J. Donleavy - The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman

‘O god dear boy, everywhere people are roving insane out of their minds in this city.’

The gesticulating gentleman struck one or two classically proper stage poses and obviously had a sense of theatre. But as I tried to slow down to watch his performance Lois pulls me forward along another alley with a fragrant smell of coffee. And then left again. Street called Chatham Row. Ahead a great grey granite building Lois says is a hospital. How will I ever remember the way to get back to the Shelbourne. A voice from somewhere calling.

‘A pennv, the oranges.’

As I pause Lois again catching and pulling me by the arm. Moving as quickly around another corner. At an alley entrance she stops. Turning to look back. Her voice coming out of her nose.

‘I’m sorry to rush like this but I simply hate being followed as I sometimes am. By these hordes of sexually frustrated people. Such a bore. And that old wicked queen. Serves him right to get banged on the head with a chair. He’d just love to get his hands on you. The Count should be ashamed. Inviting you, and your tutor taking you, a mere totally innocent boy. Thank God I was there. Think what might otherwise have happened. Someone should tell your mother.’

‘I do appreciate your rescuing me. Madam.’

‘And so you should be. And why do you keep using that madam. You’re not a shop assistant are you.’

‘No madam.’

‘Well then stop it. My name is Lois.’

Up this dark narrow alley. Past tall warehouse doors. A chill wind blowing up behind our backs. The wails and hisses of a screaming cat fight. And bells tolling as I count up to nine, ten, eleven. The only life now through the empty city streets. Illumined by the near lamplight ahead stuck high on a wall, its gas mantel flickering. Lois rummaging in her leather pouch. Taking out a key on a long white string. And pushing it in the lock of this pale green door on which a brass number says four. I waited standing on the wet glistening cobbles till she reached and pulled me rather forcibly in. And a draught of wind suddenly slammed the door thunderously shut. Lois stumbled backwards falling over milk bottles. And landed with a thud on her bottom. I really laughed.

‘You think that’s funny. I certainly don’t appreciate your sense of humour. Here help me up damn you.’

‘I apologize madam, I really do, but you did go down as if felled by an axe.’

‘I’ll fell you with an axe. And stop that damn madam. And get me up. I think I may have crushed a vertebra. Or dislocated my hip. O god, does, anyone know, does anyone realize, the trials and tribulations of the sincere and dedicated artist.’

Darcy Dancer in this darkness, lifting Lois upwards under the armpits. Only a few hours in Dublin and I’ve attended a party and am dragging a lady limply along this hall knocking over more bottles and trying to lower her gently seated on the bottom step of the stairs.

‘At least I’m glad to see you are quite strong.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Well I think I’m alright. It’s my diet which has been so poor. So wretched. I’m quite nearly starving sometimes you know. That’s why I go to those awful parties. To eat. And one hardly ever can because all they do is drink. Every penny I earn must go towards buying more paint and canvas.’

Lois slowly getting to her feet and holding a banister rail to lead Darcy Dancer feeling his way up the narrow steep staircase. The sound of a box of matches opening. And Lois strikes one once, twice and three times. And finally a flame. To light four candles. A large tall room. A big pot bellied iron stove in the centre. Glassy blackness beyond a great skylight. Paintings stacked everywhere.

‘I nearly have a good mind to send you away laughing at me like that. And not to let you see my etchings. But of course I will give you some hot cocoa. Well, don’t just stand there. Take off your coat.’

Clusters of massive testicles in great wild tropical curvatures of colour with penises cascading down them like waterfalls. The canvases leaning overlapping along the walls. By the blackened rusty stove, three steps up to a high dais. Before it an easel holding a full length portrait of the Count. Missing an unfinished arm and a lower leg. The rest of his muscular body wearing only his extremely smooth skin, posed against a deep green flowing drapery. His privates most shockingly prominent not to say bulging out of his blond curling pubic hair. And strewn on the floor water colour drawings of a quite black individual, with uncommonly not to say improbably whopping sexual organs.

‘This is where I sleep dear boy.’

A wide quilt covered bed stacked with brightly coloured pillows. Upon which Lois throws her great heavy duffel coat. And then sits to pull off her green sweater. A long sleeved tight pink garment underneath.

‘You have a lot of pictures of naked men.’

‘They are not naked men. Studies, dear boy. Studies of the male nude.’

A table with a jar of marmalade and half a loaf of bread. A fish skeleton on a plate. In a corner by a small window a sink stacked full of dishes. Lois putting out her chest as she arose again. Pressing her hands down across her backside.

‘Thank god I’ve not broken bones. That’s all I’d need on top of everything else.’

She crosses to open the door of the stove. Pushing in long pieces of black turf as smoke poured out. And as she slams it closed, a grey sleek cat jumps miaowing up on the table. Lois waving it off and lifting her arms to scratch.

‘Have you got bugs madam.’

‘Stop calling me that.’

‘Well you call me dear boy.’

‘Well then I shall stop. And I have not got bugs. But I should apologize for scratching. It is my woolly long underwear. I must wear at least two pairs. To keep warm when I’m working. This is my outside one I dyed pink. Now let me look at you. Just sit there. Yes. On the stool. Now just turn a little to the left. You have the most exquisite face. Your most perfectly straight nose. And such marvellously large peasant hands.’

‘I am not a peasant.’

‘Ah but we know that. You are a proper little country gent. With the most magnificent mediaeval profile. Elizabethan. Quite beyond anything one might expect would come out of the Irish countryside. I want you to pose.’

‘For a study.’

‘My dear boy, you do catch on rather fast, don’t you. Of course I shouldn’t want to embarrass you. But art demands the elimination of the squeamish little restrictions and conventions society has so barbarously imposed upon us.’

Lois surveying Darcy Dancer, holding her head a little to the side. Putting her hand on her hip and sucking air between her lips. With her duffel coat and the big green sweater off, she had quite surprisingly pronounced breasts. I had, when first confronting her, thought she was entirely without bosoms. And now behind her another bunch of bottles. Which must have once held stout. Each time she steps backwards while surveying me I get quite excited thinking that she might land crashing on her arse.again. But just at the last rotten second she notices them. Until suddenly she snapped her fingers.

‘I think I have got it. Yes, I have. There is absolutely something Flemish in your face. It must be in your ancestry. Transcending of course the underlying peasant aspect. But that’s it. I’ve found it. Flemish.’

Lois raising her chin. And now this insight it seems sending her stepping way back. Just marvellously far enough this time. To go yet with another almighty crash, falling back into and among the stout bottles. Darcy Dancer putting his hand up squeezing into his cheeks and pressing hard across his mouth to keep it closed. As one’s lungs were full to bursting and exploding. Too unbelievable that a lady of her mature age should be so stupidly awkward. Especially to trod on her own drawings and the defenceless black man’s cock and testicles. She must be a bloody exhibitionist.