J. Donleavy - The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman

‘Why don’t you try it.’

‘What. What did you say. Try it. Surely you little fellow, you’re having me on. I wouldn’t dare. Corrupt you.’

‘I thought not. You’re all talk aren’t you. That silly kind of thing ladies like you of the Bohemian set think is the modern fashion.’

‘In one second I think I shall slap your little face.’

‘And should you madam, I will in turn, slap yours.’

‘Just who the hell are you, you brat.’

‘My father frequently refers to me as a bastard, but I don’t suppose that information will enlighten you much.’

‘It enlightens me a great deal. But I think you should be got out of here.’

This lady leaning close to Darcy Dancer’s ear, her lips touching to whisper. The softness of her mouth. Makes me rather shiver pleasantly. Just as Thunder and Lightning must do when Foxy on cold winter nights rubbed and squeezed his ears to make him warm and calm.

‘Dear boy, there is an unwholesome element. Not to mention the many mediocre minds present. But see those men. They are gunmen. Quite ruthless. Not the sort of type a young man such as you ought to be rubbing elbows with. The Count should be ashamed of himself for inviting you. Come. Come with me immediately.’

‘Why should I.’

‘Because I shall, dear boy, besides showing you my etchings, make you the most marvellous cocoa you have ever had.’

The lady casting her eyes for Darcy Dancer to follow across the room. Past a hefty bruiser wearing a red carnation in his buttonhole. A gentleman they said was a champion boxer. And a red haired beauty they said was his girlfriend who used shoes to bang his head as he used fists to bang her face. They were called all over Dublin the Bruises United. And to three gentlemen in caps and macintoshes standing about sucking on the ends of cigarettes, looking furtively at the doorway and indeed unpleasantly in my direction. Certainly cocoa as a beverage is not to be dismissed lightly. And always was, after wild blackberry jam that Nannie Nurse Ruby specially made for me, my second favourite food. Coming hot in a jug up from the kitchens snug under a tea cosy on the chill winter nights, when Nannie Ruby told me my bedtime stories of big green dragon monsters and wise old billy goats. There stands Rashers Ronald brushing a speck from his dinner clothes as he loftily intones to a shabby rain coated gent beside him.

‘Would you mind awfully getting out of my life, I prefer the company of people creative in the arts rather than criminal in the crafts.’

And now bodies jumping in the centre of this smoky room. The floor as well as the whole building shaking. A roaring shout.

‘Give him violence or give him death but don’t give the greedy fucker another bottle of stout.’

‘You’ll give me another bottle of stout by gob or I am going to kick the living bejesus out of you back and forth across the border till not a vestige of that division is left, you cunt, you.’

This wavy haired gentleman in a mustard coloured sweater, his fist gripped tightly round the neck of a Guinness. And mounting and standing on the delicate fabric of a chaise longue.

‘Shut up now while I’m talking to you. And let me hereby assert to every bollocks here assembled, my inalienable, indefeasible and sovereign right to drink and fuck myself to death from one end of the national territory to the other so help me satan and to let it be said once and for all across Ireland that never in the history of the nation has so much been drunk by so few or so few fucked by so many. More power to the intelligentsia. Up the Republic.’

A chair suddenly flying from the direction of the three outspoken gentlemen. Goes crashing through the window and falling to the street below. Where, unhappily, as was reported by someone leaning out watching it, it landed on a guest just arriving with a parcel of drink. And knocked to the pavement, bottles smashing, he lay in a large pool of dark foaming beer. A voice calling down.

‘Binky darling, o what a nuisance for you, are you hurt.’

And brown foam slipping down the sides of the glasses held in all these hands. Two voices singing. Someone shouting pipe down. And between the weaving heads and parting shoulders I see in a more peaceful corner, an animated Mr Arland talking to none other than the courtesan. He really looks so jolly pleased. Must be telling her my best jokes for normally he is never that hilarious. And the Dublin actress is laughing. Bosoms heaving with her alabaster arms nearly flapping out of her flame radiant dress. Could cross over to say that a kind lady was snatching me from the present mayhem to preserve my virtuousness. But poor Mr Arland, after all his mortifications at the hands of that bitch Baptista, I’m sure does not want to be disturbed. Especially in what might be some new romance in his life. Just as I would not approach when lonely he played our corroding out of tune piano. The compositions of Sergei Vassilievitch Rachmaninoff as Mr Arland insisted he be called. Nor may he see this lady artist as my saviour and might feel he personally should escort me back to the Shelbourne.

‘Come with me. And call me Lois dear boy. You see I told you. About these men. They are quite frightening. But what would you know of an artist’s fears or suffering. And the awful sacrifices one makes for one’s work. Especially when one is without patrons. My milk bill, gas bill, my rent Who’s going to pay them.’

Darcy Dancer following Lois out to the landing and into a back room. The sound of heavy breathing and rolling and pitching bodies in the darkness. Digging in the heaving shadows, Lois unearthing her coat. Tugging it from beneath a lady and gentleman who were seemingly transported in a groaning moaning paroxysm.

‘How dare you do that on my coat you filthy people. Get off. You see don’t you, dear boy, the kind of monstrous shamelessness I am rescuing you from.’

Lois pulling me back with her into the hall. I held her leather string pouch and helped hold her heavy garment as she plunged her arms into the sleeves. She stands pinioning the front together with elongated wooden buttons and then pulled a hood up over her head.

‘Only good thing my husband left me. He used to wear it on the bridge of his ship. He was a lieutenant commander dear boy. Ah but I’ve got you now, haven’t I.’

A strange dreamy smile coming over her face. She grabbed me by the head and shoved her tongue deep into my ear where it went burrowing around. We nearly fell down the stairs and her saliva left me quite deaf for a moment and I wondered if she could taste my wax. And I look at her legs. Where I had never seen a lady wear trousers before.

‘Don’t look at me as if you think I’m bizarre dear boy. I just am.’

On the landing below, past another room from which came the smell of incense, she stuck her tongue again deep in my ear. And as we proceeded downwards, she reached upwards backwards to apply a momentary squeeze to my privates. My heart surprised me as it pounded with some excitement descending the last flight and out the door to the street. On the pavement more guests arrived and stood standing over the gent Binky as he sat groggily regaining his senses. With his raincoat open showing him entirely stark naked underneath. And he cried out when spotting my Bohemian artist friend.

‘Lois, my dear, where are you going you naughty girl with that frightfully attractive young innocent looking boy.’

‘Never you mind Binky, it’s a pity you can’t keep out of the way of falling chairs.’

‘I may be felled my dear but I shall be erected soon.’

Lois hurrying Darcy Dancer past several shops and doorways and a pub with polished brass fittings outside. We turn left and up this shadowy thoroughfare, hardly a soul on the street, save a tiny barefoot boy yelling out to sell his newspapers to a man staggering in front of a furniture shop window, speaking earnestly and gesticulating vehemently to his reflection in the glass.