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

The Count waving his departure. Darcy Dancer following him down stairs. Thank god, into the darker cellar labyrinths of the Buttery. Where there won’t be so many eyebrow raising gentry. But plenty of socially outcast untouchables. Whom one should avoid, if not to end up spending the entire rest of one’s shortened life in besotted drunken debauch and penury. Not to mention being flung into a cauldron of the Count’s friends unmercifully prodding each other with their pricks and gigglingly squeezing each other’s balls. Already hear certain loud voices one knows only too well.

‘Bash on regardless, all you damn nae hope commoners. And may I remind you that it is only through the fault of my stern handsome father and my beautiful mother who abandoned me to numerous doting nannies who overindulged me at an early age and set me upon the road to debauchery that I am here among you. I know that my charm and unbearably good looks attract the many queers among you, drinking far too much of my excellent champagne, but would you please stop edging the women away out of my proximity. And do fuck off about your own bollocksing buggery.’

Rashers. My god look at him. In tailcoated splendour, striped trousers. Red carnation. Amid this plethora of misfits. His Ardagh Chalice on the bar being stuffed with another magnum of champagne. As he hefts the aperture about and empties the bottle into the Black Widow’s glass? The mirrors, the murmurs deep down in this Buttery. Rashers grinning with both bulging cheeks. Absolutely on top of his form. As if money were no object. Judging now from the new number of hands holding out glasses which he so readily fills.

‘Drink up, nae hopers. Drink up. And let there be more dreams ahead of you upon which to sail your injured spirits.’

Rashers cocking back his head under his own upended glass. And now he sees me. As his empty glass hits the bar. A distinct if brief apprehension flashing across his face. Disappearing in his welcoming smile. Dismounting his stool. Pushing his way towards me between the jam of shoulders. Of jockeys, trainers and ballroom dancers. And here at this end of the bar, right in front of me, bloody hell, is the poet. Whose first terrified sight of me strangely turns to a most sickly ingratiating grin. His brand new shiny regrettably blue suit. And thoroughly inappropriate red, white and blue striped tie. And taking his cigarettes, not out of a pack of ten, but from a whole pack of twenty. And who suddenly appears to be surrounded by doting admirers instead of the usual indifferent habitués who normally would take great pleasure in shoving his sheets of poetry back in his face and kicking in his teeth or slowly lowering their heels crushingly on his balls.

‘Ah my dearest friend Darcy, my dear Kildare. The noble Marquis of Delgany. Let the man pass. Let him pass through to me. My most triumphant and honoured fellow. Forgive these about among whom one must momentarily rub elbows. But how are you my dear boy. The soul comforting pleasure of your great country house lives still in my heart. Come. Let me lead you. You are of course to drink some champagne. For any moment soon, we shall sadly be hearing our host behind this bar singing last orders now, and time ladies and gentlemen please. From Gray’s Anatomy let me recite for you the muscles of the throat and neck. But oh dear, in a gathering such as this, perhaps it is more appropriate to treat of the muscles of the pelvic outlet. The corrugator curtis ani. The external and internal sphincter ani.’

‘Rashers. I believe you are staying at the Shelbourne Hotel.’

‘Good lord. Am I. How do you know. O dear you do know. But ah not so loud dear boy, not so loud. Although I am in partial incognito up there, there are those still about whose ears I should not like that personally pleasant information to sink into. At least not quite yet. But damn, it is such a nice relief to shake from one’s person the indignities of low life.’

‘I believe you are occupying a suite. And also, so it appears, assuming a title. You do seem suddenly awfully prosperous.’

‘Well yes, but don’t you think it suits me. A few winners at the races dear boy. But heavens above, am I to assume by these questions that you are being shirtily aggrieved in some manner. Pray not be. All is to be well. Of course you shall meet soon my nearest and dearest. She’s bought another pub. Dear girl. And would you believe it her accountants have agreed to her acquiring, at my suggestion, also a turf accountant’s shop. Where I shall in future credit my bets. These are times for acting one’s true role in life. Do taste, my dear boy from this plate. The brown breads and the orange pink of this smoked salmon. Our dear Count Brutus MacBuzuranti is giving one of his soirees tonight. As he did last night and the previous night. And the night before that. You’re coming of course. To frolic among the folk singers and authentic Aran islanders in their pampooties, not to numerously mention the lesbians, nymphomaniacs, literati, the nancy boys and lepidopterists.’

In a turf smoke scented drizzle of rain, a procession of little groups arriving outside this narrow red brick Georgian building down Duke Street. A brass sign over the letter opening. The MacBuzuranti School of Ballet. Red curtains drawn over the lighted windows. Sound of throbbing music. Climbing up these narrow stairs. The walls ashake and banister trembling. The voice of the Count O’Biottus himself on the top landing receiving.

‘Come, come up my dear nice people. And into my office. One and all. Welcome.’

Into the small sea of old familiar faces. Squeezed tight against each other. The wheaty fragrance of Irish whisky. The musky smell of hemp. Stout bottles upending pouring down the throats. The Count’s portraits of the Popes one remembers from another address near Molesworth Street. And smack between these supreme pontiffs of the holy Roman Catholic Church, Lois’s massive stark raving nude portrait of the Count.

‘Take no notice my dear people of me in the altogether. Even though my body is so beautiful.’

Drunken eyes welcoming one back. My god. There is Lois. Her hair braided in a long blond pigtail. The far end of the room gossiping in her loud Bloomsbury voice. With an even longer cigarette holder. And seeing me. Beckoning to me across the heads. As one’s suddenly hardening prick points the way through the turned backs, bent elbows and indeed one or two open flies and gleaming white stiff pricks exposed.

‘Darling dear boy, how nice to see you again. You’re shaving your face. But you mustn’t. Let a little hair grow which I so adore on pretty young men. Of course you are still a callow youth. While my pubic hair is going rapidly grey. You do, don’t you, I understand, have a very adequate place in the countryside. A very very large house. To which, may I say, I am extremely chagrined not to have been invited. How dare you not invite me. I don’t foxhunt but surely you have room somewhere for me to paint by northern light. I’ve just come down from the Dawson Lounge. Been all by myself the entire evening in a most boring corner. Having to smoke my own cigarettes and buy my own drinks. Don’t people know I am poor. And that I must get on with my etchings. Where tell me, are the serious patrons of the arts. Have they no feelings for the artist. Allowing me to subsist on simply nothing at all. But I don’t want to complain.’

‘Lois do forgive me. But you are, aren’t you, totally full of shit.’

‘I say, how dare you. Damn you. Be so bloody rude. I’ve been suffering. Do you know what it is to truly suffer. How would you know in your big house. That I am freezing to death in my own studio. Not even enough milk to feed my cats. Both of whom have recently thed.’

‘I am sorry to hear that.’