J. Donleavy - The Beastly Beatitudes of Balthazar B

At this last morning bath, no laugh nor blush as his pecker stood a point in nannie's face. Hair brushed, a white blouse under a black satin suit. And borrowed long black stockings with the little bumps of suspender garters stretched against his thighs.

"I don't want to wear these nannie.'

"Don't make such a fuss."

"I don't, I don't, I don't."

"Don't say don't."

"I will I will I will."

"All right all right all right."

"Let me do what I want."

"No."

"I will."

"Yes, I suppose you will."

"What do you mean nannie."

"O God, shut up you brat."

"I am not a brat."

"I know you're not, I know you're not."

Nannie clutched and squeezed and kissed Balthazar. Leaning her face on his little neck and her cold nose nuzzling up against his silky hair and her lips biting the lobe of his ear.

"Nannie, you cry again."

"Yes I do."

"Because you have been beastly horrid to me."

"No."

"You have you know. You should never talk to me like that. Because I don't like it"

The downstairs rooms of the house open, the windows closed and shuttered and table lamps lit. Hands reaching out from the shadowy figures and shaking other hands. Uncle Edouard, explorer and balloonist, a tall dark spectre in the hall speaking to passing mourners on their way to the cars. Towards every tiny rosette in a dark lapel he gave a little inclination of the head, a twist of shoulder and smile.

"It is very up to date. Up to date. Very modern. It is as he would like, I am sure. We do not leave a little wine behind in the glass. Ah so, here is this little boy who throws hunks of cheese at his uncle. Is it not so.'

"Do not call me little boy."

"Ah so what are we."

"You should not talk with such a loud voice when my father is dead."

"Ah a son like the father. I am sorry, forgive me."

"No."

Uncle Edouard clicked his heels and bowed. Nannie clutching Balthazar's hand and nodding her way on tall black stockinged legs across the white tiles of the vestibule. Legs that lived and were all alive and were my nannie's. Wheeling me from this house under the red berry trees. By the low crochet wire fences, along the criss crossed paths and green dipping swards down Avenue Foch. The iron lamp posts with their frieze of evergreen leaves. All the high black iron fences thick with ivy before the great stone houses. White haired ladies bent watering window plants in their silent scented world. With secretive gardens and rusting shutters. The little iron doors by the pavements that opened into dark cold cellars. Where ghosts and rats and monsters breathed out a chill to passing little boys.

His father's coffin lay covered with a purple cloth behind the glass of this gleaming black vehicle. The trees in their fullest late summer holding a thick shadowy chestnut greenery over the long line of cars. The red faced man hat in hand, whispering through yellow little teeth, his lips shiny and dry, eyes moist and grey taking mommie's elbow, as she holds my hand. Nannie following and we sit side by side. The dark men place the last of the white lilies, red and pink and purple wreaths and flowers where the casket lies.

The sun glinting on automobiles slowly creeping out and down the narrow road. Turning left and left again and out past a gendarme standing in blue coat, white gloves and shiny belt in Avenue Foch, holding back traffic with his raised white baton. His stiff salute. On the sandy path the little drinking fountain. Nannie would press the button to make it wee wee. The mountainous stone cold shadow of the Arcde Triomphe. Around the Etoile, amid the stream of bicycles under little trees sprouting over the hard ground. Past the great oak doors and thick walls of Paris. Down the Avenue Kleber and the vista of the Eiffel Tower beyond the thatch of chestnut trees. Blue and red awninged cafes on the Trocadero. Up past the high stone wall and above it the tops of tombs and the tall arbour fence of ivy leaves. A uniformed man at the big open iron gate. Pale, blond pillars. A grey marble waiting room. The cars pull up around a short curving cobble stoned road. And between the slabs of marble, links of chains, the sun in a white heaven blinks and gleams. The dark figures alight. And collect. The voice of Uncle Edouard.

"Ah the eternal regrets."

The coffin carried along the path on shoulders, down between the narrow shady row of clipped chestnut trees. Approaching the grey rain stained walls and roof of this mausoleum rearing from the hard sandy ground. Its small stained glass window open. Through an iron rusting fence and gate the coffin lowered down the steep winding stairs. Beads of sweat on straining faces and urgent whispers. The red necks bulging from white stiff collars. Uncle Edouard touching his forehead with a red handkerchief taking sudden command.

"Careful, if you please, monsieur holds the Grand Croix de la Legion d'Honneur, Croix de Guerre and Medaille Militaire, and Chevalier de la Tour et 1'Epee and Decore de 1'Ordre de St. Stanislas de Russie."

"What is Uncle Edouard saying, nannie."

"He is telling the gentlemen not to have an accident.'

"Why does he wave his hand around his head like that.'

"He has just lost his hat and the pall bearer has stepped on it. He is awfully upset.'

Hot and hushed in the random rainbow rays of light on the grey and white checkered floor, the black little group assembling tightly one by one. A kneeling stool in front of an altar covered in dusty brown faded photographs. Of shawled women and homburg hatted men. One smilingly smoking a cigar of whom it was said he was a black sheep who had wandered astray in camel hair to watering places everywhere.

"I am hot nannie."

"Shush."

"Why does mommie sway."

"Shush."

"Uncle Edouard is pulling out his."

"My God."

"Tie."

"O shush."

The priest murmuring prayers as heads bow in the stale musty air. The coffin pushed gently sideways on the shelf in the wall. Sprinkled with holy juices. Balthazar's mother's hair so blond against the black, a white hanky held up under her veil. And as the milky marble slab shut the coffin away. Heads were turning one by one to look at Uncle Edouard as he stood his chin lifted and eyes elevated. His black tie decorated with a balloon and gondola beneath which was written, Bon Voyage.

At noon the air still, a white light and dust across Paris. Little groups collecting in boulangeries down dark streets. Big cats asleep in shoemakers' windows. Three long black automobiles turning into an entrance in Avenue George V. A pale delicate tree in the midday darkness, long smooth branches reaching up past windows to a playful sky blue.

The air cool inside the high wide thick doors. Balthazar's mother in her black laces, veils and chiffons ascends alone in the tiny lift. There she is as we come puffing up five flights of wide pink marble stairs, curved and gleaming. Uncle Edouard frowning and pursing his lips at the mechanical marvel. Where are we going nannie, now. Who is that man with mommie. These are lawyers. What are lawyers. They are men who look things up in big books.

"Why."

"To be safe."

"Why."

"Because you must always try to be safe."

"Am I safe nannie."

"Yes."

"Are you safe nannie."

"No."

"Why."

"We must be quiet now."

"I don't like lawyers, nannie."

"No one likes lawyers, little boy."

The big brown eyed soft faced man bowed at the door and led these five people and little Balthazar across the red blue and gold carpet of this high domed marble pillared foyer. Down a long oak panelled hall past portraits of ministers, presidents and kings. He held out an arm at a doorway into a wide pale pink low ceilinged room and nodded as each passed by his secret face and soft silken cuffs held by wafers of golden links. Three all black straw hatted women entering, each with thick greying thatches of dark hair bobbed across foreheads, each fluttering fans against their veiled faces, and taking seats in the last row of chairs as Uncle Edouard put his cupped hand to his mouth and emitted a long vibrating belch.