J. Donleavy - The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman

Darcy Dancer his head slowly emerging from the green drapery. Getting carefully to his knees and on one silent bare foot at a time standing up. Good lord one’s penis is sticking out. Made constantly to stand by my most lewd mind. Just slip the curtain rings off this big long pole. And noiselessly this yoke should do the trick. If I get room enough to get a good enough swing. She’s waving me back. And I’ve got to go forward. And do it fast. Just like he’s really pumping it into her mouth now.

Darcy Dancer gladiator, with his eight foot mahogany pole held two handed across his chest. Tiptoeing forward on his bare feet. Nearly losing my balance with Lois’s eyes popping out of her head. Which in her extremely limiting circumstances she is trying to shake back and forth. Waving her hand around his arse to tell me to go away. When I’ve got only this one chance to stun him with just one good belt of this yoke. A hammer like Foxy uses would be better to sink into his head. But if I can sweep this around in a big enough arc it should do the job. If dear god I don’t miss. He won’t know what hit him. The white skin of both Lois’s elbows pointing at me, putting her hands over her eyes. As death gets close you want to live longer and longer. And maybe as old as twenty eight. This man doesn’t seem at all like a member of the Royal Automobile Club. As he gyrates groaning. Wish him no permanent harm. As Foxy used to say to the bull when it broke the fence. But I’ll break your fucking beast’s back end. And I must bust this head good and proper. Sweep this piece of timber in its wide arc over the colours of this quilt to land it thudding and cracking on the back of this curly headed skull. And peace be with you and with thy spirit.

‘O God, God. You’ve killed him. You stupid silly little boy. Why didn’t you wait, as I tried to tell you, till he was asleep. He always falls into a dead sleep. And you’d have had plenty of time to get out. You must have fractured his skull. O God there’s blood.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Sorry. While my life is a wreck. You’re sorry. Of course it can mean little to you. But he does have the biggest balls in Dublin. I’ll never get him to pose again if he thinks someone is waiting to batter his head like that. Well get out. Go. Fast as you can.’

‘Is there much blood.’

‘Don’t worry about blood, go.’

‘I haven’t killed him, have I.’

‘If you have, I shall direct those authorities who may be interested in who did, to the Shelbourne Hotel. Is that right.’

‘Yes madam. But I did it in your defence, doesn’t that help. Isn’t that allowed. I mean it’s fair if a gentleman’s trying to rape you.’

‘And your name.’

‘Reginald Darcy Dancer Thormond Kildare.’

‘Good god. I know your father. And you with that goose stepping whorer. Who gave those bites. Who went to work for him. Just go. He groaned. He’s still breathing. Get your clothes on.’

Darcy Dancer stuffing socks into pockets. Pulling, tugging and diving into his clothes. And pushing his tie with its tiny mauve dots on a deep purple background into a coat pocket.

‘I wish madam. I wish.’

‘You wish. Yes.’

‘That you did not know who I am.’

‘You won’t be wishing anything if you don’t get out.’

‘Goodbye. Shall I ever see you again.’

‘No you won’t. Goodbye.’

Darcy Dancer walking out the open landing door. Sweetly sick smell of decay. A dustbin at the top of the stairs. Go down two at a time. And step gingerly over these bottles and broken glass at the bottom. Lock hanging broken on the door. Chill wind and rain blowing in. Gather my coat around me. I’d better trot or better run. Down and out this alley. Turn right. Along this greyest of greyest streets. Till I come somewhere to the hospital. Where faint lights show. In there the dying and nearly dead. Go left. Till I reach that Church. House of God up the alley. Where went poor Mr Arland’s shoes in Paris. On some ignoble person’s feet. The coffee smell. Rush back all the rest of the way to the Shelbourne. From where I never did get any cocoa.

In this

Big wicked

City

Of Dublin

The lobby of the Shelbourne this Sunday morning. Step outside under a fresh blue sky, the sun pink through the branches of the trees in St Stephen’s Green. And I came back into the warmth to see Mr Arland looking awfully sleepy disembarking from the lift. Crossing to where I stood watching and listening to an irate wife berate her husband for dropping a heavy bag right on her toe. Had she not been so fat she could have hopped about in pain. Mr Arland bowing to me and the doorman handing him a message.

‘Well Kildare, this is from your father.’

‘What does he want.’

‘That’s not the tone in which to inquire.’

‘Well I can’t feel that whatever the communication is that it will do me any good.’

‘O dear Kildare. You are being needlessly negatory. You are to be at an address not far from here at noon.’

Much of the night long I lay thinking the garda might burst in the door to arrest me. Or the gunman with a bandaged head to shoot me. Finally woke in my bed my left eye opening first. The tumble of thick crimson lace covered eiderdown made me think it was a big blood covered wave. Pitching and tossing a raft upon which I sat with an enormous naked woman. Who kept grabbing at me with long hideous leathery claws. Till I began seeing across the room and out my window to the grey green purple hills of the Dublin mountains.

Sheltered from the wind one could feel the sun’s warmth on one’s face as we walked along the street. Till we were nearly run down by two horsecabs racing around the corner. Mr Arland said it was probably a Dubliners’ friendly chariot race. That traditionally on Saturday night drunken bets were made on contests conducted on even drunker Sunday mornings. Now down this Dawson Street. At the end of its vista under clean new clouds, the iron fence of Trinity College and the University rooftops beyond the trees. Mr Arland’s eyes glowing bright and his walk jaunty.

‘Kildare I’ve never told anyone this, but I one night stole all the ripe tomatoes out of the Provost’s greenhouse.’

‘Oooo naughty sir.’

‘Well I was an impecunious scholar, quite starving at the time. And nearly killed myself climbing over the walls. I did however upon my receiving my first income have sent to the Provost a basket of tomatoes from a reputable greengrocer.’

And entering this place of worship. A tall chilly vestibule. Names and legends on marble plaques up high on the walls. March straight up to the very top pews. The name Arland on a brass plate. The service just begun. These few parishioners. Mr Arland whispering.

‘Kildare, there is nothing quite so empty as a protestant church in Dublin except one outside Dublin.’

The party last night only a short distance away from these voices so devoutly singing. Mr Arland joins them with gusto. Makes me feel quite awful, an out and out sinner, in this religious atmosphere. Anyone with the least perception looking at me could easily tell I’ve been steeped in filth and morbid corruption. And I even have another erection. With the voice of this visiting English vicar intoning.

‘Almighty God, upholder of purity, fountain of all goodness, we humbly beseech thee to bless our gracious King and all the Royal family. Imbue them with thy holy spirit, enrich them with thy heavenly grace, prosper them with all happiness.’

Mr Arland with his hands resting before him on the pew. Had such a look of relief on his face pushing in my door this morning in his dressing gown and slippers to see me gnawing through a bacon rasher couched thickly on a buttery bit of toast and sipping my tea. And I must now whisper to him. Especially following some of the political statements last night.