J. Donleavy - The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman

‘But why are they all here like this.’

‘Ah marvellous question that. Marvellous. But for your recent performance one would by your question think that you were only the most recently arrived of arrivistes. They want, my dear chap. Simply to get each other’s goat. However that chap. The stunted one, thin and all hunched up. Euphemistically one refers to him as the Royal Rat. He wants your money first. Made his first roulette wheel out of an old car tyre. Since then the Royal Rat has in various dungeon basements, helped relieve chaps of their fivers. He actually pawned his dying mother’s bed. Chucked her on to an old pile of burlap to breathe her last. I thought it damn cruel. Sensible chaps like myself of course take a damn dim view of him having profitlessly to the spirit, encouraged as he does the frittering away of chaps’ inheritances in his dingy dank casino. But ah, dissipation. That’s what it’s all about. Hold death away by intemperance, unchastity and extravagance. Then death is welcomed. Those entering these Buttery precincts do so to squander their fortunes to the wind. Scattering fivers like autumn leaves. It’s too sad sometimes. To then see them slink off with their tails between their legs. That’s the marvellous thing about not having been left a bean. One does not spend. One only helps to spend.’

A baggy grey suited chap. Cigarette dangling between his lips. Pushing himself forward to squeeze in behind Rashers’ back. His hand up to the side of his mouth as he whispers. And Rashers turns and roars.

‘You blatant cunt. And I hate using the word. But regrettably it is the only one which applies. Coming to whisper about the plight of the creative artist in my ear. Can one imagine anything more ghastly. In the Buttery. As if I gave one boring damn about your awful nonsense. Had a rhyme published in your local country village newspaper, have you. And now you bring your abysmal ignorance to Dublin. Expecting for your pathetic lyric scribbles to be patted on the back and be thrown free lamb chops from one’s dining table. Fuck off.’

The baggy grey suited chap. A sickly smile on his face, blending back into the voices. The teeth. The eyes. The laughs. And sighs. Rashers transporting a cigarette from some one’s gold preferred case into the end of his ivory holder. Dragging the air down the length of former elephant tusk. His haughty musical voice sounding from his rather rabbit looking mouth.

‘The arts like Catholicism is a disease of the mind, my dear chap. Although I was born a papist I was saved from its worst corroding consequences by a childhood in India among the untouchables. A decent public school situated on a well known English river saved me as well. But of course one stands by the Romanists when Orange men up north there are thundering their drums and threatening to interfere indiscriminately with Catholic testicles. One then shall fight. One doesn’t give a damn how one’s human rights are infringed. It’s one’s animal rights one doesn’t want mucked about. But damn. One does above all prefer the rich ladies. Even to willingly placing one’s lips upon their au blet thighs. Leaving thereon the white indentation of one’s fevered mouth. And even some small pleasure is to be found in one’s pressured caress of the unresilient flesh of riper ladies’ haunches. Better than contretemps any time. Dear me. But the bad name of the Irish spreads all over the world and is only improved when they become a laughing stock.’

‘I hope you realize Mister Ronald that I am Irish and some of your remarks are not awfully flattering.’

‘You my dear chap. You. Macgillicudy. Marquis of Delgany. Prince of Kilquade. You are a genius. It matters not at all that you are Irish. And if I were not tainted that way myself, I would be bereft of my unerring sense of theatricality which enabled me during my too few undergraduate years to win wagers by running up and down Grafton Street in the thick of the morning shopping throngs. With one’s corpus spongiosum hanging loose wagging up and down. Which thankfully it did thereby riveting the attention of all. Which prevented one’s face being recognized. Let me fill up your glass, Macgillicudy. And by god I am Irish, you know. It was those damn penal laws gave us our wretched inferiority. Then my good chap, with the flight of the Wild Geese departing for saucier shores. It left what you now see surrounding you here in this Buttery. And the greatest of ironies. Protestants liberated us. Freed us from the British yoke. And then by god left installed straight down Molesworth Street our marvellous gobshite bureaucracy. But it’s a blessing. While they have their thrilling time putting their sticky fingers into tight government circles, us sybarites can play splendid with our perversions and appetites. Of course my father accused me of ratting on the war. Disinherited me of his pitiful chattels. Said if I would not fight for king and country I could not have his spoons and saucepans. I of course promptly purloined his Purdey shotguns and delivered them to the appropriate broker. Bash on regardless. That is the cry dear chap. Through the funerals of friends. Trampling the rose gardens of enemies. Bash on regardless. The cry of any self respecting member of the élite.’

The Buttery suddenly emptying. Darcy Dancer following Rashers Ronald up the steps to the street. The Black Widow just behind me. The portrait painter Leo waving a bottle of champagne and roaring out something about diphthongs from the hotel entrance. Baptista tugging the Marquis behind her by the kilt. The stockbroker removing a club from under his coat and flattening unconscious in the gutter the plasterer from Dolphin’s Barn. A punch out of nowhere landing on the face of the grey baggy suited artistic chap as he made an attempt to enter a motor car. His cigarette smashed flat between his teeth. The élite piling in over the prostrate bodies. The waiting vehicles packed like sardines. And now roaring off with springs squealing laden with entwined bodies. A pair of lady’s feet sticking out in front of the driver’s face. Speeding over the roadway in the black night. Swerving around corners. Shadowy gable rooftops flash by out the window. Someone distinctly tampering with my fly buttons. Here I am. Flying. Through this low life. In some strange secret womb of the damned. In this city. Not a time to be particular. Impossible to tell if a male or female hand is tinkering with my balls. Whose brain knows or cares. The Black Widow pointed a finger at me. Her voice. Loud and clear.

Bring him

He’s

Divine

The crystal clear night. Stars out. Speaking. Deep in their black blue beyond. Smell of burning rubber. Wind pouring in the window. Limbs poking in all directions. A voice groaning in rapture. Another screaming in fucking discomfort. Someone said there’s Bull Island. Lips kissing my throat. Unable to move to see who it is. And whoever it was, has now let go of my balls. And is pulling my prick. Just as we all crush backwards motoring up a steep hill. Thought I saw the masts of boats. And I do. Down there in the harbour.

Darcy Dancer retwisting his arms and legs back into shape as the bodies separate. Up here in the salty air the line of motor cars unload. A rocky hill covered in heather and gorse. Stand in front of this rhododendron shrouded big house perched up over the sea. Try to adjust one’s dress. Finally saw the hand coming out of my flies. Belonging to a chap called Cecil. Who winked at me. Step down through the oily leaved shrubbery. With this arriving crowd. Towards this massive door opening. And this stark naked man whom last I saw on a pavement flattened in a puddle of stout. And now erect once more bowing in the guests.

‘Come in my dear darlings. Binky greets you. Come in. Quickly before I’m frozen.’

A long wide hall of black and white tiles. A grand staircase circling upwards at the far end. Through an ante room. One of Lois’s pudenda paintings on the wall. And further. This large drawing room. The guests gathered. Corks popping. A gramophone playing. And beyond the shuttered windows hear the ocean waves below go crash, go booming. The Black Widow woman. Comes with her thin wristed arm aloft to take me waltzing out across the floor. Kissing my neck. And three gentlemen on the side lines growl.