J. Donleavy - The Beastly Beatitudes of Balthazar B

"Good morning. I think I can call you Balthazar.' "Yes. Indeed. Sir."

"Sit down. I'm sure I can help us both a little. By saying I'm extremely pleased."

"Thank you sir. I've never done this before."

"Well, ha ha, I'm sure we both hope it's the first and last time. There's been good word of you from every quarter. You're young but you'll manage. The General particularly spoke highly. As did my brother in Greystones. Who are your principals."

"Bother, Writson, Horn, Pleader and Hoot, sir."

"Good show. I know Horn. I've served with Hoot. My chaps will be in touch. I don't think there's any more we need say. Except I hate to lose Elizabeth. And you may have this place on your head one day. Dry rot, fallen slates, drains, poachers and woodworm. But never mind. You're young. You'll prevail. And I know Lizzie will be very happy. And that's what matters."

The moment of dread. Like nothing at all. And suddenly with a smile and handshake one has the precious Fitzdare. And one rides with her now holding her hand and sitting close together all the way to Dundalk. To catch a train instead of my cancelled plane. And go south to Dublin town through Drogheda and out along the wintry looking shore. We kissed on the station. We would marry in the fall.

And riding on this train. Through Donabate and Malahide. Over the flat stretches and estuary waters. Fitzdare stood high on her toes as she waved goodbye. And last thing we shook hands. Seeing in each other's eyes. And suddenly she wouldn't let me go. And clung as my hand reached down from the window and she ran along the platform tears streaming from her eyes. And the sight of her when I looked back was her head bent down.

The houses grim and tinted red as we dip down into Dublin over the river Tolka. Breda, that little wisp of wiry fighting girl, gone from Cabra somewhere with her jewel. Click clack past buildings tall dark and tattered. Citizens in this summer time go greyly overcoated, black belted through the streets.

How will I ever find Beefy to tell him the news. And at the hotel desk an envelope left. I opened it rising up in the lift cage past the crimson coveredfloors.

My dear Balthazar,

I have had a debacle. Had hoped to catch you back. Will call again this early eve. Believe me when I say a pox upon the elderly. But let us be goodish and deter distress.

Beefy

I bathed in pine scent. Nearly wafting off to sleep. Changed my somewhat seamy underthings. I ordered blue steak, mashed potatoes and peas and Gevrey Chambertin to be served in my room. And as my first succulent slice was put between my lips. Beefy knocked and came in.

"My dear boy, how are you. But let me tell you, before you tell me, how I am. Firstly I am in need of gripe water. Secondly I am bedazzled. Benumbed with befuddlement. Carted off bodily to Unthank. And there pissed on. From a dizzying height. And soon I shall be seen somewhere in Paddington light footed in the rooming house hall wearing sunglasses, wielding squash racket and utterly unclothed. Allow me please to have a spoon full of these peas.' "Beefy sit down."

"Thank you I actually will."

"I have the most wonderful news. I am betrothed to Fitzdare."

"O isn't that splendid. I'm quite cheered up. A solemn moment. O yes. Very solemn moment indeed. Ah. I am most happy for you. I mean that Balthazar. From the bottom of my heart. That is indeed such good news that mine I fear deserves not to be told. I have been utterly disinherited. Dispossessed. I have only my deed box full of fivers left. I know I shall raise rebuttals. But my God how. Aubergine's my colour. Nobility my demeanour. I am not yet stripped of all privilege. One's been to a good school and has the right if slightly tarnished background. And at least I have never stooped so low as to vulgarize myself with a carnation in the buttonhole. No matter whatever other humiliating deeds I was enthusiastically engaged in. There shall be fight. Count on it."

"I am awfully sorry to hear of this, Beefy."

"Sad. But not yet fatal. Never thought she'd do it. Granny. These days folk play foul with their nearest and dearest. Without a murmur of conscience. A man came to my grandfather when he was in a hotel in China. To ask if he wanted any delectations of the flesh. A prudent as well as prudish man he said no. And your chap offered then the ultimate. Fished deep from his cubbyhole of delights and soothings of the spirit. He said does the honourable gentleman wish to see an execution. My grandfather said certainly not. The chappie said it was at the honourable gentleman's convenience and priced at twenty pounds. My grandfather who thought he was on to a splendid piece of magic went off with your man to a chamber to see the brilliant occult mystery unfold. He paid and watched. And a chap was beheaded. Bloocl everywhere. The spectacle of execution was real. Men offered themselves for execution and the money paid would go to their families. There was a long line of applicants my dear Balthazar. And the story has always impressed me. One man of a family would give his all for the rest. But not my dear old granny. She won't die. She won't budge from her flint hearted throne. And she's ninety one. Told my trustees I was a waster. Countenance that. What an awful thing to say about a man destined at one time to take holy orders. Who will not bet on nags not tipped by Zutu. Ah God that dear man, I miss him. Well my path is clear. I must marry a fortune with the utmost dispatch. Before my hair drops out and too much belly fat collects. You are a lucky one with your Fitzdare. She is a treasure. Of such tantalising beauties, it fair makes me weep. God speed you on your way into such dear arms."

"Beefy would you be my best man.' "Nothing in this world would give me more profound pleasure."

"Is there anything I can do for you Beefy."

"Yes. I should adore to quaff a bottle of champagne. In these testing times."

This cozy narrow sitting room. Drapes aflutter with a summer breeze. And Dublin lies out there. For all it's worth. It will speak to you when one is least ready to listen. The 278 champagne comes. A smallish boy enjoying this duty. Making a little cascade and popping the cork across the room.

'To you Balthazar. Fitzdare. And many little Balthazars.' "Thank you Beefy."

"And while my money lasts. I must disport in London. Clutch to my strong breast some moneyed morsel who can barely hobble with the burden of family jewels at Palace parties. First chukka of my life still to be lived. Second chukka shall be winningly played. But you know, with this saddening news came piles. A rather diabolically unfortunate case of same. Not nice. Balancing on one cheek of arse. Waiting always to move to the other. No. Not at all nice. One's income, once large and sure from granny. Will now be miniscule and uncertain. Ground rents, rates, gas and electricity will be paid for, and renewals of fuse wire for the lights. Food, drink, travel, servants, other rents and lecheries, all these have ceased forthwith to be reimbursed. Until such time as granny packs off to heaven. Which I hope is at any moment. Even then she may have done the dirty on me. Meanwhile I fear I may have to take on a mare with legs between which I cannot see the daylight. Having always deeply cherished that exquisite separation of the thighs. Deprived of that I should end up sweating on the upper lip through life. Chucked out of the Church of Ireland. Be banging soon at the doors of the Church of England. Those chaps are so selective. I'm bound to be debarred. Not owning any longer, as I once did, the Hyde Park grazing rights for escargot. Of course there is the piano department of Harrods, if the chaps will have me. Whacking great commissions on those whacking great pianos. And the analogy dear boy is. I am seated playing a soft delicate passage in my life and granny comes sneaking up behind with her pearl studded ebony cane and prises down the piano cover slamming on my fingers. Never mind. At least I can prior to the fifth request for payment still venture to the haberdasher, shout shirt. To the bootmaker, shout shoe. To the hatter, shout hat. And stride dignified up St. James. You know of course it is not done to walk down St. James. Approach always from Pall Mall. I'm drunk you know. Just in case you did not. Know. Still hope I have the temerity at my club to raise a finger for whisky and wipe out members at bridge and bezique."