J. Donleavy - The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman

Darcy Dancer at the top of the stairs. Rashers Ronald at the bottom smiling back up. As I hesitate. Looking down. In fear. Plunging into hell. After the most despicable incident of one’s life. Only thing worse than blackmail is not succeeding at it. But now my nobility of person tarnished. Ready for the devil. Feel like a lone chicken at Andromeda Park. After the fox had killed all the others. And the bird perched high up in the rafters of the barn. Waiting for death. As the fox waited sitting below. Till at last this feathered tidbit would fall in frozen terror down into its jaws. Just as I fall. In shallowness and deceit. Planning to perpetrate ignominious shenanigans. In the company of this fellow. So totally abbreviated in his code and conduct. Without scruples. Already claiming me as an accomplice. When I should demur. Depart.

‘Do please, my good chap. Proceed to join me. Indeed you must. As I am totally impecuniously unable to cater for myself. You’ll find the Buttery this time of day a most suitably charming place.’

Darcy Dancer stepping down the thick carpeted steps. To go below ground into this late afternoon darkness. Where is she now. My Miss von B. In another man’s eyes. In his arms. Turn left into shadows full of tinkling glasses. Scents of perfumes. Voices murmuring. Through the shoulders and laughter. Follow Rashers. Right up to the bar.

‘Now. Dear me. My friend I must allow you to ask me what it is I am drinking. And from the bottom of my heart I do apologize for the seeming extravagance but I would so like to have my usual champagne. It has become a habit with me. The vitamin C it contains I believe creates a dependency. Or else it’s the vitamin D. In any event I failed at applied physiology. O god the sadness sometimes of one’s life. With only its very briefest sparks of joy. When one has had a big winner at the races.’

Darcy Dancer ordering a bottle of champagne. Such a nice dry name, Heidsieck. From a bartendering chap who would appear to be momentarily suspicious of me. When I demanded it be put on my hotel bill. Until my suitably haughty demeanour put him at his ease. And he hefts up a two handled silver chalice with panels of gold wire filigree. Clanks in ice. And places the bottle to rest snugly in among the chill cubes. With Rashers lighting another borrowed cigarette in his holder.

‘Now my dear chap. You see. Although ice is utterly new to the country, the style of my own wine cooler is not. It is an enlarged replica of the Ardagh Chalice. Had it made by the best of silversmiths as soon as the invention of frigid water came to pass. Most precious thing I possess. Would not part with it for the world. Every time I have stood outside the pawn shop with it, its semi precious blue and red gems have shed silver gilt tears. I simply couldn’t do the mean thing. But I do rush on. Who on earth in Dublin are you anyway. Not that one doesn’t think you already such a splendid young chancer. Please. Don’t object. Just as you are about to do. To that word. Be instead proud of it. Now, my young fine feathered friend who are you.’

‘I’d really rather not say.’

‘Triumphant Absolutely triumphant. Precisely as you should. You have said. That you’d really rather not say. The nuance is perfect. One already senses the hint of your debrett entitlement, the rolling endless acres of grazing. The fox hunting. The polo. The bloodstock. The right people left and right.’

‘I think you are rather making over much of it. I merely said I’d rather not say who I am.’

‘Ah you are touchy my dear chap. But it is the way in which you said it. But then in our line of adventuring mountebankism it is best if one can use the old nom de guerre instead of the old nom de famille and thereby keep the old incognito intact. But between professionals dear chap there should be an exchange of confidences. Especially while the champagne is cooling. Now let me tell you the plans. We shall take our refreshment here till the noise and the people dictate otherwise hoping of course to avoid the doom of closing time. But a bash at which we shall attend should present itself long before that. Ah shall we now fill our glasses. Awaken our senses to this pale golden wine. There. Ah my god, what bliss. Now to my distant future plans. In my fortune hunting you especially will be pleased to hear that I have laid hold of a lady. Whose stout build I did not object to nor from whose full false upper and lower dentures did I cower. Owns the freeholds of three Dublin pubs. Two of them in squalid but good trading positions in North Dublin. She has another pub in the country. The profits from which purchased all the others. Together with her in wedlock we shall convert her eighty acres to a small stud farm. Of course I don’t want you to think for one second that I am an unfeeling person. I am not. I would worship the very expensive deep pile carpets the lady walked on. But as recently as this morning I was shirtily refused my daily ration of cigarettes from her tobacconist’s shop. Shows one churlishness is always but a breath away. And I hope you won’t mind dear chap getting me a mere pack of ten. That kind of thing would send one in pursuit of rich American divorcees. By god then you’d soon see some bloodstock in my ruddy paddocks. But my dear chap the secret is never be less than compassionate. How do. How are you. So desperately glad to see you.’

Rashers greeting new arrivals. Appearing between our every sip of champagne. Faces one sees at the races. And in other pubs and in other lobbies. Streets like the halls of some vast country house. All just as Miss von B once said it was. Except they’ve not fought, washed off the blood, shook hands and fought again. And o my God. There just entered, I see through the waving heads. The Marquis in his tartans and the blonde tresses of Baptista Consuelo. Amid the crowd and din. Back slaps and laughter. Sit here. Swept away. Out to sea. On a raft of blossoming dreams with all these people. Their gaiety. And the self assurance of those who have won at the races. Drinks coming hard and fast. One wants so much to know. Where are you. Miss von B. And to ask. Where is Mr Arland. Where is his Clarissa.

‘But I think the time has come for you to say something, my good young chap. For a start, what shall I call you. I really must call you something.’

‘Macgillicudy.’

‘Ah. One could never ask for a name more portending in promise of great future fortune hunting than that. Let us drink to it. Macgillicudy. Cheers.’

‘Cheers.’

‘To both our fortunes. To white ties. To our swallow tail coats. To that girl in pink. Just over there. When I was a handsome undergraduate at that university down the street. In my rooms in New Square. I had every morning. Two young ladies call. And she, radiantly beautiful dear girl, from a family of rich fishmongers, was one. Both were members of the school of modern languages. The other girl was the daughter of an eminent surgeon. But one does sometimes prefer the successful mercantile class of Dublin society. Surgeons are such bullies when they get you on the operating table knocked out cold. Slashing you often in the most vulnerably wrong places, in a hurry to play golf. Of course I speak from wretched experience as a failed medical student. Doing my bit of stabbing as well. But my dear chap. These girls were vying to make me breakfast. While I disported bollocks naked in the altogether. One’s frozen testicles giving one’s penis the most marvellous pneumatic bounce as one went to close the shutters to passing prying eyes. Hungering over my rashers. The latter after which of course I am unfortunately named. And women are so marvellous. The way they will utterly tolerate jealousy to snare some poor bugger. June in Trinity week, on the day of the College Races, I rogered both in continuo. As one groaned the other rejoiced. We three, we loved each other. I shall remember that day till I die. Trinity Week Dance at the Gresham Hotel. Both of them. One on each of my arms. So staggeringly beautiful in their gowns. Days my dear chap. Days never to come again. The Lawn Tennis Championships in College Park. God. Too soon does ecstatic beauty and joy pass from one’s life. Too soon. And damn too soon without warning does sadness descend. To pinion in death the most utter beauty of all.’