J. Donleavy - The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman

‘Good day sir. Breakfast well.’

‘Yes thank you.’

‘Have today’s Sporting Herald.’

‘Yes I will, thank you.’

‘Put it on the tab sir.’

‘Yes, please do.’

With these words exchanged each morning with the hotel porter one did feel as if it were one’s own front hall. But instead of out to pastures, one stepped under the glass awning and down steps to the boulevard. Where with motor cars more prevalent one enjoyed the rather pleasant acrid fume. Wonder hourly what to do. Begging was a thought. Stirred each time I walked by the same blond and staring organ grinder on the bridge. Or sauntered constantly daily on the favoured and more socially acceptable streets. Paying special attention to that of Grafton. The delight never waning of walking up one side and down the other. Past the jewellers. Medical instrument suppliers. Cafés. Coffee shops. Then back and forth through Duke and Anne Streets. Up and down Dawson. Somewhere somehow I’m bound to meet Miss von B. Or surely find a party raging. Where one could meet and talk with someone. Or even find a lawyer perhaps. To sue my father.

I did however get myself a cane. From my faithful ever willing to please horse haberdasher in Dame Street. Which instantly cheered me up in my loneliness. And goodness sauntering with it this sunny Wednesday mid afternoon I disported in the peace of College Park to watch the girls play hockey and the gentlemen rugger. Then while contemplating rogering nearly every lady of any reasonable appearance, I nearly ran smack into Lois. Right in the roasting coffee aromas in front of Bewley’s Oriental Café on Grafton Street. Just after I had opened an account there and sent off a pound of their best chocolate fudge to Kelly with a quarter pound each of marzipan fondants and oriental jellies. Stood there thinking. For at least one and a half seconds. Before following her. My trouser sticking out like a tent. And Lois in a long knitted white wool coat. A green wool knitted hat popped atop her grey blonde hair. Striding in long mannish strides. Feel just like one of her hoard of sexually frustrated people she said trailed her. Avert my eyes from the many eyes in the passing faces that become more and more familiar each day. In the lobbies. The coffee houses. Everywhere on the street. Now need to run after her. With her walking speed. Down the street. Into Switzer’s. Lurked a moment feeling such a pervert in the ladies’ corsetry area. My penis throbbing. And Lois discussing with an unfriendly saleslady some undergarment she finally declines to buy.

Then through back streets. Kept swallowing my saliva. Thinking of her bosoms. As she bought vegetables in an old market. And every time I turn a corner. One is ready to meet one’s father. Or jump aside out of the arms of the waiting Master of Foxhounds. But my most lowest of low moments followed the last race at Leopardstown. Leaving me ever since so absolutely god awful broke. Winning the first two races. Losing the rest. Then without train fare removing myself so unglamorously all the way back to Dublin on my two feet. Had an intervening glass of water from a reluctant publican in Stillorgan. Who whispered to another customer that it was safer to serve the insane what they wanted. And reaching the lobby of the Hibernian as exhausted as I was stony broke. Not even able to dispense my usual shilling tips to the boot boy or the most solicitous doorman. And now. Like a sex starved maniac I am. Following this Bohemian home. Back by the Hospital. Whoops. Nip into a doorway. As she suddenly turns around. Nip out again. Keep creeping onwards. Wait. Let her go up her alley. And peruse for half an hour in a shaft of warm sunlight this cobbler’s window. With a statue of the Blessed Virgin surveying at her feet, a bunch of old warped shoes.

Darcy Dancer rapping on the door. Up between these shadowy walls. Strewn newspapers and patches of grease on the cobbles. The big doors of the warehouse. Heart thumping to knock on this pale green plank marked number four. O my god if the gunman answers. Bang. Bang. Be at least the end of the agony of wondering what’s going to happen to me. Feet coming down the stairs.

‘Identify yourself please.’

‘It’s me.’

‘I am most certainly not going to open up my door to that remark.’

‘Well I was here once before.’

‘Nor am I opening it to that remark.’

‘Well I’m the imperialist member of the squirearchy.’

‘Nor does that remark interest me since I am a fervent socialist.’

‘I’ve come to buy your pictures.’

‘Now that is more like it.’

Door opening. Lois stepping back. One hopes bloody hell, not over the milk bottles again.

‘It’s you. Good god.’

‘Yes.’

‘I thought I might have seen you. In Grafton Street. Well don’t just stand there. Come in. My god have you grown. Or have I shrunk since I last saw you. And when you nearly committed murder.’

‘I have been wanting for so long to apologize to you.’

‘Don’t apologize to me. People are poleaxing people in my bed all the time.’

‘Well it was discourteous striking someone from behind like that.’

‘Well no matter dear boy. At least you escaped certain death at the hands of a ruthless gunman. And as a matter of fact. It was hardly your fault. Well sit down. Will you have tea.’

‘Thank you.’

‘And you needn’t worry. He’s not about at the moment. And if he were. You’d hear it from his own lips. Quite amazing. When he woke up. He was simply ecstatic. He had according to him, when you bashed him, the greatest orgasm of his entire life. While I of course was having my greatest fright. Anyway how nice of you wanting to buy my pictures.’

The big studio. The full length portrait of the Count with his arm and lower leg now all in one piece. A ring of strawberry leaves round his head. The strong smell of turpentine in the warmer spring balmy weather. A north light bathing the stacked canvases. The stove door stuffed open with biscuit wrappings. Dishes crammed in the sink. Penises and balls everywhere. And my own dying to be exercised by that hand now putting a kettle on to boil.

‘Well this is a surprise. You of all people. An imperialist. Liking my pictures. And just in time. I’m simply so bored by my impecuniousness. It’s so tiresome. Well my dear boy, I don’t want to rush you but I have a collector coming, and I would like you to have first choice. Which of my paintings would you like to see.’

Darcy Dancer casually crossing his tweedy legs over his erection. Such a marvellous activity to spend these moments as a connoisseur of art. Sound of a fresh breeze blowing over the skylight. As one stares glued to her bosoms and swelling orbs of her bottom as she bends over revealing her canvases one by one. Then putting out her chest standing at a new swatch by the wall. To unveil art when I’d rather she unveiled her nipples. Her belly. Her crotch.

‘No. Can’t show you these. They’re not worthy. And my integrity would not allow me to sign them. But this dear boy is out of my green fertility period. Note how the penis here is pregnant with movement. And the testicle showing its marvellous spheroid line. It’s what one tries for. Tension in total and complete repose. Do you think I’ve caught it.’

‘Yes I do rather.’

I bought six paintings. One for every inch of my erection. And all for the awful staggering total of ninety-six pounds. One of course would have to hang them in a locked room away from prying eyes. Lois seemed not in the least troubled by my not having my cheque book with me. But otherwise she was all business. Showing me her most recent washes of the male nude. And not once even suggesting the removal of my clothes. Or giving even the remotest sign indicating she would welcome my stiff prick loosed into her presence. With its throbbing tension in total and complete repose.