J. Donleavy - The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman

All spiffy and tingling just that little bit with moral evil, I went down in the iron cage of the lift. Watching the green uniformed attendant with his little lever lowering me from floor to floor. Thinking apropos of nothing at all that Nurse Ruby was forever pulling my sister Beatrice Blossom’s pigtails and making her cry. Just as she used to play with my penis and make me laugh. And Miss von B. She wanted to kiss me goodbye as we stood with the breeze blowing in the front hall. I kept leaning back quite naughtily out of her reach. And then, the moment Catherine retreated from delivering our sandwiches and Mr Arland had gone down the steps to mount the cart, she grabbed me. Said I was looking elegant. Her lips soft. Quite substantial tears came into her eyes. I was glad. Clearly it meant I would be missed.

In the lobby, within the space of only a few minutes, I saw three monocles being worn and shudderingly thought each time it was my father. I lurked by one of the pillars and watched into the great high ceilinged lounge. Crowded now with tweedy gentlemen looking like human branches of hawthorn. They sat, walked and loudly talked. The constant refrain, yes yes, quite quite. And when not discoursing on horses, they seemed to be speaking of snipe, fox, grouse, salmon or pheasant. And it appeared that they were, as Mr Arland suggested, hysterically pukka. And had hunting fishing and shooting appointment books instead of souls. And matters of cultural beauty could not possibly cross their outdoor minds. Except if it had wings. And then it would be promptly blasted from the sky.

I followed Mr Arland through a small cosy sitting and writing room of flower covered deep soft sofas. Up stairs to a balcony and out into a hall and down stairs again and into another hall. Through curtained french doors we stepped into a blue large room, white splendid medallions on the walls. The colour seemed that of our faded blue north east parlour when on winter sunny mornings the sun flooded in our tinted window panes. A blonde lady with her undulating curves held voluptuously in a long blatantly orange gown, swept in. Her gently bouncing alabaster bosoms nakedly swelling forth and nearly popping out. Her nose repeatedly sniffing upwards and hooking a little as if she were smelling a fume drifting in over her left shoulder. She joins a red haired moustachioed gentleman at the bar who bows deeply, kissing her hand. A cigarette between her lips wagging up and down. Her voice reverberating.

‘Ronald, Ronald. You are so pleasantly flattering with your attentions. Especially when I feel I shall faint with the noise and the people. Buy me a drink quickly.’

‘For you madam, only a bottle of the house’s best champagne will do.’

‘O Ronald darling you are dear dear.’

In here under the soft white marble mantel, a turf fire roared. The cold black bleak city shut out. Hiding all those poor and hungering, all those cold and lonely. And hunched backs carrying their tattered garments. The gentleman called Ronald dressed for dinner. His dark elegance and long ivory cigarette holder. As we sit at our glass topped table in our wicker chairs. In this warmth and safety. One other gentleman in the corner reading a book which, judging by his concentration, must be saucy indeed. The waiter retreating backwards out of our presence. To bring us sherry. Mr Arland with his one usual grey suit, sporting a tie I had not seen before.

‘What is that tie, Mr Arland.’

‘Trinity College. I wear it while in Dublin, Kildare. In some places it would get you excellent service, in others perhaps, you might get a kick in the pantaloon.’

Following our first sherry and upon completion of half our second, the lady in the fiery gown was tippling back the last drops of her champagne. And then both Mr Arland and I faltered in our conversation. For it appeared that the shapely lady had pulled down that part of her dress which previously covered and now prominently exposed her left breast. Pressing it up with her hand, showing it to Ronald.

‘You see Ronald can’t you, where that wretched stallion bit me. I can’t help that I arouse horses. Look, one two three teeth marks, quite black and blue. Even geldings get into a frenzy when they sniff me.’

Ronald then, quite deliberately slowly I thought, took a pair of spectacles from his inside pocket. Placing them half way down his nose. He leaned deeply over to make a lengthy inspection. All the while making suitable sympathetic noises through a large gap between his protruding front teeth.

‘Indeed quite so my dear, you were well and truly bitten. Clearly however, if I may say so, judging by the tooth marks, by a thoroughbred.’

‘Yes, a Derby winner, he just missed my nipple.’

‘Yes, he did. I rather noticed that.’

Following more of Ronald’s scrutiny and a final appreciative pat, the breast was replaced under its coverings. The gentleman in the corner, no longer regarding his book, absolutely gaped with his mouth open wide enough for doves to fly in. And the waiter and bartender brought their eyes back down again from the ceiling. Mr Arland and I departed through the passage crossing the little sitting room once more.

‘That lady back there Kildare, acts also upon the Dublin stage. Where her performances are not nearly so good. And that chap Ronald, I’ll tell you more about later.’

The dining room waiters in plenty scurried around us. For starters we had saumon fumé. I ordered steak, spinach and chips. And felt quite pleasantly inebriated taking a glassful of the Pommard Mr Arland ordered with his roast beef, as I, even with my rudimentary French, pointed out mistakes in the French menu. Mr Arland saying wistfully.

‘They mean well but it would be so much better and accurate if things were said in English.’

‘What if they were said in Irish, Mr Arland.’

‘The gentry would starve Kildare.’

Great crimson drapes drawn closed across the windows. The faint sweet smells of cooking sprouts, cabbage and other green things. Sauces pouring from the sauce boats. Wines of sacred vintages cradled carefully across the carpets. Altogether the sort of setting of which Crooks would approve. The most distinguished looking of black tail coated waiters, giving their lofty orders down through a chain of command. Till it reached some little boy who had to run and do all the dirty work. And was stationed standing by some empty table adding polishing touches to the silverware and sneaking looks at the nearby guests. Or rushing back and forth following urgent hisses from under waiters to fetch this or that. As still other little boys went pageing by mournfully intoning people’s names.

Throughout the meal I still had the uncomfortable feeling that my father was somewhere near. Half expecting him to suddenly turn round and be one of those tweedy thin gentlemen who kept pausing to look at the Fox Hunting fixtures posted on the wall in the hall. Mr Arland eating with gusto. Smiling at me, and shaking his head in agreement as I smiled back and chewed down another chunk I’d sliced off my slab of blood rare steak. Dublin suddenly most agreeable. Mr Arland happily putting his nose over the edge of his Pommard. But I could tell he was still distressed over Baptista Consuelo and he would apropos of nothing at all refer to the subject of fox hunting. Asking me of lady Masters of Foxhounds.

‘Sir they do frequently want to have that honour, especially as the one who leads the hunt gets no splatter. And a lady might then appear at the end of a day’s hunting just as splendidly fresh and radiant as she was at the beginning.’

I was nearly on the verge of launching into the more scandalous aspects of hunting. Of how ladies with their blood up were constantly attempting to entice even the Master at the end of the day into some seemly copse and there dismounted to have lively congress with him upon the cold wet moss and grass. But I was so distracted with the arrival of my favourite pudding, trifle. And while Mr Arland was having cheese, port and a cigar, I with fork and spoon rapidly shovelled it with accompanying scads of thick cream, most deliciously between my lips. But soon as I was finished, Mr Arland, never one to waste time when he could be imparting knowledge, discoursed upon the Constitution of the United States. When suddenly who should leap up from a distant corner in the room smiling ear to ear. And waving as he came, cross over to our table. Barging quite unceremoniously between the other diners. One of whose elbows was knocked sending a fork into that part of his face where there was no mouth. And leaving I think four little bloody puncture holes. The Count Blandus MacBuzuranti O’Biottus pausing to somewhat hysterically commiserate and apologize. Until he finally reached us flushed and red faced but bubbling with excitement.