J. Donleavy - The Beastly Beatitudes of Balthazar B

To walk back down again this bustling street. The shop lights go on. A sweet smoky air descends. My drop of dew on a blade of grass. Is my gladness. Hovering above the ground.

High and still

And

Sparkling so

In Dublin

Town.

Balthazar B stood in slippers and the lower half of pink pyjamas at his marble washstand and slapped up water to rinse his soapy face. A time to look out across the square as students collect for classes in the arts. And the plane trees hang out wild writhing winter branches.

To go to this large garage out in the back mews reaches of south Dublin. For the purchase of a motor car. The proprietor wiping his hands in a petrol soaked rag. And with a quick little nod of the head, he smiled and was willing to please.

"Now what did you have in mind sir.'

''I am not quite sure.'

"Is it for the touring. Or town. Or the back and forth. "

"Back and forth.'

"Now let me ask you one question. Would you ever be wanting to be out on the road and in an awful need to get somewhere fast without much let or hindrance. Answer me that. And I may be able to help you. Without putting your mind through the torture of a lot of choices.'

"That's quite possible."

"Now I can't promise a thing, but you know I think that you're the man I've been waiting for. A gentleman who's ready and able for them wide open spaces. And who's got the glint of the sportsman in the eye. Am I right."

"I'm not quite sure."

"O I'm right, I know I'm right. I know a keen man when I see one. Can't I tell by the cut of your cloth there, aren't you a man for the wide open spaces."

"I really want a motor to reach the race courses."

"Ah, now, am I glad you said that. Baldoyle, Leopardstown, the Curragh. I knew it. And you'll make the twenty four miles to Punchestown in twenty minutes flat. I'm telling you that. Just let me show you something now. Come along here this way. Of course I should have known you were a racing gentleman. It's written all over you. Now here we are.'

"My God.'

"O now just you wait till you see this. Just you wait. Just swing back these covers. Ah, I want you to take a long look at this now. What about that. It's the greatest four wheeler ever seen in Dublin. It would pull two hundred protestant donkeys backwards from Glasnevin to Rathgar and they desperate to get to Belfast away from the pope. Just have a look now will you, under the bonnet. Have a look at this now. Twelve of your cylinders. Ready and willing. Each the size of a man's thigh. With sparkplugs to match. Climb a hill as steep as the back of your head there and it be only in neutral gear.

Commodious."

"It's awfully big."

"Let that be no deterrent. What would a keen racing man such as yourself do out on the highway without the little extra room for the lady perhaps. Heh heh. And sure you wouldn't want to be shouldered off the road. There's a bunch of them now, shopkeepers and publicans, motorists they call themselves if you please, out on the roadway of a Sunday. Let me tell you, they'll give you no trouble when they see this man here coming at them I assure you."

"Does it go."

"Does it go. You're asking me. Does it go. Get up there now. Ah that's a good one. Does it go. That's it now, are you right. Get yourself steady. Does it go. Sure do you see this little black button here now."

A deep growling whirring and a sudden explosion. A great white cloud of exhaust. As the massive machine rumbled and throbbed and slowly moved forward.

"Goodness."

"Does it go. It wasn't called a Landship for nothing. You out there Mick, clear the doors and make way in the road outside, we're coming out. Sure I'll give you a little tour right round Merrion Square north east south and west. Are you right."

The Landship securely moored now below the window.

The great long black chassis on the tall wooden spoked wheels. Horace each morning cheerful standing at the water pump filling his bucket quietly contemplating the Landship.

Stopping by it and slowly wagging his head.

"Ah sir, I can't get over it. I measured it three times meself and was telling the lads it was twenty two and a half feet in length as the crow flies and not a man of them would believe me. Ah it must be a grand powerful feeling to be rolling along in that yoke. Sure you'd need your own petrol station to keep it fed."

With breakfast laid out. A pint of cow's milk in a bottle. A fire smouldering in the grate. The chill wind comes whistling in round the tall windows. One sits rubbing bluish hands.

And cupping tightly the warm green bowls of tea.

And always to have to get up from one's chair and cross to the fireplace and stand pushing knees into the smoke. And pumping the bellows to bring a red glow to the silvered ends of turf. Feet damp and cold. Then try to remain calm as the intestines will not. To grab one's long motoring coat from the door. And copy of last night's Evening Mail and head for the bog.

Each step along the cold street. Must hold on till I get there. Past the college Printing House. A pile of leaves blown up against a corner of its steps. Its blackened empty alcoves.

In there the mystery of the exams turning over on the presses.

Through this broken three quarter door. Walk down the row of crappers. Seats torn off. Newspapers flying. Cold stone cubicles. The wind blows. As all of one's white body cries out for warmth. And count each day how many steps. All the way here. One hundred and thirty eight of them. To bravely now.

Undo a buckle, open flies. Lower garments and unleash the backside to the shivering breeze and icy seat. Take a deep breath. And hope that after all the many mornings one could not budge the spirit to move out in the rains, that on this less inclement day the soul will shift the burden. Or surely simply break the arse.

But two more days till this one desperate morning. Six A.M.

in the cold bed. A great churning through the intestines. Of an evening's reverie over sea foods and stout. One rushed for motoring coat and down the stone steps to mount the Land-ship. And set the monstrous engine throbbing. To get me to the bog on time. Waking up the college. As one sailed around the square and screeched to a halt outside the long wall of water closets. The following afternoon a letter came.

Dear Mr. B,

It is not allowed for It is not allowed for an undergraduate to park a motor in College Square. Nor is it advised to set such motor running at an ungodly hour and wake those sleeping. Ample parking facilities are at the back gate of College.

I should be pleased if you could come and have tea at four this Tuesday coming.

Yours sincerely,

The College Authority

It was easier to stay irregular. And saunter down the square and through College Park to the Zoology Building. Go through the vestibule and into the centrally heated warmth. A momentary peek at the great room of museum animals. And when no one was looking quietly make for a neat mahogany water closet tucked away beyond the skulls and heads of beasts. And here with zoology notes on the knee pray again to shift the burden. Which earthworms do so easily.

Each day to sit at these high planks with their thin gently curving taps of running water. One's fellow classmates come in. Three always together, bundled up in great tweeds, Tuffy, Hinds and Byrne. They come happily larking into the room. I try so to show I'm friendly. And wished the girl in the thick grey sweater over amply nice bosoms who says, look at those three ruddy handsome fellows. Would say the same about me. With my pale silence as I wait quietly hoping someone will ask that I go for cakes and coffee out the back gate. And sit as they do gaily laughing and chatting under the great skylight of Johnston, Mooney & O'Brien's.