J. Donleavy - The Beastly Beatitudes of Balthazar B

"May I have some water please."

"I'll get you anything you need. I'll slip to make the fires below or there'll be murther. The two should be still asleep. Last Friday I had a little peek of them through a crack in the door. He was up on her. I was gripped with such fascination I couldn't tear my eyes from the sight. There he was going away strong and she has her arms out either side holding open the Evening Mail and reading it over his shoulder. I laughed so loud I was nearly caught. But the two of them have an awful way of leaping out at you in the morning. Snooping and looking for cigarettes they hide from each other around the house. Now don't do a thing if you hear any strange sounds. You poor lad. God love you lying there. Aren't you trembling now. Sure wait. I'll have the breakfast and water to you."

Knobs of vertebrae down her back. Phylum chordata. Two pointed pink tipped little breasts. The white slender legs that went twinkling from her dress. Blue veins behind her knees. She twists up her hair. And pins it high on her head.

"I feel no shame standing in front of you. Would never let the poor old Pakistani see my body. It would give him fits. He'd kick his turban round the room. If you really go for someone. You don't mind what they see."

"I have to relieve myself."

"Ah God now wait a minute I knew that must come. I can't let you out to the water closet. But wait now, a second."

Breda going out the door. From the bare walls of this barren room. A film star's face tucked in the corner of the mirror. And death around me. My chest tight, throat sore. The light painful coming in my eyes. Squeezed the night with her on this bed. Escape away to the watering places. As Beefy came roaring out of the Dublin Quays. Wake one more damp morning. And hope as this door opens it's not my last.

"It's the best I could do. Two pint milk bottles."

Balthazar rising up from the bed. Putting legs down from the torn sheets. With each step all pain. Cool airs blow up on the soles of my feet through the cracks between the boards. Drop backwards out the window to the barrel below and crawl. Two feet. Found dead in bracken and broken glass. Student rusticated. Formerly sent fears of the Asian peril through Donnybrook. Take up the bottle. Can hardly hold my prick. Half hearted swollen. As she watches me wee wee all dark yellow and filling it to the top.

"God you're going to need the other."

"Yes."

"Here we're ready now for the flow. I've got you. Sure where does all of it come from. O God you're getting to the brim again. Holy murther it's going to overflow. Don't mind, let it go on the floor. It'll go below. Won't do the stout a mite of harm. I heard a woman out in Mayo was cured with a vial of the pope's pee. Like everything else you hear you wonder. But not long afterwards you could get a vial of pope's pee all over the West. His Holiness would have to be peeing his heart out, poor old gent, to keep up the supply. They'd sell an edge off a fart of Jesus if he were still around. But you're not to mind, get back to bed. That's the way. Ah you beauty sick as you are. Keep the blanket up snug."

Bottles of pee put on the dresser at the side of the door. Breda nodding a smile stepping out into the hall. Just through a corner of the window, a wet gleaming blue slate roof. Rubbed with leaves of a holly tree so oily green. Fog lifting. Patch of blue. Ridges of cloud. Sea gulls sliding down across the wind. And squawking as they do sitting high on college rooftops. Stepped out into life. Holding this naked kindly little creature. Upon whom I laid my head resting in the night Felt her arm come across my ear and pressed my face against her breast. Teasing her nipple in my mouth. Suckle there and eat. Near black little tufts of hair. Smell her sweet and musky sweat. How much did I drink from my mother. When she was my milk. To splash away all the growing up fears and terrors. And sent my Bella away. That day under the high skies of France. White dust on lips. That will never go away. Mine so hot and dry. Breda in this black loose dress, a tear across the backside. Sunday best she said. A creaking in the hallway. The door pushed open. A tray comes in.

"God I hope they are not on to me. She has every grain of sugar counted in the house. It's about time I had two eggs and a bit of bacon once in a blue moon and eat it by myself in the bedroom. Her with the hair up six feet high in curlers. Zombie slave driver. Now. See if that doesn't put life into you. Taken with a bit of sauce."

The tray laid across the bed. Balthazar propped up against the pillow. A brown tea pot. A plate covered with rashers and eggs. Two sausages and halves of two tomatoes. A stack of bread and butter. Warm tinted smells. A big fork curling up at the prongs. A knife with a melted ivory handle and blade from Sheffield.

"I didn't know if you wanted them sunny side up. Don't mind it's hard to find a plate not chipped or cracked. The good delft is locked away."

"This is very kind and it looks awfully good."

"You poor man you can hardly see at all. Here get the hot tea into you first. Sit up a bit more. We'll put this sweater of mine up here round your shoulders. You're not to worry about a thing. You look smashing sitting there in front of your feed."

A creak in the hall. Breda stiffening and turning. The door slowly pushed open. A head in curlers peering round the door.

"What's going on in here. I thought I heard voices and I did."

"Don't you come in here."

"What's this."

"It's my sick big brother from home, he arrived feverish in the night with nowhere to stay. He's not well at all. And I'd be pleased if you got your head out of the door."

"I'll do no such thing in me own house. A likely story. A man lying in the bed. I know your tricks. You dirty little slut. You won't be raising cain in this house I can tell you. Come down like that bare faced and go off with two eggs, six back rashers, half a loaf of bread and quarter pound of butter for breakfast. Whose food do you think it is. And you get whoever that is there out of here in a hurry. And I'll thank you to give that tray back to me now. Keep your dirty habits with your girl friend down there on the Quays. The filth of it."

Breda sprang like a cat from the side of the bed. One bounding swift leap across the room. Her two hands came down flashing across the woman's face. And reached up to plunge a grip in the mountain of curlers. Dragging the landlady's head downwards till she fell face forward on the floor. Her outstretched arms grabbing at Breda's ankles as she stepped backwards kicking at the clutching hands.

"Slut. She's trying to kill me, Myles. Myles. Kicking me is it. Scum. Soon deal with you."

Landlady scrabbling up to her feet. Curlers dangling from streaming hair. Large breasts heaving. A red patch at her throat. She rubs her hands off on her bosoms and belly showing through her dress. As she plunges forward grabbing at Breda's white thin shoulders, pushing her back against the dresser. Bottles of pee falling and crashing and breaking on the floor.

"Filth. It's piss. Drown me in piss will you. Slut."

"Pope's piss you hag."

"Vermin. Godless vermin. Time to remedy you for good."

"I'll rip you to shreds you maggoty old bitch."

Sound of tearing garments, a flashing hand cutting across the woman's huge bosom. The landlady's hands clutching downwards at Breda's throat. And sharp little knees kicking up 236 into the fat belly. They clinch together, spin round, and brushing by the bed, plunge crashing to the floor. Breda buried beneath the great grey bulk. Landlady's mousey scattered hair as her fists pound up and down and suddenly reach upwards spreading fingers as she gives out a blood curdling scream of agony.

"I'm bit. O Myles I'm bit. Myles. Get her chained the dirty thing. Myles hurry. Get her off me. The cat. I'm clawed and bit. Get her off me before Fm kilt. Myles."