J. Donleavy - The Beastly Beatitudes of Balthazar B

''Well Balthazar. Here we are. After so many years.' "Yes."

"You are not very talkative.' "No. I'm sorry.' "Do not apologise. I understand. A little of what you must think and feel. I have my own life. I must live it. You will when older understand. However I do not want to cause embarrassment between us."

"You do not have to explain."

"No. I do not. Georgie insisted to come. But one should keep matters in good taste. There are times when I do not. I am returning to live in Paris. I have taken a flat in Avenue Foch. And you will always be welcome. But there is another reason why I am here and why I have come. It is to tell you something. That I should not like you to hear from other lips. Something which is perhaps very sad. Very tragic. And I think in fairness I must tell you. It is about that girl. Miss Hortense, you remember. She had a little boy. You were his father. He was adopted after his birth. Where he is and who he is we do not know. And will never know. It was part of the arrangement that that should be. Will you have some brandy with your coffee."

Balthazar B took leave of his mother in the lobby where she stood with her bedroom key. He bowed stiffly and she kissed him on the cheek. And watched him going out the door and down the steps. A soft fine silver rain fell through yellow lamplight in Duke Street. Crowds of pushing figures emptying out of the pubs. Bartenders ushering from the doors. Now come on gentlemen it's well after time please, now gentlemen please. Arms cradled high with grey bags of stout. Shouts and pointing the way by ringleaders to cars. Mid singing and laughters and jeers to gestures indecent. These throbbing jungle streets. The slamming and locking of pub doors. And to suddenly hear one's name called. And hurry one's steps away. Past this map seller, down the shadows of Grafton Street. Past the locked gated entrance of Mitchell's cafe. Up there once on the second floor I saw Miss Fitzdare having coffee. I watched her looking out the window arid she smiled when a chap in glasses came. He selected cakes for her from the tray. I didn't know her then. But felt all the sad alarm of her beauty lost and living in someone else's life.

The bell in the grey high looming Campanile. Tolls as I go by. To get back to my bed. My feet walking beneath me. I held her hand all those years ago. And I know. The seed I planted then. Came out of all the love I knew. Down deep and spinning in a pool. With a little tail. Like a line thrown ashore. To anchor there. All round and red and blazing. For Bella was my bride. We had a son. And all these years a father. When only still a son. He goes somewhere out in the world. Awake in some city. Climbing up some steps. A little fellow now. Who might run frightened and afeared. And you walk along in darkness by these familiar chains. Across the cobbled square. Ahead my windows. In there I sleep. While nothing now stands still. To throw your arms around and say stay. Or a little boy who could pass his hand to me in summertimes. Something born nudges you gently to go and die. It all could be a flower you lifted once. Looked at. Held the stem. And then you turned your head away.

To

Weep

The night

Till

Day.

Sunday this mild mellow week. Buds crashing out sappy green on the trees. Crocuses exploding yellow across suburban gardens. Balthazar B went through Ballsbridge on the Dalkey tram. To tug the bell chain hanging against the cold cut stone.

Miss Fitzdare stood smiling half way in the gleaming hall. Of this house rising greyly and ivy clad from great rhododendrons and sweeping lawns. A hushed raven haired maid in her fresh black frock and white lace collar to take my coat with her trembling hand. This massive hall of this big house. A fire flaming flanked by pink marble praying angels. Gilt framed mirrors. Two steely figures of armour, haunted slits for eyes. And Miss Fitzdare wears her purple twin set again. The thick tweed grey skirt and her string of pearls. Tall chiming clock rings one.

"You are awfully prompt. Do come this way. And meet uncle and aunt."

Brass knobbed heavy mahogany door ajar. Polished and glistening faintly red. Held open by the raven haired maid. Tints of blues and whites in this sprawling drawing room. Cabinets of porcelain. A harpsicord in a white arched alcove. This thin grey haired lady. Slowly twisting her lips between her smiles. Offering her long blue veined hand. A short round gentleman in thick rust tweeds. Purple silk hanky and gorse coloured tie.

"Aunt Miriam this is Balthazar."

"I've heard so much about you."

"My uncle Frederic. Everyone calls him General. Bal-thazar." "How do you do General."

"I do splendidly when my gout doesn't play up. Do please sit. And what can we warm you up with. Whisky, gin, sherry."

"Well sherry if I may sir."

"You may by jove. Medium dry or that stuff they say is sherry that's very dry.' "Medium. Please."

"Ah, that's a good fellow, know your sherry. Miriam. Sherry.'

"Yes today. We'll have a wee bit. Doctor Romney says I'm to leave off but I think today."

The General standing at a high sideboard of bottles, trays and decanters. Pouring the light brown liquid into thin crystal glasses. His brief smile as the silver tray passes to each. Between two facing long light green sofas. The raven haired girl peeks back into the room as she quietly closes the great door. This grey haired lady raises her chin and lowers eye lids to speak.

"Mr. B I understand you're new to Dublin. How do you find it. Our dear dirty city."

"Most charming."

"O good. Elizabeth tells us you race."

"Yes I do get to the courses now and again. Not much recently however."

"O. You'll be here for Horse Show week. You must not miss that."

"I sincerely hope so."

"Wonderful time of year. We're at our best then. Always brings one back to times when things were not as they are now. Very sad. So much has passed from us."

"Now Miriam, that's not the attitude. What does Mr. B want to know about that for. He's young. He wants to enjoy himself now. Of course we've had a lot of louts and rabblerousers about but things have settled down. Let them blow up a telephone kiosk now and again and they're quite happy. Are you interested in the stars, Mr. B."

"Yes I am."

"Good. After lunch then. We'll show you about. Would you like to see my astronomical laboratory."

"Very much sir. I had an uncle who was very interested in the sky."

"Good. Ah. There we are. The gong. Brought that back from India. Served out there. When I was Brigadier. Bring in your sherry with you."

Two wide white doors folding back. A long dining table. A fire bursting with flaming black chunks of coal. Two tall windows. Look out across lawns and gardens. Pebbled paths. A stone wall and beyond the tops of blossoming apple trees. Little blue dishes of salt set in silver holders with birdlike paws.

"Sit you all down."

The General at the head of table, Miriam at the foot. Prawn cocktail and thin slices of brown bread. Faint tinge of green in white wine poured. A leg of steaming lamb carried in by a big chested girl of blue eyes and large pouting lips. The General carves. The whole silent afternoon outside. White plates with thin little weavings of gold handed down the table. Roasted potatoes. And sprouts moist in butter. A claret wine of gentle red.

"Elizabeth you ought to have Balthazar come when we're having ham. We feed our pigs on peaches you know. When youVe tasted a chappie so fed, I think you'll agree you never realised what ham could be. What.' "I'd very much like that."

"We leave that then to you, Lizzie. Good larder is a man's salvation. People nowadays don't take any trouble. Not the way we used to. Of course then one gets on. Dashed cold winter, what. One of worst in memory. When you get to my age you feel it you know. Get a bit of damned deafness too, it's the wind. Gets up a pressure. You take port my boy."