson flows by. Up the ramp and flowing out into the stream of cars on the smooth white highway. Towering cold bridge over the Harlem Eiver. Farther and the red tiled roofs of houses behind the leafless trees. Along here the rich live down to the water's edge.

  Road curves up through the second woods. Ean through them playing as a kid. When deer stood frozen still. To escape an enemy eye. And chipmunks auburn striped sped up and down branches. This cobble stone road once had trolley tracks. Tell no one anything. You don't want the world knowing about your life. Or this lake we leave behind in the valley, a swamp and golf course. Great chains hang from post to post. Tall iron gates. Monuments inside with stained glass windows. Some with spires. Take you in here and lay you down. This cold day. Knuckles frozen. Breasts still. Where no love can taste. Tickle or tender.

  Man in soft grey uniform salutes. Mr Vine steps out across the snow. Up the steps into a grey stone building. Thin veins of ivy. Vine's coming to speak.

  "There'll be a few minutes delay. Just a formality. Charles, just pull the car up in front there and wait for us."

  Chauffeur turning, ice crackling under the wheels.

  "It's nothing, Mr Christian. Just identification. They have to check everybody who's buried.''

  Coffin on the four shoulders disappearing under the canopy and into the squat building tucked into the side of the hill. Be looking at her again. They give us no privacy. They'd shout back at me if I object. If you own a bird and it's flown away you run out to tell the whole world. And they say to you to shut up, you're disturbing the peace.

  They come out. Shift and slide it in. Engines purr and we move. All these winding roads and trees. People under the stones. So white and white. Branches frozen silver. Paths crisscrossing everywhere. Tombs on the hills. Heads in sorrow. Can't believe I worked here once cutting grass. Lightning in a sky in summer. A bronze woman melted and cold on a door. Cowled face with a hand on her cheek. Hold away the world from the rich bones inside. A white marble man and woman stand up out of their rock. Look out over a sea. Where ships die. And men slip below the cold water. And where are you nearest.

  No trees here. Four men stand by the tent. They've brushed away the snow. Fake grass over the mound of earth. Clarance Vine comes back to this car.

  "Mr Christian. I thought since you've got no religious preference I might read something. And I've just told Charles to give a few dollars to the grave diggers if that's all right, it's the average tip."

  "Yes."

  "We'll go then."

  Gently sloping hill. Snow lies for miles. Fades below the stiff dark trees. High grey sky. Know young girls you love. Take cigarettes from lips and kiss. A dance band plays. Grow up loving memories. Die leaving none. Except the Christmas Eves. When the whole year stops. These Polish hands who shovel on the dirt. They lick their lips on pay day and sit at poker tonight and drink wine. Downtown in the city. Where they take away a wife who clings to railings along the sidewalk and she screams and they lock her up. Can't see her anymore because she's crazy. Love you as much as love can be. Cooking and washing. Mending and waiting. Each thread of body till it breaks.

  "If you'll just stand there, Mr Christian, I'll read these few words I've got here.

  ''

  Cornelius Christian next to Clarance Vine. Who holds out his little paper. Nods his head to the diggers. Straps stiffening under the coffin. Mist in the air from his voice.

  "We are gathered here as brothers and we pray for another soul. The birds, trees and flowers are life and they are around us to give birth in spring. This interment is life and for us the living, a beauty to ennoble our lives, to give us a kiss to caress us in our living pain. We gather to see the soil give one of us peace, to all love and remember her forever. We now give her to her God. Ok boys."

  Milky life

  Alive

  Lowered in

  The brown

  4

  Mornings to wake up cold. Shivering breeze blowing in the thin crack of open window. Lie looking at the ceiling with rosettes and plaster leaves. Clattering garbage pails and covers down in the street. The sanitation men come collecting. And times through the day an ocean liner's whistle throbs and trembles.

  New world. Soot lies smearing the soles of my feet. Baby cockroaches sneak back again behind the basin. Everything a green in the bathroom. Tattered shower curtain with vines and jungle leaves. Specks of pink soap. Long strands of blond hair. Whole city tightens around you. Till you go out and get three doughnuts from a sweet smelling little bakery. And a newspaper off the stand down the street. Bring it back each morning to read. The stabbings and stompings. Percolate coffee in an old battered pot. Sit here so outstandingly unknown. Drink a cup to make me crap.

  Eleven thirty this a.m. Christian passes out the dark hall. Push open the cut glass and mahogany doors and down the steps of this dusty house into the street. Dressed in the best I have. Counting each day the dollars left. Forty seven kept in a box on the mantel while I sleep. Watch and feel each dime go slipping out through the fingers. Taken by a gladder hand. Pumped into a counting turnstile. Or a slot where a window opens and you reach in for a rye bread ham and lettuce sandwich.

  Catching a bus by a white stone building. Tell you all the history of New York inside. The faded pages of little green books with the names of people. Blacksmiths, bakers and candlestick makers of a hundred years ago. When the park out there was heaps of boulders and mud. Now mommies wheel their little children to push them on the swings. All carefully cuddled up against the cold. Vine said on the phone he'd be glad to see me.

  The bus stops at the corners. Across the street a low roof nestled in the trees, a place called Tavern on the Green. People climb on. The click click of the turnstile. Money drops down. Then spouts out like a milk churn. Eyes look once then fade away. Button has just popped off my coat. Never find it between all these legs. I swear to christ. I'm coming apart. Have to hold my elbow over the straggly thread. Vine will say good to see you. And o boy it's really going to be swell to be seen. Gathering spiritual assets together. Clutch tight as they drip away through the fingers. Run from the fears. First thing I did when I walked out again in the world after the funeral. Was get my shoes shined.

  The bus roaring past a statue of a man on a pedestal. Say he first discovered the place. Put him up there made of metal. With horns blasting and traffic pouring round him day and night. Get ready to get off. A man with a grey cap gets on. Smiling between big fat cheeks stubbled with beard. He gaily salutes the passengers as he comes along the aisle. And sits sad and silent when no one salutes or smiles back. His eyes light up as I give him a nod. The friendly kind they give each other at the institution.

  Walk east crosstown. Wind biting and raising whorls of grit and paper scraps. See the sky blown blue somewhere far out over Flushing. As a little boy I thought it was some strange big toilet bowl. Where giants took their craps.

  Dark between these buildings. Cabs go bouncing over bumps. Thick iron manhole cover clanks and rocks under the passing wheels. And little clouds of steam puff out. A button off my coat. That's all you need in this town to show you're going down. And for friends to look fast for other faces.

  Bronze plaque now below where the neon sign used to be. And the thunderous letters of Vine. Above the smaller words of Funeral Home. He must be going up. High over the tiny letters of Incorporated. Where he can swing from his trapeze into his heap of dollars.

  Christian pushing through the gleaming glass doors. The reddish yellow carpet. Under the potted palm tree, a black urn filled with white sand to extinguish cigarettes. Knock on Vine's door, the main motif of which is contemporary splendor. Green light looked warm last week now looks cold.

  "Come in. Ah Mr Christian. Good to see you. Here let me take your coat. Sit down. It's cold out." />
  "Cold and windy."

  "Well now Mr Christian you're settling in."

  "I think so"

  "I'm glad. Takes time. You're young. Events finally erase the most painful part of sorrow. If they didn't this town would be so many weeping cripples. But you'd like to discuss your position wouldn't you."

  "Yes."

  Vine in his chair swivels. Light catches the side of his face. He tilts his round head. Shakes out the cuffs of his shirt so white and stiff. Diamonds sparkle there. Short hair standing up with little flecks of grey. All of him tucked neatly in his leather seat, eyes glistening. Finger pushing at a pair of black leather gloves on his desk. The world sinks down a little. On the carpet where you come out of the dirty street and walk softly.

  "May I ask you just one question Christian. I'm going to put it to you man to man. There's a place for you here. And I mean that. The salary's not bad. It would be a beginning. And there'd be a future. I can tell you that. Will you come to work for me."

  Christian bowing his head. As eyes stare out of control at the ceiling. Get them back to sea level. Saliva flows into the mouth. Swallow it all down and try to keep my shoulders from twitching.

  "Mr Vine I don't know what I'm going to do yet. When you said first you were glad to see me the words I nearly said were boy it's really swell to be seen. I've hardly even spoken to another person since the funeral.''

  ''Well I 'm glad I 'm seeing you then Mr Christian.''

  "Mr Vine I don't know what I owe you. But I've only got forty six dollars and ninety two cents to my name. I can't even pay the bill they charged me for freight and storage and packing my wife on the ship. You've got me at your mercy.''

  "Now wait a minute, Mr Christian. Now you just wait a minute there boy. I haven't got you at my mercy. And I don't like that remark.''

  "Well maybe you haven't. But I need mercy.''

  "You may need it but I haven't got you at my mercy. Don't you ever think that. I'm offering you an opportunity to assume a role in a hallowed vocation. I know the normal everyday person does not gravitate towards this calling. But I'll tell you something. I'm a good judge of men. And I recognize in you Christian the imaginative capacity to pursue this mission in life. I'm convinced you could be outstanding.''

  "You mean going back in there and handling dead bodies. People I don't even know.''

  "If you wanted to acquaint yourself with that sacred craft I'd be glad. But I'd like you to be a front of house man. With maybe the occasional assist in the studios.''

  "The occasional assist. Holy cow, Mr Vine.''

  "It may surprise you Mr Christian but it is that part of my work in which I take the greatest pride not to mention as I wouldn't do to most people, pleasure. I would not insist if you found it a source of disquiet. The real nature of your duties here would be to tend to the grief of the bereaved. To dispense the small kindly formalities and understanding so necessary when a family convenes at the abyss of death. I know you've got the sincerity. I know you've got the culture and the elegance of demeanor. It's all in you Christian."

  "How much do I owe you. Mr Vine."

  ''That is not a question you need to ask.''

  "But how much do I owe."

  "Four hundred and eighty six dollars and forty two cents. Including tax."

  "O boy."

  "Mr Christian that is not a problem. And you don't have to take it like that."

  "How do you want me to take it. That plus one hundred and eighty six dollars I owe the shipping line is nearly seven hundred dollars. How can I ever pay."

  "Now listen to me Mr Christian. I've told you once before and I'll tell you again. I don't cut cash out of no one. This is one business where most people pay their bills. Call it superstition but people don't like to owe on the death of someone near and dear. And if they were near and not so dear they're even gladder to pay for their elimination. So I'm not hurting with a cash shortage and I'm not asking you to pay up. You've got time. Plenty."

  "How long."

  ''Six months. More if you need it. Free of interest.''

  "Eighty six dollars a month.''

  "Eight one Christian, eighty one dollars and seven cents."

  "Any day someone is going to track me down from the shipping line.''

  ''There is no problem about an advance on salary.''

  "I 'd be socially ostracised.''

  "I would be less than candid if I did not admit people don't trip over rugs making a rush to shake hands to get to know you. And many friendships are cut adrift. But you'd be surprised at some of the deeper relationships you can make in this profession. It was how I met my wife. Searching for a shade of lipstick at a drugstore counter. That's a fact. I was an apprenticing mortician. She asked me what color hair and eyes I was trying to match. I had just picked up a box of bicarbonate of soda she dropped. She responded by pointing out the shade. It was one I would have picked myself. We walked outside together. She had the bluest eyes and the whitest skin. I told her what the lipstick was for. She was a little shy but then she understood. We went right back into the drugstore and had two raspberry sodas. I still remember the sound of our feet together on that porch. She had the kind of ankles you'd find on an angel. Seven months later we niarried. I feel just as close to her in death.''

  "Mr. Vine."

  "Call me Clarance, spelt with an a. My step parents called me Tobias but I was named Clarance at birth. Just excuse me I've forgotten to tell Miss Musk I've changed a musical selection. Miss Musk, in suite four, the Ricardo family I think needed something faster in tempo but I think it's time now before closing the casket to slow it down. Ok. Thank you. There's an instance Mr Christian of the delicate decisions which constantly must be made. I feel that you would ably carry out such responsibilities."

  "Mr Vine I wouldn't know what tune to call for someone's funeral."

  ''Please, call me Clarance. I 'd like that if you would.''

  ' ' Until I pay my bill I 'd just feel better calling you Mr Vine.''

  "All right if that's the way you feel.''

  Vine's eyes glittering in the soft yellow lamp light. His finger pushes the switch of the intercom up and down. The throb of faint solemn melodies. Neat tiny knot of his black tie tucked tightly up to the stiff collar. Bed strong neck which he turns and twists. I'd be out in front of his establishment. Skipping and clapping hands in the cold. Encouraging in the customers. This way folks. To Mr Vine. Knows sorrow like the back of his hand. A reduction if there's two of you. His shade of mouth paint will suit you better than the one you're using now. Your husband won't be able to keep his lips off you in the coffin. This way folks. What's happened to Vine has happened to me except I didn't embalm my wife or meet her in a drugstore. His tiny feet. He looks so much bigger than he is. A man who has armies or ships. And wins battles. While he watches the lips of women. What does he do these days for orgasms.

  ''Mr Christian you 're miles away.''

  ''Just admiring your green curtain.''

  "I never let the light of day in here. That way I let my own mind roam. Being a Texan it's natural to me. That's a beautiful word isn't it. Texan.''

  "Yes."

  "There are a lot of beautiful things. Early this morning I was out trying to stop those sons of bitches trying to park in my loading zone. Three young girls passed by. They go to a select private school up the block. Young gracious girls. They were laughing about something. And it was beautiful to watch. They weren't aware of their grace. They come from good homes on the upper east side and ride downtown on the elevated train. And right in its shadows lie broken men. Men who might have once been just like those girls' fathers. With high salaries and big responsibilities. Now their salaries are gone. I buried one of them. He used to panhandle on the corner. Sometimes I take the train myself. I'd give him a quarter. A year before he was a company vice president down on Wall Street. But deep down in the back of his eyes you could see that he was from Michigan, just a poor lost kid in the big city. His wife and kids still
live in a nice apartment with rustic type architecture in Forest Hills, Queens. Do you know not one of them would come to his funeral. They said they could prove if they had to that they didn't know who he was. It's that kind of human frailty that sickens you. But I haven't yet lost my faith in human nature. You meet people like them. And you meet people like you. Of quality. Which I define just by calling you a gentleman.''

  "How much would I be paid.''

  "Mr Christian you're surprising. Ok the remuneration. Seventy five a week. Plus the clearing of your debt after six months. You'd be working under Fritz till you get the hang of things. He's sick with pneumonia now. But Mr Hardwicke at my west side branch would always be available for advice when I wasn't around. He's my top man. Meanwhile you'd be co host here with Miss Musk. Once in a while you'd take a doctor or nurse out for a drink. They can be helpful in this business. At nine o'clock we call muster out there in the hall. Start the ball rolling."

  "You mean stiffs."

  Vine thrusting out a lower lip. Lifting his chin. Waiting as Christian waits. And taking a deep breath. Which he sighs out slowly.

  "I do not like that statement. And I hope it's the last time I will hear it. It's a word we don't use here. I know sometimes people have to be cynical. It relieves their fear. They often talk about us with smart remarks. But just as some other people love and respect what they do for a living so do I. But let's forget that. When my upper east side branch opens, that's when your opportunity will come. That branch will be endowed with the ultimate in funeral service in this city. No solemnity which can add grace or reverence to the carriage of death will be wanting."

  Behind Vine's head a glass cabinet of leather gold embossed volumes. MODERN MORTUARY SCIENCE, ANATOMY AND POST MORTEM SANITATION, ORGANIC CHEMISTRY, CHAMPION TEXTBOOK ON EMBALMING and ANATOMY FOR EMBALMERS. Vine leans back. A pencil tightly gripped in his fingers. A smile on his lips.