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

‘I must first blow a kiss goodbye to my sailor before I kiss you my dear. Ah but now my dear previous pupil. Who so make me furious to teach you from the tradition of the great days of the Medici to dance that I must tear my hair out in agony. But my pretty, it is so nice to find it is you. I hope you are not spying. Or might you be one of us. And you are letting your hair down. O dear. You blush. But of course you must my dear. And not be like me without a shame in the world. You come from the quays have you.’

‘No indeed. I mean I’m not. I have not. Nor am I letting my hair down.’

‘Ah but you must, you must let your hair down. Let me find for you a nice American sailor whom you would find delicious off the ship which is full of such nice boys as well as ten thousand tons of coal, my dear.’

‘As a matter of fact Count, I’ve just come from visiting. Mr Arland. My tutor.’

‘Ah but my such pretty boy. Regardez moi. I execute le grand jeté pour vous. You need not make excuses to me.’

‘It’s not an excuse.’

‘But now. Let us see you. Do a simple pirouette en pointe. Ah but I embarrass you in the street my pretty. Watch. You see now arabesque penché en pointe.’

‘Count, if you don’t mind I do not like to be referred to in that manner. And I’m afraid I cannot dance.’

‘Ah but of course, of course. I would not dream to offend you. But you must not call me Count. So cold. So unfriendly. Brutus, please. And yes. I do remember so well that dear sad man. And the such terrible sadness of his lady. That such wonderful wonderful Clarissa, so gay, so carefree. Such joy to laugh with her. I always laugh with her. So jolly. But then. We must not dwell on death. We must dwell on the delight of how nice we meet in this neck, how do you say, of the woods. But I tell you now my good news my dear fellow. From Milano Italy comes my inheritance. Of course I still keep my little school. But no longer must I teach. Now I am rich again. So you must come to my party. Only the best people. Of course do not take notice of that sailor. We will have new nicer sailors. I do not mind if they are rough. I am stronger anyway. But I hate when they are too too coarse without the proper manners. And I do not invite him. But since you are not on your way to the gentlemen’s convenience around the corner, we go together to the Buttery. And then you must come with me to my party. And we should not any longer stand here to freeze to death on the street.’

Darcy Dancer keeping abreast of the rapidly striding feet of the Count MacBuzuranti. So lightfootedly gliding over the granite slabs. Executing attitudes allongées nearly en pointe à la Nijinsky off the kerb stones. Passing again the turrets of the Turkish baths. And the closed back gates of Trinity College. The dental hospital. The recent Elizabethan windows of this pub, Lincoln’s Inn. The big brass plate on the door, Mission to Lepers. Turn left up Kildare Street. The Count skipping up to the top step of my father’s club. And diving in a heart stopping attitude croisée to the street again. Thank god the shutters are closed on the windows. Hiding away the big blazing coal fires inside as well as club members’ eyes.

‘But my Darcy, you see it is so simple. And I waste my genius to teach you to dance in the big castle in the country. It is not only good for the body but the mind as well. And now you are so elegant, so tall, and so much more attractive you have become. So many of us, as the time too fast flies, are ugh, so unattractive. You come on Monday. I give you free lessons at my school dear boy.’

Darcy Dancer trotting to keep up. The Count O’Biottus flying through his repertoire. His head snapping back to shout olé over his shoulder, his scarf waving and his coat flapping like wings in the breeze. As he goes en pointe down Molesworth Street. A gang following. Of barefoot newsboys. Their open torn shirts, the worn out seats of their short trousers. Green thick phlegm seeping from their nostrils. As they clap laugh and cheer and chant.

‘Give us a penny mister. Do it again mister. Mister do it again. And give us a penny.’

The urchins’ awed ooos and ahs. The Count leaping from the porch of the Masonic Lodge. So Protestant and respectable. Doing a complete head over heels somersault through the air. Landing miraculously on his feet in front of his openmouthed audience. Thank god the Royal Hibernian Hotel is near ahead.

‘Hey mister are you from a circus. Give us a penny will you mister.’

‘Now little boys of course, here are your pennies. Here are your shillings. And halfcrowns I scatter for you.’

The Count throwing money back down the street. Towards the Dail Eireann. The newsboys fighting. Kicking and punching each other. Screams bites and scratches. As they chase and snatch at the coins.

‘Ah Darcy, you see, how sad. They maim. They hurt. Come let us go. If they did not steal so I would invite all these little boys to my party. But like the colours of the rainbow, I invite the Black Widow. The White Prince. The Lemon Lady. The Purple Fucker, the Green Shit, Josintha, the musical sow. She grunts and squeals as she gets fucked standing on the head. And, my dear, did you know what Lois say about you all over Dublin. Ah you blush already before I tell you. She talk so much about your private part. O I do rush on don’t I. Ah you blush again. She too shall be at my party.’

‘I am certainly not blushing.’

‘Ah but we know so much about you dear boy, much more than you think. Lois say you are well endowed. And of course I see her painting of you. In which is your prick, is flaccid of course. She knows better than anyone, the size of all the pricks in Dublin. She say when hard you have the second biggest. Not the biggest balls of course. But you would not expect god to be so kind to give you both. Would you. She adores to paint mine because I have myself so very wonderful, wonderful balls she says. Tending to be of the more aristocratic perfectly ellipsoidal instead of the more peasant rounder Irish variety. I admit my prick is not the very biggest. But if you come to my party you shall see my portrait. Ah but maybe now you wonder. Who it is who have a bigger prick than you. I tell you. His name is Harry. He is the aesthete. He is poetic. Harry comes to see me dance. Backstage I lock out the crowds. I say in the dressing room to Harry to show me your prick, Harry. But like you he is too shy. And the girls they are too many who push us boys away from Harry. He is so handsome. So I do not see his prick. I take him to Jammet’s for dinner. He eats like a horse. So he must have a cock like a horse. Otherwise we must take such a big cock on trust. But who cares about such monsters. It is the little tiny beauties of the mind, my dear which matters so high above all the long thick delicious cocks and balls like grapefruits. So perhaps if you show me your hard cock I shall know how big is the second biggest, my angel. Don’t answer yet. Later I ask you again. Maybe then you answer yes. But always let us have ghiribizzo giocoso and grazia in all things.’

The Count gathering in his scarves and coat as he goes sweeping across the black and white tiled front lobby of the Hibernian Hotel. That reassuring coal fire blazing in the grate. The porter nodding and smiling to see one. Girls behind the reception desk giggling, digging each other in the ribs. As I take off my cap. And the Count shakes his blond locks back over his ears. Sauntering by the grand staircase into the lounge. Pirouetting left and right past the little groups gathered about their tables. Under the faint cerulean blue skylight, conversation stopped. The Count casting upon the sudden silence merry and highly suggestive quips.

‘Hello, hello, all you so nice people. Who are so nice to see you. Hello. Hello. Now that I am so unforgivably rich my dears. We shall later together all lift up our dresses, let down our hair and get to know each other better. All our lovely selves we shall unite in love n’est-ce pas.’