J. Donleavy - The Beastly Beatitudes of Balthazar B

"What's happened."

"Monsieur. After you left this morning. I don't know what to say. It was bang, boom, bang. There was shouting in here. I came running. To see what the matter was. I find all the paper and picture torn. The drawers out of your desk. Madam said I was not to touch. Mrs. Davis was told to go. And nannie left with Madam and the little boy. I was told to go as well. But I do not have anywhere I can go. I have not enough money to go back to Paris."

Balthazar B sitting back down in his chair. Feel the silence of the house. I can wake in early morning and think again when my brain is pure. Rest now while Knightsbridge is asleep. My little fellow gone. I walked home across the wide open grass. Clouds of starlings in the sky. An urgent chattering thrush shot under the trees. Beefy gone into riches from which he may never return. If you have a waterfall of money crowds rush with buckets, bathtubs and thimbles. Only thing to do is ask them please wait in line, don't climb up each other's backs. Left now with Alphonsine. Who's been down on her hands and knees to clean. When Millicent has walked by. Now she stands there all distressed. Tears in her eyes.

"Monsieur I have made some supper. Please don't disturb. I will bring it."

To lose and lose. What you love. Put all this scattered paper in the fireplace. Let it go up in flames. Hurry up to die. So little reason left to live. Take a ship across the Atlantic, jump down into the cold waves. Should have made a fist. To shake in her face. But instead put some logs on the fire. Ready for another long night.

Alphonsine came in the door with a great black tray. A golden fold of omelet. Salad of tomato and watercress. On the onion pattern Meissen all neatly arranged. The space she clears at my desk. For wine and salt. Pepper and butter. Before even I can get up to help. A nice girl. Who loved the little fellow so. Saw her give him crushing kisses on the cheek. Fuss back his little wisps of hair. To make me wish I were he.

"Alphonsine. Don't go. Stay."

"If you like Monsieur."

"Please don't call me Monsieur."

"But, I must be frank, it is not proper that I should be now in this house."

"I know. Just sit. And have some wine with me. I've drunk too much tonight."

"You have many onions too."

"Yes I have many onions too. I like you Alphonsine."

"Yes I know. And I like you too. But just as we are here now is very much taboo. I must leave. It is very sad for me to 363 go. To see your home like this. Here is your napkin. Is there anything else you would like I can get."

"No. Thank you. Just stay here with me."

Those afternoons when nannie was relieved from two to six. I went out. Past the French Embassy across the bridle path of Rotten Row, to see Alphonsine on the incline of grass. Facing the little pond and rabbits running in the shrubbery. Where we so often sat and had our laughing talks. Of her family and four little brothers. To whom she wrote every day and showed me pictures of. Under the acacia tree with the squawking geese swooping overhead as they flew each evening before sunset from St. James to the Serpentine. The little crowds of pigeons collecting. The black lamp standards, fat globes under an iron crown. The weeping willows and the ash. All surrounded by other nannies. All paid fourpence for our chairs. They whispered when they saw us. In blue and grey, white aprons and green cumberbunds. Frills above the biceps, white collars flowing from the neck. Sitting in their clustered circles. Where nothing was ever a secret. Till they said goodbye and come along Jonathan, Felicity and Nicolas. Alphonsine you look so nice now in your dark green sweater. And no pearls. How much longer does one remain a gentleman. Through those first days when you said you had no taste for tea. And later when I did just once help myself and pinched you on the behind. Just to hear you say, it is taboo Monsieur. I had tipple taken. And you tell me so much about Jacques that I always want to hear more. With the pain of jealousy. Ah Monsieur he has, how do you say, biceps. Stripped to the waist sweating he is debonair. He works hard in his family business. It is a small furniture factory in Paris. He drives fast his big car. He is not afraid to be very gay. He is below my social class but it means nothing to me. Then Alphonsine to my crestfallen face would smile and say, but ah Monsieur, he does not have the distinguished cultivation and handsomeness like you. And to her solemn face now that she always wears when a week is gone without a letter.

"How is Jacques Alphonsine."

"O he is all right I suppose."

"Will you see him if you go back to Paris right away."

"Yes of course."

"What will you do."

"O we will go if it is Sunday perhaps for a picnic. He puts down the cover of his car. We ride with our hair flying to the Pare des Buttes Chaumont. It is there that sometimes people commit suicide off the high bridge. Sadness is always in the happiness. We lie on the grass. We play the radio. We have our apples, sandwiches, cheese and wine. Jacques takes out his pocket knife, to cut what I might want from the apple or cheese. We go then to the Champs Elysees, it is dark, we speed back and forth. We go to the cinema. We have a lot of fun."

Beefy now. Owning perhaps much freehold land soon in Sunningdale. Up to his neck in his wedding night. As Fm up to mine in sorrow. With this girl who loved the little fellow and was so good and gentle to him. With her on the grassy incline of the Dell I was never despondent and miserable. Would lurk round the shop windows. Working up my courage to walk up and say hello. Always to feel a little tortured. When she would say, ah Jacques and I will holiday on the Riviera. I have bought my new swimming costume. Jacques looks so good in his. It is brief just over here. The stomach he has is flat like steel. And soon now she'll be gone. Like cherry blossoms when they were pink. Leaving leaves all green.

"Will he meet you in his motor."

"But of course, if he can."

"It has many cylinders, I suppose."

"But of course."

"How is Jacques' dog. Does he lift his leg on the better poplar trees."

"You make fun."

"Does Jacques kiss you when you meet."

"Monsieur you have drunk far too much beer and wine tonight to ask such questions."

"Does he kiss you."

"Of course. He takes what he wants."

"Does he ask."

"Of course not. I am there for his wishes."

"O dear, Jacques with his beaucoup force. Me with only wishes. I am homesick for Paris. The tiny little lives tucked away in the cement hives. The alleys. Hallways cool in summer and cold in winter. The restaurants full of wine and talk."

"That is nice, how you say that. I think Jacques if he would get to know you. Would like you."

"Has Jacques swum the Channel yet."

"Now now you make a joke of Jacques. He is young but he thinks old. He would not do something so foolish. A man is best with a young body who thinks old."

"He can swim."

"Of course. Like a shark. Just like he drives his speed boat through the water."

"Does he steer with his toes."

"O I will not talk about Jacques with you tonight."

"Please. Do. This is the most delicious omelet."

"I should not sit here."

"Why."

"We could be noticed. That man across the street. Is always watching. You know of course he sent a note."

"No."

"Yes. He said that he could see the shadow of my under-things drying on the little line I put in my room. He asked if I mind awfully removing it. He said it is not elegant for the street. I look out last week and he is dressed as a woman going out his front door. I knew it was him."

An aircraft flying overhead. Means the wind is from the west. Moist air stream over Knightsbridge. Where big and little dogs trot down Sloane Street. Debutantes in their polka dot silk dresses. To rowing and tennis. As I was off to the Dell. Stopping, looking into the window of Cobb the butcher. With his Scotch beef of the finest quality. Cooked one Sunday so splendidly by this girl with her understanding eyes. In love with Jacques. Who said I am not pretty and beautiful like your wife. But Alphonsine you can cook carrots to taste like caviar. Or even carrots. You say you must be discreet in another woman's home. And be faithful to your Jacques. And I wish you weren't.