J. Donleavy - The Beastly Beatitudes of Balthazar B

"Yes."

"You see I know. I can tell human beings and what they are. It is with the utmost reluctance I trouble you. The fact of the matter is sir. I have not eaten all day. I have no money. I am at my wits end. Everywhere I have gone I have been refused help. My shoes are worn out. Dear sir, could you give me the fare to Edinburgh."

Balthazar B looked into these dark pleading eyes. The black shining skin. And gracious manner. His shoes were only very slightly pointed. The missing buttons on his shirt and frayed cuffs nearly like my own.

"Please sir, before you speak, before you make up your mind. I want you to know that I am not lying. That I am genuine. Believe me. You are a professor."

"No."

"A member of the government perhaps. You know the streets so well."

"I walk here often."

"I can tell that you are important. I knew it as I watched you on the train all the way from Paddington on the Bakerloo Line to Charing Cross. You changed to the District Line to alight here. You see I do not lie. You are perhaps a member of Parliament."

"No."

"What are you sir. If I may just ask you."

"Pd hardly be able to answer that really."

"It is all right, you don't have to tell me, I understand you are someone important, and you do not want to divulge. I can see. Then you are a minister."

"No."

"You are of the peerage. Modesty prevents you from telling me. You have the carriage and demeanour of a lord. It is so clear to me that such is the case. Your clothing and the air about you tells me. But sir, upon my word of honour. Everywhere I have gone they want credentials from me. And I have left them with my landlady in Edinburgh and she will not send them to me because I have not paid the rent. That is the gospel truth. If I can get to Edinburgh my credentials will allow me to get further funds. And immediately I will send the sum back to you. Believe me sir. If I fail with you. There is no hope. Because it is only you out of all the hundreds of faces where I find love expressed with an elegance that simply no one else I have seen possesses. I do not ask you further. Believe me sir, I am aware that you may even be a member of the royal family. And that you would not want me to know. I offer you my watch as security."

Balthazar smiling to put this gentleman at his ease. The watch of poor quality held out in the pink faced palm of his hand telling the wrong time. His eyes full of sad resignation. Back those years, when one saw passing across college squares black princely gentlemen with their white flashing teeth and splendid ways. Flowing colours of their robes and the grand aplomb with which they wore their tweeds. And there was Zutu. Great soothsayer of the horse and race course.

"Please. Do put your watch away. And don't worry. You do flatter me over much I think, but alas you have stopped the right man. I will help you."

"Sir. Upon my God I knew I could not be wrong. That no face like yours have I ever seen before. I do not try to flatter you. I know you would scorn such an attempt. I merely speak the truth that is forced up out of my heart by hunger, the dread of destitution and no one to turn to. I have tried everywhere. I would show you my wallet or some identification but I have none."

"You must not upset yourself further. I am walking out, perhaps you would accompany me."

"Yes. It is sir, as if Christ himself had given me a goblet of wine. Men such as you have courage in your heart and wear love upon your face."

"It's nice of you to say but I'm not so sure. You mustn't trouble to give me praise. I am happy to give you the money."

"Fll send it back, please I beg you to tell me your name and give me an address."

"I'd prefer just to make this a present. I give it in memory of someone else. I'd like you just to accept it. And we'll say nothing more. It's enough to get you to Edinburgh, first class on the train, and this, extra, for you to have a good dinner tonight. I had an uncle who always said a bottle of Gevrey Chambertin today gives the spirit its sleep for tomorrow. Goodbye. I wish you a pleasant journey."

Balthazar B turned, tears left in the dark eyes as he made his way away into the park. The weeping willow bending to the water, ducks steering their way to bread dropped from the railings of the bridge. Emerald gleam of their heads. Warm sun on one's back. Murmur of voices. Click of passing shoes. The late light of long London evenings in the sky. Beefy now in his riches. Told him Millicent threw much Silesian glass of the baroque period which crashed expensively around my ears. Out of which one day soon I'm sure lawyers will walk. Beefy said he and the Infanta would travel quietly to the edge of the Caspian Sea to indulge themselves calmly in fresh caviar, following which he would say Violet, bend over to allow admission of this valid concept. One hears a band playing. A man walking across the park with his shirt off, umbrella, bowler and attache case in his hand. No end to sacrilege. Beefy said far too many folk these days were outfitting themselves without entitlement, parading about in the privacy of their homes as archbishops. Not nice.

Balthazar entered this public house. Down in a mews in Belgravia. Cozy, neat and quiet. Stand at the bar. I am going to lonely celebrate. Drinking bitter beer. Chew over my own dark musty thoughts. Some precious. Where they lurk like saved up little children's treasures. Touch them before they die. And if I die. Leave them to those who live. Like the furniture they auction behind those double calm green gold fringed doors of Sotheby's. Where I go under the gleaming creamy painted arch. And put my fingers across the satin and touch the delft. One is always taught to keep. The old wears better than the new.

Balthazar B goes out now, tipsy. Look up. After a big fat sun sank tonight. London glows against the cloudy sky. An onion man goes by. Pushing his bicycle, two last bunches bubbling over his handle bars. He stops. He blocks one nostril and blasts air through the other, sending his phlegm in the gutter. He smiles. Bonsoir. And salutes handing over his last wares of the day to this pleased gentleman.

Moving along Pont Street, Balthazar B singing O For The Wings Of A Dove, his onions strung fore and aft over both his shoulders. Up the steps of 78 Crescent Curve. To search through pockets for one's keys into this house. Turn and see the binoculars up at the window there. It's so friendly really that someone else cares so much about what happens in one's 36i house. And sir do focus down on me here and watch me bring in my onions. So French and fat and nice.

In the silent hall. Lights out. Go secretly in my study. Put lights on. Unload onions. Dumped on my desk. Beefy is right. It's the rich what gets the peaches, it's the poor what gets the punches. But does he know it's the squiffy as what brings the onions home. When the world's all grey. Settle my beer with a glass of brandy. Everyone gone to bed. And old Boats to Lyme Regis, just when I need him most. He could take one's watch from one's wrist and wind it. Sit my old self safely down. And sigh. Sniff this cask cured distillate of wine. And my God what's this. Papers strewn on the floor. And letters. Fitzdare's picture torn to shreds. O my God give me oblivion. From small small voices of small small men ashout in the world.

"O Monsieur. Monsieur. You are all right."

"Yes. I am all right."

"You have not seen the rest of the house. I have tried to clean it up as best as I am able."

Alphonsine standing in the faint light, her serious brown sad eyes. Her cheeks spotted with red. As she looks across at me. And I do not stand. Which stand I must. To brave against the wave of fear. I see in her eyes and comes crashing over me. With the chime of the clock. It tinkles and rhymes. Makes the little fellow crinkle up his nose and wave his tiny hands.