J. Donleavy - The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman

Tears welling in Rashers’ eyes. As he turns his head away. Lips quivering. The light of his smile faded. The world dark. Heads turn and talk. With hardly a murmur of love. Or whisper of compassion. Or a thought for those sorrowing or hungering. Just horses. Bashes. Hunt balls. Last night’s larks. And champagne.

‘Forgive me my dear chap. That was most uncalled for. What I have just said. I do think I was attempting to impress you. One’s youthful moments of love. I suppose fills one some times with the most terrible longing. To go back. Back on those graceful college squares. But I don’t tell you these things to be a showoff. Rather be it known I am a man of compassion. I say it with all sincerity. Persistent pecuniary impoverishment has driven one to the precipice of the unprincipled. And I have jumped downwards. And one upon occasion has even landed among the gurrier element. Among whom I have, in too numerous an extremity, had to reside at the Iveagh House. That most practical but somewhat humbling premises over on Bride Street. Ah but let me introduce, my friend here.’

A massive man. Lurching like a tottering tower. A pink cravat at his velvet collared throat. Brows frowning, eyes blinking to see in my direction. And attempting to fix somewhere on one’s face. As he bows.

‘This is Macgillicudy, Leo.’

‘I am charmed. Charmed to meet you sir. Have a drink.’

‘Of course Macgillicudy, Leo paints ladies’ portraits with every bit as much artistry as he does when he fucks them.’

‘I object Ronald to your mentioning my two professions as if one depended on the other. However, bartender replace that bottle in Ronald’s cooler if you please. With another of the same brand and vintage. And who is this. Behind me. You madam. Please. Don’t split your infinitives and leave your gerunds dangling so uncomfortably close.’

A woman in black standing behind this giant man’s shoulders. Who pushes forward between the elbows. A black sequined purse clutched in her hand. Her mouth darkened with lip paint.

‘I shall not from you you big bear, take any of your semantic battering in this Buttery.’

‘Ah madam you are in every respect in the ablative absolute. And I beg your forgiveness.’

Feel the champagne less and less as one consumes more and more. Wonder now in the heady delight, was there ever such a thing as loneliness, and despair. Up out on the street darkness overtaking the late afternoon. These voices bubbling. The laughter. Turn one’s ears in any direction. Hear of horses, hernias, holocaust, heroes, harlots, hashish and hell. An abyss widening all round. To jump across. Or be swallowed up. And one is swallowed. As more and more of these euphoric come. To whom I am introduced. As the son of a baronet. Then a baron. Till the present bottle of champagne emptied. And one was a viscount, up to town selling cattle. A moment ago I was an earl, up to town for a new scarlet coat. And now, Rashers Ronald has just conferred upon me the entitlement The Marquis of Delgany and Kilquade up to town for the racing. Said I was the highest ranking peer there. That Major Jones the Mental Marquis was merely titled in the French peerage. And this black engowned lady. Comes swaying close.

‘You darling. You absolurely gorgeous darling. What eyes. Absolurely magic. Absolurely medieval. Good lord. You’re a leprechaun. Out of what celtic ether have you come. I invite you right this very moment absolurely virginal as you are to later take me in your arms.’

‘Well thank you.’

‘Thank me. Don’t dare thank me like that. Even though I have said I shall go willingly I shall fight bitterly but helplessly. I’m to be taken. Conquered. Swept away.’

‘Well I am not quite, I mean I’m rather not, I should say.’

‘What indeed should you say. Have you something to say. Have you.’

‘No. I haven’t.’

‘Ah that is what I love. Silence. Still waters my dear boy run deep. With my body enclosed about your own. You darling absolurely gorgeous creature. Crush you to death like a woodland flower. Squeeze from you your nectar. Who bred you. What vibrant man stallion covered your mother. Stunning creature she must have been. Of course in mourning with my hair dyed black, one does look gloomy, wearing only black gems. Is that why you are wide eyed looking at me. Do you know who I am.’

‘No.’

‘I am one of four scandalous sisters. And better known as the Black Widow. Now only three of us are left. As Ireland’s most beautiful creatures we are totally wasted on this utter desert. What have we to choose from but boorish big handed farmers. All with their favourite hounds peeing round the baseboards of their bedrooms and sharing their fleas with their masters in bed. Wouldn’t you like to put your hand upon my breast. Press your lips to my throat. As I lay.’

‘Well,’

‘I mean figuratively my dear boy. Figuratively. Well. Would you.’

‘Well.’

‘Well bloody what.’

‘Well madam I just don’t know what to say to your overtures.’

‘Overtures. What overtures. I speak my dear boy. Of love. Indeed not Irish love steeped in the greed of money. I mean great love. Love that destroys dynasties. Love that sacrifices thrones.’

‘But could that not be lust you speak of madam.’

‘Do you have the nerve to stand there in this Buttery and use the word lust to me.’

‘Well.’

‘There you go again. You’re totally repetitive. Must I take out your tongue and teach it to speak. Must I.’

‘Why are you doing this to me madam.’

‘Doing to you. I’m not doing a damn thing to you.’

‘Well you are rather acting like a femme galante.’

‘Of course I am. Because you are the most darling gorgeous creature I’ve seen for days. Don’t you find me as attractive as I find you.’

‘Yes. But you are extremely forward too.’

‘Can a woman be any other way in a land of wife beaters and onanists. I say Ronald I shall have champagne.’

‘Of course you shall my darling. And you have I see haven’t you, met my most marvellous friend. His Lordship the Marquis of Delgany and Kilquade. Not that either of us give a damn about Debrett. But I saw him darling, perform the most excruciatingly delightful triumph above our heads, on the black and white lino tiles of this hotel’s lobby. Which has long been the altar upon which the most sacred of Irish society have been either worshipped or sacrificed. A treat.’

Darcy Dancer hardly able to move. Crunched elbow to elbow. The lady Black Widow turning to other faces. Voices roaring. Eyes smarting in the smoke. Drinking one’s dreams. The present future rearing marvellously. And racing away out of one’s past. A green tweeded gentleman. Called the White Prince. His face as black as a lump of Welsh coal. Rashers’s wine cooler again and again refilled. Bottle after bottle. Making him look ever more benign. Leaning in towards my ear to confide.

‘Of course my dear chap, that’s the secret, one gets a first bottle and my Ardagh Chalice does the rest.’

‘But who are all these people.’

‘Ah. Marvellous question that. Marvellous. Your naïveté is stunning dear chap. Never lose it. In a nut shell. They are for the most part the multitude and many from the landless class. And then there are the singular and few of the landed class. The former mingling with and chancing their arms with the latter. He, with his ears sticking out, is a gas meter reader. Whom I dare say is in search of intellectual stimulus. Or more likely, free drink. That bousy looking chap who just poured his drink over his head is a housepainter from Crumlin. That more obnoxious bastard there is a wall plasterer from Dolphin’s Barn. Who propounds his sensitive nature as he curries favour among the bloodstock breeders from Meath and Kildare. But ah. There. That chap. He has just come in from the Stock Exchange. Over in Anglesea Street. Of course it’s only a ruddy room with a circle of chairs enclosing barely enough space to decently fart in. But dear me, nice work if you can get it.’