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

‘I do wish, since you are now in fact having me in, that you did not continue to complain about my not making an appointment to call upon you.’

‘Well I shall stop. But I also think with that cruel edge to your voice, that you can be hurtful when you choose to be, can’t you.’

‘Perhaps yes. I can be.’

‘Spoilt I think as well. However at least you are not obnoxious.’

‘Thank you.’

‘And you are young and beautiful. I do like young and beautiful men, and if they are extremely young and extremely beautiful, I like sucking their cocks.’

‘I hope then, madam, that being just merely young and beautiful does not exclude me from your latter category.’

‘It most certainly does. No matter how enticingly beautiful. I must make it quite clear in case you’re getting ideas that my celibacy most certainly excludes sucking your cock.’

‘O dear. Well I hope the youth and beauty you refer to does not also imply you’re preferring too, lack of brains.’

‘I regard beauty as being part of intelligence. However without wanting to sound trite, intelligence makes an ugly face beautiful. Put those drawings on the chair on the floor and do sit down.’

Lois vigorously riddling her stove. Sparks flying up from the dying embers as she throws in pieces of turf. Taking off her duffle coat. Scratching herself under both bosoms through several layers of sweaters. Pours milk and puts it on a gas ring. Her little world here. Fewer balls and pricks on display than I previously remember. Must be her celibacy. Even has a sketch or two of country scenes.

‘I like that watercolour very much Lois.’

‘O that. That’s nothing. 0one on an excursion. Enniskerry village.’

‘But it’s very attractive.

‘Thank you. Well at least I can tell you something nice did come of our previous brief little association. An awfully cultivated American at Trinity College came and bought an entire portfolio of washes of the male nude. Choosing as it happens all those I did of you. If you can recall your being somewhat difficult when you posed, ruining the tension of line with your constant erection. Actually, although I thought at the time your erections an artistic imbalance he was enthralled by what he called the refreshing tumesced quality the drawings had. I do wish there were more cultivated Americans like him. Of course Count MacBuzuranti could so easily be my patron now, since he has come into his inheritance. Having bought his previous portrait at such a reduced price, you’d think he’d now have the courtesy to commission me to do another. I am so continually being exploited by people. Now what about you. Surely you can commission. I’ve heard all about your stately home, you know. And your extravagant dinner parties. And balls. And I just wonder. I really do, why I am not invited. I feel quite put out. After all, we have previously at least been in the same bed together. And there. Just look. It’s leaking from the skylight right on top of my stove. And o god, did you see that. Right in the corner. A rat. O no. He’s gone under the bed. O god, not that, I don’t think I shall be able to stand being in here with a rat. O dear with my cats dead.’

‘I’ll get him Madam for you.’

Darcy Dancer taking a broom. Shoving it under the bed. The rat scurrying out. Lois screaming. The rat running along the baseboard. Darcy Dancer grabbing an empty wine bottle and flinging it. The bottle missing and smashing on the wall.

‘Good lord, don’t. Don’t. You’re breaking up my studio.’

‘Well Madam, you want me to kill it, don’t you.’

‘Yes I do.’

‘Well then you must be prepared for a little mayhem. Rats are deucedly clever and almost impossible to corner and kill.’

‘But does that require for you to wreak absolute havoc.’

‘Well a little havoc at least. You would not enjoy for it to bite you in bed.’

Darcy Dancer grabbing another bottle. Rat scurrying out from behind paintings and heading across the open floor. Lois screaming and jumping on the table. Darcy Dancer unleashing his missile. End over end. Bouncing as it glances off the stove. And flies across the room smashing into the bookcase. Knocking over a little group of ceramic figures standing between books on the shelves.

‘O god, o god, you Irish. No matter what you do, you somehow always manage to be destructive don’t you.’

‘Damn it Madam, do please try to control your ethnic slurs when I am in fact doing my damnedest best to kill a bloody rat here for you.’

‘Well I would appreciate at least if you would leave me a place to live in afterwards.’

‘Well, you go kill him then. He’s right behind your painting pallet leaning there.’

‘I shall attempt to do no such thing. I am mortally terrified of rats. Here’s your cocoa.’

‘Thank you.’

‘O dear. My trials. My tribulations. Now I shan’t sleep a wink the entire night. When indeed tomorrow I shall need to be at my most productive.’

‘Well the rat should cause no difficulty, if you treat him as you did one of your cats and feed him properly.’

‘I’ll do no such thing. He must be got rid of.’

‘Why Madam.’

‘Why. I’ll tell you why. To conserve my creative energy. I’ll have you know I am in the middle of my blue spheroid period if you must know. And also have an important commission to undertake. You see, occasionally some fortune does at least show promise of soon coming into my life.’

‘Well I’m delighted. What is it.’

‘I shan’t say who, as the matter is only exploratory at this stage. But I have been offered, by someone who can afford, one rather large portrait commission. And if it in fact happens I shall be at least temporarily quite well off. And I always find those things one talks about too much have the habit of not happening. O god, there’s the rat again.’

‘Madam for god’s sake don’t bloody panic like that.’

Darcy Dancer spilling the hot cocoa on his fist jumping to his feet. The rat running in behind canvases propped against the wall. Darcy Dancer grabbing the broom. Hot on its heels. Lois shrieking as her canvases overturn. And O god I feel something soft underfoot. A long tube. With its distinctly wrong end splitting open. Flake white it says on the label. Jetting out a long wiggling fat worm of paint. And whoops. The cap’s off this, alizarine crimson. And O shit, burnt sienna too. And cobalt bloody blue, squeezed out everywhere under my feet.

‘Stop. Stop. For god’s sake stop. You’re ruining me. You’re stepping on top of my paint, squeezing out all my tubes.’

‘Damn it Madam, why do you leave them here on the floor where they can’t be seen.’

‘Stop. Stand still. Now you’re trampling it all over. O my god, you’ve got it on to my Afghan rug. The only precious thing I possess in the world. On my very good only single heirloom. Which lay in front of my father’s desk at the Admiralty and upon which some of England’s most distinguished feet have stood. I’m ruined.’

‘Do shut up Madam. Don’t be so obtuse. Please.’

‘Obtuse. Whomever do you think you’re speaking to, you little upstart. I could outwit you in any endeavour you care to mention.’

‘Except killing rats of course.’

‘How utterly pretentious. You haven’t, have you, changed. Assuming superiority. O god, the rat. There he is. Peering at me. He’s stalking me.’

‘Just stay where you are and don’t move.’

‘I’m not.’

‘Rats can jump at your throat.’

‘O god do something. But don’t have the paint go everywhere.’

‘I’ve got paint all over my shoes.’

‘Well dear stupid boy take them off.’

‘O christ. Now I’ve got bloody paint all over my socks.’