J. Donleavy - The Beastly Beatitudes of Balthazar B

The morning came when the parish magazine was pushed through the letter box. With a welcoming open letter to come and worship from the local vicar. And a week when I met the Angelica Violet Infanta, as well as her tall curvacious friend. We dined a foursome under the tinted cherubs painted on the ceiling of the Ritz. And danced around a champagne laden table hidden beyond the midnight curtains of Mayfair. The Infanta's laugh was deep throated and frequent. Her friend's was lighthearted and rare. And her name was Mil-licent.

Life easeful, moist and summery. In this most polite and courteous of cities. Grit and paper scraps tumbling in the gutter and people said sorry upon contact of an elbow. Smiles here now when needed. And words from the lips of Beefy. I kept appointments down in dark vaults near a candle to taste wine. Taxi engines trembled me a tranquil passenger, out to Mayfair and down to St. James. And sometimes I rode top the double decked red buses swaying roaring from stop to stop. Neighbours departed countrywards as weekends went by in Knightsbridge with unfussed burglaries on thick town house carpets.

I joined Beefy to play bezique at his club and dined off pheasant, claret and cheese. An afternoon on his day off he took me with a hamper of eel fillets, Scotch haggis from Perth, and boned and stuffed chicken in aspic and we sat with our wine surveying saucy antics in a private emporium of striptease. Beefy was climbing the road back up again. He said ah the Infanta, such is she as a girl and I as a chap that together we make a miracle.

I had a cook and Uncle Edouard's old butler, Boats, come one evening to give my first dinner at Crescent Curve. Magnums of champagne with slabs of tender steak and platters of garlic bread. Boats, retired a few years, was slightly enfeebled and very hard of hearing. And the crystal bowl of fruit salad he carried was dropped with one resounding pineapple splash. But there on that Thursday evening we drank a toast to the Violet Infanta and Beefy who announced their wedding. And I was asked to be best man.

I played tennis with Millicent. Who arrived smiling with tan legs in white socks and her racket and little box of balls. To volley, lob and smash me to smithereens all over the quiet and peaceful garden court. I stood so sweatily, spindly and white. And chasing her shots back and forth. Secretly I practised in an empty upstairs room against the wall. Breaking three rackets against the ceiling and knocking out four panes of glass. I met her parents. Both of them smiled. And leaned against their mantel piece. A marble little altar of propped up white invitation cards.

Millicent had long strong tan arms and splendidly muscled thighs. She stood straight and brown haired in flat shoes an inch taller than I. She moved wilfully forward her teeth flashing everywhere. Her serve was like a rifle shot and her back hand sizzled by. And each afternoon collecting up the tennis balls, I would watch her drying away her beads of sweat the other side of the court. Where she stood quite handsome. Elegantly serene. And pleasantly untouchable.

An evening we went to Soho for dinner. Each time I invited her I never thought she would say yes. She wore a close fitting orangy dress low cut over her breasts. And she listened and listened out of her lackadaisical brown eyes. With dark waiters crowding around. I stole looks down at her legs. Watched her buttocks wagging as she walked to powder her nose. And when she leaned forward I stared there too. A waiter doing so impertinently as well. I was so angered I lavishly overtipped him. Then we left for a nightclub. I finally moved to her close as she took my arm. She said out of the smoke and noise of the evening. Why Balthazar, it would not be impossible for us to go to an hotel. One weekend along the river.

From Crescent Curve I made lathered enquiries of river hotels from Greenwich to Maidenhead. And she said yes when I told her. We were booked. My gladstone bag packed with my most favoured linen. A change of ties, four shirts and socks. An old volume on vertebrate morphology stuffed between. I would set forth in grey pin stripe. Change later to more casual wear. And there. She waited packed on that sunless north west corner of Harrods. As I came cruising in a hired chauffeured car along Brompton Road.

It had been an early afternoon of much sprinkling of the toilet water in all possible places. The combing and brushing of that awkward bit of hair. That jumps up from my crown. Sitting serene in this motor now. Distinctly headed west through Barnes across Putney bridge. Turn left to smile. And she puts out her hand and a finger striped gold with a wedding band. I had three times on lonely nights crossed through the park. Strolled the Bayswater Road.. To hope to purely by accident meet Breda. But I never did. As the odd ladies went past whispering good evening dearie.

Reports coming in daily from Beefy were good. Back happily in his club. Employed as lift operator in one of the taller buildings. An improvement he said on the days crossing the stock exchange with slow gait so as not to expose his bare ankles devoid of socks. Awful dear boy when one can't sit down or walk too fast without fear of hiking up the cuff. But these days now living at his club crossing the lobby or marching down to breakfast in his elevator operator's uniform.

Under the suspicious scrutiny of the members. But Balthazar, I tell you, George my old whipper, dear chap, spread the word among them that indeed I was of the foreign military, rank of major general in the Zanzibar marines.

Proceeding west through the middle afternoon. An hour or two before the rest of London will charge out to the countryside. We turn down a winding narrow road and go through this postern onto a gravel apron before a mullioned windowed door. With its little sign above saying so and so licenced to serve alcoholic beverages and tobacco on the premises. One feels a need of both right now. The hotel large and empty. Across the lobby and through a smoking room where windows overlook the river cool and grey. The chauffeur carrying in our bags. One follows behind wondering what to do. I gave him a little something extra for himself. And tried to raise my eyebrows when I thought he seemed to wink at me.

At the polished oak reception desk I tinkled the little bell. A woman came. Busty in a rather over colourful flowered dress. Millicent standing with her everlasting smile playing across her lips as she looked down and bowed to sniff a vase of shrubs and flowers. I moistened my lips. Cleared my throat. And leaned forward imperceptibly.

"I have booked.' "Name please."

"BalthazarB.' "What's that.' "Balthazar. B is for B."

"O. Is it just one."

"O no it was for two."

"A double eh."

"Yes, I think so, please, with bath."

This big white book open. Where this lady points to say sign the register. And one does not know what to sign. Is it binding. To put down one great big B. Preceded by the tiniest written Mr. and Mrs. so that one can say I didn't mean it really. Evidence down through the years. Of deliberate saucy aforethought to indulge in shameless physical familiarities. Vile, low, shabby and inglorious. As I put the pen to this paper and tremble uncontrollably. Writing out across the page Mr. and Mrs. Balthazar B. So much larger than I ever meant it to be. And change my number from 78 to 94 Crescent Curve, and make it Mayfair instead of Knights-bridge.

A little man in a large grey suit took our bags to the room. Up a back staircase and down a long hall. Beefy said one should have as many rehearsals as possible for the honeymoon and he'd already played a solo on the Infanta's violin and she quivered and groaned on the high notes. As he shoved his stake as many times as he could into his claim. Flinging her down into seven leafed pink and purple clematis and rogering her right sharpish in the camelias where they both rolled ardently. My dear boy, of course one unzips the white dazzler and gets it into her before she can hear a sparrow fart. One merely whispers first, may I slip madam a gradual glissando. And here and now one walks hands atremble, heart beating far too fast. Into this room, bow fronted on the river. Big red flowered curtains, black narrow beams in white ceiling, pink and blue towels, and a crimson shade with tassels on the bedside lamp.