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

‘However, you did Rashers, despite this long elaborate tale behave like a common thief.’

‘Please Darcy, don’t use such language. I mean I have already suffered such spiritual agony over it all. That’s how the wretched poet fell through the floor. Still loaded down with some of your poorer quality cutlery.’

‘Are you bloody well now telling me my silverware is of poor quality.’

‘No. No. Never. And I assure you the better stuff is with the most reputable pawn merchant. Whose ticket I shall be at any moment placing in your hand. You see I did successfully bet the proceeds but I fear previous debt and recent expenditure have been high and I regret that I do not have sufficient funds left to repatriate the silver items back into your hopefully forgiving hands.’

‘Are you now attempting to perpetrate a further spiv con upon me.’

‘Darcy you do take such a poor view of my person. When I shall in only a moment now place in your hands my cufflinks as collateral. Each has a diamond as big as a decent sized petit pois. Also hidden in the wall is the pawn ticket that I shall also give you. I mean your continued friendship is everything to me. Everything. I know I have done the unforgivable. But who but me would have confessed to your face. Here have a nip of brandy. Do you like my flask. I’ve had it emblazoned with the escutcheon of the Earls of Ronald Ronald. You see. Two stallions rampant. With crossed erections.’

In this battered Hessian draped cavernous room, Rashers his opera cloak thrown back from his shoulders, its crimson lining blazing in the bleakness as he turns in each direction bowing and smiling to faces he has clearly bowed and smiled to before. Of course one’s compassion was also to the fore, even though between his heart rending profundities, he spoke such utter tripe and onions. But it is I suppose the way one says things which matters. And even if morally fraudulent he does have such a warmly effusive manner.

‘Of course, Darcy that stench you are noticeably recoiling from is the odour of yearly unwashed bothes. Utterly appalling isn’t it. If they didn’t assemble in these little groups, the smell of one big group would simply asphyxiate. Imagine having to face one’s breakfast every morning in such a fume. But such woe happily shall no longer assail me. As you notice by the graphic priapic and testicular designs, my dear Darcy, Lois has done the wall decor. Some of the best known pricks in Dublin. She complains of course that Binky who commissioned her has not paid her. But ah now let me a moment Darcy point out to you the various habitués. Driven by their poverty here. Valentine, that balding chap with the well rounded gut there is from that important provincial town Mullingar on the Grand Canal. You’d never know now would you that he is the former whistling champion of Ireland. Ruddy chap can polish off a stone of raw steak at a sitting. He has an equally fat sister with a pair of tits the size of the Atlantic shelf who is a champion bridge player. Regard him lecherously eyeing Sheena, poor sad whoring girl, her new name is about the only distinctive thing she possesses. I don’t know why on earth I didn’t simply leave her up there on the street pissing in her knickers. Except that I plan to wash and brush her up. Put her back on the road to respectability as a much more highly paid whore. And of course our whistling champion thinks she is free of charge.’

A cauldron of potatoes boiling on a cooking range. Rancid smells fuming variously in the fug of steam and smoke. Children’s eyes peeking in from behind a coal scuttle door. A fearful tiny auburn headed girl standing shrinking back under a water tank in the corner. Perhaps Crooks in his spare time might emulate Binky, the Black Widow’s butler. Binky his fist full of pound and ten shillings notes he collects, nakedly rushing back and forth with drinks for three terrified wide eyed American tourists.

‘Now my dears, the black mass presently in progress in the first wine cellar is being said by the Rev. MacNamara. Bishop of Kilburn. It’s all very cheap at the price my dears. You won’t see anything like it in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. This additional admission price, not included at the front door does entitle you to entry into the back passage, no pun intended, nevertheless it is where you might do anything to anybody my dears and anybody may, if you are pretty enough, do something to you too. Then you can tell everyone back in Dayton, Ohio how excitingly devout you found holy Catholic Ireland to be.’

A bull like figure with long black cascades of hair, the hump of a broken nose jutting on his face, waddling out into the middle of the room. His shirt torn open over his belly and stumpy fingers clutching an overflowing pint glass. Tongues bent forward out his shoes, their worn sides turning over as he walked. Whites of his feet and ankles showing through the tatters of his trousers. Like some tiny king. He licks his lips smiling. Standing contentedly surveying his kingdom. Crouched by his elbow, a mild little man in a grey suit, with bottles in each hand replenishing his drink. Pouring port, and poteen every time he took a swallow. And nodding a smiling yes every time he throws back his head to sing.

Our father

Who art in bliss

Down here in hell

Hallowed be thine orgasm

Thy kingdom come

Like we have lately done

All over his

Or her fucking face

‘That’s disgusting the song he’s singing.’

‘Did I hear you say disgusting, madam. Sure your name must be Eeena. The female insult to humanity. Peeking out from behind the aspidistra. Deigning to come among us. To take your filthy gossip notes to flog to the British gutter press. Now Madam if you’ll keep your emotions to a minimum for a moment I’ll give you a taste of the low and scurrilous to fill your fucking column to the full. For a start report this. Bang. The most unfragrant fart laid this century.’

‘You’re a most dreadful person.’

‘And how Madam would you like to be sentenced to the horrible tragedy of marrying me. With me life an intoxicated celebration devoted to the constant and relentless protest against death. I sang for you the liturgical plain song of the catacombs. In order that you wouldn’t give up hope in your suburban desperation for catharsis. Did you know that by day right above me head is a chair screwed to the floor where a reputable dentist drills and yanks out rotted teeth. And the screams up there drown out the calls for help down here. Did you know that. Now Madam, the next time I make my annual speech to the members of the royal society of coprophagists anonymous, I’d like if you would demonstrate how you gamarouched the last bit of rusty old sperm out that bollocks of a husband you married for his few miserable quid.’

‘How dare you say such things to me. Hit him somebody.’

‘Madam, don’t please encourage unnecessary violence before the necessary violence commences. Instead now meet me at the pawn shop and kiss me under the balls. Sure I was baptized in a money lender’s. And remember that as a dirty filthy Catholic you’re among clean pure Orangemen down here. And may the beatific light sparkling from the pontiffs ring shine upon the sins you’ve committed in your commodious and semi detached residence in Rathgar. With its one and a half water closets, where the gombeen likes of you and your mean bollocks of a husband are over your souffle supper giving blessed thanks for your safe deliverance from socialism. While the noble illustrious likes of me is having to kip down in the Dublin shelter for men at thirty one Tara Street if I’m not over at me Iveagh House address in Bride Street, having to take me daily morning walks in fucking working class infamy up and down Grafton Street looking to quell me pangs of thirst and find a few bob for the few bottles of Mountjoy Nourishing Stout served over the north side in Madigan’s of Earl Street at a penny cheaper than the Guinness variety so that when I’d have six drunk you’d have the price of a seventh free. While the fucking likes of you bred in hypocrisy are on your rayon smooth arse on your imitation Louis the cat’s torts chaise longue drinking your Rathgar pink gin pinched delicately between your manicured fingers in front of your three bar electric fire. Fuck off then back there if you don’t want to listen to the likes of me rearing up out of the gutter in your face. Sure what would the sham cultured likes of you know of black shawled and bare foot women coming a wintry wet night shivering with death into shops to buy a pennyworth to eat, or a single rasher or egg or small pat of butter or a quarter a loaf of bread to take back to give the tiny crumbs to a dozen childer clutched together on the same rotted mattress up the fucking freezing stairs of some Georgian rat hole. Who the fuck are you to say I’m dreadful. Don’t I know as well as you do, that my redeemer liveth. And when he has a moment free from making his personal appearances, getting his pucks of publicity all over the kip, you may be sure that the first fucking thing he’ll tell you is that he fucking well loveth me. For the tiny bit of honesty that passes me lips once in a while, more than he fucking well loveth you, for your phony pose of Irish female sincerity. Here come kiss this. The pale priestly skin of my prick. Take thou a sip of this spit from this holy horn most high. And may the red star in the east, shine like the star of Bethlehem. Up the Republic. And may the good Lord bless me while defenceless I sleep.’