J. Donleavy - The Beastly Beatitudes of Balthazar B

Millicent stands in front of the mirror combing back her neck length brown hair. Beneath the window a cherry tree. And beyond across the river a corner of a little field, great fat pink pigs lying in the grass. The door closed behind the porter. Our two bags side by side on the luggage rack the foot of the bed. And Beefy said whenever he looked with appealing honesty and purity of passion at some lady she would turn eastwards if any soft southerly attempt was made at her intimate acquaintance. Therefore it was frequently better to approach first with a gentle pastoral goose, oblique but deep enough to ruffle the female feathers. This led often to immediate and delightful bare arsed infamies without any prolonged further ado.

Balthazar B crossing the floor to stand close behind Milli-cent. And reach down, and my God I don't know quite how to give a goose. But must do something while I'm so near. Just put my hand I guess on her buttock and hope for the best as she slowly smiles in the mirror. And opens her brown eyes wide to look at me. My God how does one behave. Retreat now to give her time to pack. I mean unpack. Or wash her hands. Or rinse a pair of stockings as ladies often do. What a most awkward time of day. To stand here so close, my pole prepared as much as I am unprepared for anything. Still there is always that splendid solution to soothe and cairn.

"Millicent, would you like to have tea."

"That would be nice."

We went down into the smoking room. Another couple of older years in the corner. Who raised their voices. To make conversation about the invention of the electric light bulk The wife eagerly listening to what could only be her husband as tea is brought. Behaving as if they had never met before. In their twenty years of marriage and I don't suppose they have. Just like the moments when I touch Millicent and she answers by opening up that great big smile. What on earth will we ever talk about. Out now in the open over tea. She'll know at least that one is not beset with uncontrolled desperate passion. Or that the words I tried to get up out of my throat in the bedroom would have come out stammering. Not to have brought our tennis rackets. By which our relationship has volleyed back and forth and Fve lost every game. Sealed with back hand top spin cross court passing shots. She sits so nonchalant, carelessly and beautiful and takes three lumps of sugar in her tea.

Again one starts back up the stairs. After a brief stroll along the river low on the banks with the lack of rain. Watching the muscles on her calves as she climbed. In her flat laced up walking shoes. Swallowing my breath, I followed along the hall. And I put in the key to open the door. Pushing it wide aside for her to go in. And remove the brown tweed jacket of her suit. She stands there in cream silk blouse and her string of pearls. Those little beads of refinement. I have come across so many times before. One feels now so absolutely full of Friday. Because if I didn't, no day of the week would mean anything to me at all. She waits again at the mirror. While I'm over now at the window. Making believe I'm watching the skiffs on the river. And a rather tattered little yacht going presumptuously by. Could be the very moment to change into casual wear. And she into hers and then I could suggest we lounge about devil may care before dinner. Or God damn it, go over and grab her now. Which I've never done to a girl before. Since they were always grabbing me. Time for a change. And here goes.

Balthazar B came across the red lilac carpeted floor. Wishing he were drunk in command of his person. To reach out and take Millicent's arms from behind in both hands. In the mirror again comes that smile. I've got to slowly turn her around. Force the issue from the front. And hear through one's memories one of Beefy's solemn cries. When you strike a blow in defence, dear boy, of carnal knowledge make it resounding. To see now Millicent's incredibly developed eye teeth, their sparkling points as she widens her smile. For me who, without a God to pray to, can never beg to be sent a sweet surprise. And I feel if ever her lips spoke I would hear them say, do not tax your energies unduly on my account. Her eyes look down over her shoulder where grasps my hand. But it was she who said. What about a weekend along the river. That night after she sat wiping her mouth in the restaurant where the waiter flexed his arm in emphasis when suggesting spinach. And the bill came and had me counting off pound notes for hours. Must break through her cool reserve. As Beefy did bust and break when he was a little boy. Living in his granny's big house. He had a carpet cannon with a gleaming brass barrel on its black iron carriage wheels. He brought it into position on the hall balcony and blasted down the huge crystal chandelier. He said choose a day dear boy when one has all one's nerve. Do it now. Regret later. For next after that is never. And dear boy remember it is simply not done to ever let your prick hang in a girlish manner. Don't wait for the moon to go green before grabbing her. With my voice quavering and breaking during these moments. Hearing a whispering Beefy. Outside an evening thrush is chirping. Bestir my bravery. But remember Beefy could beat her at tennis for a start. Spitting on his racket handle before serving like a spring snapping a trap shut. And then quietly and persistently reducing her to a sprawling lunging wreck. I thought it a wee bit ungentlemanly to serve that way to a lady. But changing court, adjusting his white cap and drying off with a pink towel, one heard him whispering quietly, my God the brute fleshy pliability of that girl. I put my lips on her neck under her hair at last. In the perfume smell. On a soft silky skin. A 3i6 little roughness of a spiked eardrop against my cheek. Turn her around and push backwards towards the bed. God forbid she should ever resist. Without even the nerve to ask her now to turn down the bed and undress. Just as I am when someone squeezes on a bench. I always get up and walk away. And goodness our arms are awkwardly engripped. Her lipstick close up rather bright. Reach my hand to go back of her head beneath her hair. Push a little more past these baubles caught between my fingers. My God what was that. Her pearls. Snapped. As she sits up. And they go bouncing. And make a sound as they reach the edge of carpet and roll on the floor.

"My pearls."

"I'm awfully sorry."

'They've gone all over the floor."

"I'll get them. I'll find them. I'm terribly sorry. Please don't upset yourself. I'm sure we'll find them all."

Balthazar B on his knees. Under the bed and dresser. Carefully picking up the whitish round little gems. Gathered into the palm of his hand. And a last two, way in under there. Take off my jacket and squeeze in, gathering plentysome dust on the cuffs and sleeves. Just one shirt gone and three to go.

Millicent sitting on the edge of the bed. Her hand brushing back her hair. Lifting her chin as she peered across into the mirror. I suppose I could tell her the funny little story of how Beefy goes racing round the streets, pushing open doors of painting galleries and screaming in, fakes. But instead I must to the bathroom go and button back together again one's double breasted coat. And take a timorous pee. Or tell her that Beefy said there are too many baronets mixed up with buggery these days.

"I do hope they're all accounted for Millicent. I'll put them in this envelope and take them to Asprey's first thing Monday to have them restrung. I am awfully sorry."

"They were my mother's."

"I am terribly sorry."

"Given to me on my twenty first."

"You are twenty three now, isn't that correct."

"Yes."

"Well what say we just. Fm sorry Fve forgotten what I was going to suggest. I think I'll just go down for a moment to get some cigarettes."