J. Donleavy - Leila - Further in the Life and Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman

‘No, no Mr Arland, that’s not so.’

‘Yes it is Kildare, it is. And I have put far too much brandy in my tea. And what dreadful sophistic drivel I spill upon your kindly indulgent ears. The cure in my book of homoeopathy is distillate from the bean of St Ignatius. Three globules, eighteenth dilution. Taken twice at intervals of three days when there is great moral depression consequent upon grief. But since no chemist Kildare seems able to make it up, I suffice to have just the brief joy one has of a visit to Bewley’s Oriental Cafe for rashers, egg, toast and coffee and spice bun. Reading The Time , if it’s arrived from London. One does take a little reassurance and some occasional amusement from the personal column. And yet having breakfasted well, paid my bill and visited Bewley’s bogs, the best in Dublin by the way, and then going out to face the grim wet wooden cobbles of Grafton Street, one would still stand absolutely wondering what to do next in order to further cope with the day. My only solace being, I suppose, knowing ahead of time that wherever one went one was still only somewhere where one’s imagination allowed one to be.’

‘Sir, do I occasionally detect that your English grammar has gone completely to pot.’

‘Ha ha Kildare, you do rescue me from the glooms. You do. And it is so marvellous to see you. And I have I fear let myself be a bore.’

‘Mr Arland do you still take your snuff.’

‘Yes. I still take my snuff. And this is my same old cane. And I don’t want you to abandon your Latin, you know. One does sometimes feel, what matter Virgil, Horace, Juvenal, odes, satires and epistles. Yet sometimes a Latin proverb comes near to spelling the truth of life. Divitiae virum faciunt.’

‘Riches make the man.’

‘Good for you Kildare. Remember my privilege of dining on Commons free as an undergraduate came from one’s ability to translate from the Greek and Latin authors.’

A knock on the door. Mr Arland giving a start. His grey herringbone suit. His white shirt. The black green, red and cerulean blue stripe of his Trinity tie. Slowly pulling himself up on his stick. Moving from the bed. Bent over as he unlatches and opens the door.

‘Hi there. O gee I’m sorry. Didn’t know you had anyone visiting. I’ll come back, pardon me.’

‘Please, Clara. Do please come in.’

‘O gee no. I was only going to ask if I could get you something while I’m out to the store before they close.’

‘But please do meet Darcy Thormond Kildare. Clara Macventworth. Of the Michigan Macventworths. Or is it Minnesota Macventworths.’

‘Hi.’

‘How do you do.’

‘O I’m just fine. See you all later, nice meeting you Darcy Kildare. Bye bye Bonaparte.’

Sound of her rapid footsteps pounding down the stairs, scrape of front door opening and banging shut. Mr Arland, some cheer on his face manoeuvring back to his seat on the bed. Pouring more brandy in his tea as I shake my head no.

‘Of course Kildare, you see what I mean. But she is always one splendid blaze of colours. And totally mad. But she is one of the bigger bright spots in one’s life. And lives upstairs. Seems such an awfully young lady, to be out globe trotting. She’s doing, as they say over there across the water, a course and getting her credits, at Trinity. Americans seem to treat education like an abacus adding up numbers. She goes floating by my door in her dirndl skirts. Swirling round her knees like rainbows. Pity she nearly blots out her big saucer innocent eyes in mascara. She is dismayed by nothing. Least of all by living here. She’s so kind and generous. Writes poetry. And staggering thing is, it’s awfully good poetry. But coming back to you. Yes, you have, you’ve become a worthwhile member of society. Just as the destiny of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman, was foretold. Have more tea. And brandy.’

‘No. I must go thank you.’

‘Ah yes, you must, I can see.’

‘But you will won’t you, soon, come and stay at Andromeda Park.’

‘It is kind of you to ask me, Kildare. I often thought of you. Knew you’d understand if I weren’t in touch.’

Down these gloomy stairs. In the damp reeking smells. I leave him. That dearest of men. His smile. Stealing out across his mouth, his delicate fingers. And his firm hand grasping mine to say goodbye. The soft warmth in his eyes. Perhaps there’s hope in Mr Arland’s life. A new love to take the place of that which he has so tragically lost. Spurned so abysmally as he was by Baptista Consuelo. One so hopes this is not another of such ladies. His old naval dress coat hung on the back of the battered door. One wonders if the love for a man cannot be far greater than that one can ever have for a woman. And one could not help recalling Mr Arland’s long hard ascetic struggle through Trinity College. Gleaning his pennies by tutoring the thick skulled cramming for their exams. Plumbing the depths of his privileges as a sizar and, later, scholar. His few lonely shillings always clutched always counted. Each quarter awaiting his emolument. His meagre breakfasts measuring out his flakes of porridge oats. But all the while popping into a large brown stone biscuit jar any spare penny, a sixpence and sometimes half a crown. To be sure to finally save enough money to celebrate the conferring of his degree. A cold grey brooding Wednesday at two o’clock in the afternoon in Michaelmas Term. And at long last after all those four years, buying a barrel of Guinness it took four porters to lug up to his rooms. Excitedly issuing invitations to all his friends. And on that chill stormy eve he tremulously prepared for his splendid night of raucous rejoicing. Bustling about, keeping the fire in his previously empty grate, steeped high with glowing turf blazing. Listening for steps on the stairs and knocks on his door. His table covered with bottles, glasses. His skippery full of a reserve of sandwiches. Days previously spent scrubbing, polishing and cleaning. And on this day, the final roasting of sausages at his fire. At seven p.m. prompt his tutor called. To sip a sherry. Shook his hand and was gone. And a rotund black African prince came. Puffing up the stairs. Just for a moment to stand in his tweeds smiling in the door, as he had a fleet of cars, engines revving, waiting in front square to take him and his retinue to the airport And then the door closing on the big cheerful black face. The Campanile tolling the hour of eight Then of nine. And there Mr Arland sat, after his long, four long years. Alone, solitary at his fire. The roar of an occasional tram passing out on College Green. Unused empty glasses agleam in the firelight Slices of smoked salmon on a plate which he dared not think he could eyer afford. The distant cry of the shoeless newsboys hawking their papers out through the wintry Dublin night. As he waited and waited.

No knock

No sound

No pounding feet

Climbing up his stair

On the chill wet grimy granite pavements. From this bleak comfortless street behind the station. Look back. The dim yellow glow of his bulb burning from the ceiling of Mr Arland’s room. Walk ahead under the train trestle. Carry a sorrow so close to despair. That makes the days ahead, deep black holes where one must step. This darkness here under the railway. The barred window. A light somewhere far within. Silhouetting the arches fading away into the gloom. Could be the bowels of death. Which so convolute in one’s thoughts. And Leila. That envelope propped on her chimney piece. Secret words speaking from another heart.

‘Hello.’

Making a fist to unleash flying behind him, Darcy Dancer gasping back from the window. This high pitched voice behind his shoulder. And at this face all asmile in the cold evening air, drop one’s arm in relief. A fur collared camel hair polo coat draped upon him. Golden buttons on a golden waistcoat peeking agleam in the lamp light. Tight jodhpur cavalry twill trousers. Yellow shirt. A bright orange tweed tie. An emerald green silk scarf flying from his neck. Long blond locks back over his shoulders. Tiny tufts of auburn beard high on these spanking red cheeks. Of none other than the Count Brutus Blandus MacBuzurand O’Biottus. Who has clearly just detached himself from a waving departing figure, whose rolling gait takes him disappearing around the corner at the end of the street.