J. Donleavy - The Beastly Beatitudes of Balthazar B

"It would not be bad, it would be over at once. But to try to make a fight, ah another thing it would be. It would be an abattoir for you. It makes me laugh to think. You and Jacques. So funny. Snap would go your head. Jacques then would come in with the chop. Chop chop. With the downward motion. Whoops, like a chicken who lose the head. O it would be funny. Like the tiger he would fight. He has machines for the hand to squeeze, in and out like that, one two, one two. To make the hand strong. In his underwear I see him. It is tight. The belly like little mountains."

"O dear, I am not musculaire."

"You are distinguished. Jacques is not distinguished. But I have enough distinguishness for the two of us. We do not worry who is your family. Where is your chateau. Who is your uncle. Your tailor. How is your accent. The English they are like parrots. The women squawk. So nervous. They do not get enough love. It is very sad. They go to Italy and they have it up the backside. I do not think that is satisfactory. It make the accent go high. It hurt the arse too. I am high. O la la, what am I saying. I have far too much to drink."

"Alphonsine may I just say it's good to listen to you."

"You are so flattering to me. Jacques does not flatter. He commands. Like a matador. But brave like the bull. When he comes and it is time to take me. I lie there on the bed. He is there, only in his brief. I but wait."

Crackling fire. Snapping of embers and the licking light across the room. Two photographs of Trinity, taken from my window in the square, hanging there against the oak panelling. A rainy day it was then. And wheels go by on a wet street now. Got my onions in before the rain. Pull the drapes closed on the window. Alphonsine sits back on the leather cushioned chair, feet tucked up, shoes off, in her tight grey slacks. Mil-licent said she probably looks like a cow when first she wrote. And I knew she didn't. From her handwriting. Her strokes so light and tentative. A strange little love grew up the moment I saw the way she crossed her t's and made the capital letter I. This blue delicate trembling vein on her ankle. Brought her here with her two large brown leather bags. We hardly talked all the way in the taxi. She spoke English and I answered in French. She wore a man's watch on her wrist. Her eyes were smiling so gleaming and shy. They somehow reach into one's life and touch it gently. I carried her bags up and she said her room was very pretty. At night Millicent put instructions written out and posted on the wall in the kitchen. Under au pair. And others under cook. After Boats left. And I would take them down. But once Alphonsine saw it when she came to make cocoa and blushed all over her cheeks. She could hardly speak and swallowed a lump down her throat. I said to Millicent you are never to do that again. She said why not she's French.

"You sit so how do you say, dejected. I should not tell you such things. I see what they do on your face. Even though I make a little joke, it is not nice. I suppose I do not tell you what is really the truth. When sometimes on my day off. I walk. I go to the shops. Up the Park Lane down the Oxford Street. And. Yes. I have thought of you often. I would wish I was back with you and the little fellow at the Dell when you come to the park. I would be bored by myself. I would be hungry too. I would be too stingy to have lunch. All the time when I was saving for the swimming costume. I come to a bun shop. Look in the window. I stand next to an old lady. She is hungry too. I count the number of raisins in the bun. To find out which is most. I go in the shop. I ask for that bun. I say no. Not that bun. That bun. I laugh. He mixes up the buns. I say wait, you have lost my bun and I must count all the raisins again."

"I will make your salary higher, Alphonsine."

"O no. I could not accept. I did not tell the story for you to say that."

"Let us have some champagne.' "O I am so light already in the head.' "It clears the palate. Refreshes the spirit."

"You are funny."

"I am not Jacques."

"Now now. You hold what I say against me. You know I have already said now what I shouldn't say. That it is often I think of you. But what good is it to think. You are another woman's husband. I have no right to think like that. It is not good to tell you these things. I have already made such a mistake to be here in your private room like this. But I want to be. So I am. And it is very wrong."

Balthazar bowed to put his lips briefly touching her hair. And went down the dark cellar stair. Along the cool corridor to the wine vault door. In here among the bins. Find something quite unforgettable in the straw. The two of us left in this house. No reason why for one night it should not be a happy home. I suppose if I were strong enough to lift it, the only defence against Jacques would be a chair. But if I got it up above my head he might punch me in the belly. So hopeless. I'm not even awfully good with sabre or foil. By the sound of him he could also beat me at squash. Only my palate would win. Challenge him to deciphering champagnes.

Alphonsine taken the tray away. All the other little scraps of paper gone. The cushions fluffed up. Scent of wood smoke. And one day when I went a walk along Brompton Road and entered the Oratory. Where often I go for peace and solitude. It was middle afternoon on a coldish day. A couple came and knelt at the altar. All alone. Then a priest came out. He performed a wedding ceremony. These two people wrapped up with each other's love holding hands. No cheering, singing and hats and rice and champagne. Just a priest's soft voice gently joining them. I thought how sad but then how beautiful. Two people together against all others. And me their only witness who watches. In the empty church. Send them out of my heart some good little wish. When one never believes in miracles. I saw one small one happen. At the moment they were wed. A ray of sunshine came striking down from the church dome and shone upon their heads. To light up their world.

"I could not drink more."

"To celebrate."

"No no. I could not when your wife has gone. And the little fellow too. I would never celebrate such a thing."

"It's to celebrate my friend's wedding. Beefy."

"Ah. Le Comte. O la la. Who would marry him, he is such a one. What things he say. How is that funny one, that it is the rich what gets the prunes and it is the poor what gets the shits. I laugh."

"Your eyes sparkle."

"Ah you are. Are you not. Making it a bit risky here. But it is nice to feel so good. I like when the light goes on your hair. It is like the electric that one touches. But taboo. I am above Jacques' class. You are above mine. And you are very rich."

"I am poor."

"Ha ha, I see how you live, you could not be very poor. Do not think I do not know the champagne we are drinking. It is not for poor people. You do not fool me."

"I want to kiss you."

"No."

"Why."

"Because it is taboo. Who is he on the wall, clinging to the cliff."

"That is my Uncle Edouard."

"He looks nice."

"Yes he was.' "O something happen to him."

"Yes. He is in his grave."

"O I am sorry."

Balthazar rising from his chair. To step near Alphonsine. Her hair gleaming. She is alive. No grave. She is France. Like all the piers from Calais to Boulogne where men stand and fish. And starfish lie crushed and sun dried along the quays. The towns now lit bright with neon lights. But the fishing boats still come and go. Just as when I was a little boy. The car ferry was moving away. Trawlers coming in from distant seas. And white little sailboats like butterflies, their wind slanted wings out on the grey green water. Fresh blue sweeping across the skies. Each day lay out upon my dreams somewhere near the edges of land and water where the eye could see. Married I was as voices sang. Walked stiffly slowly up the aisle. Needing to take a pee. My afternoon already darkening. My hands are on you. Alphonsine. Takes so little flesh to make a curve. And there's a flat wall of red brick on the corner of Pall Mall and St. James against which one can lean. And with you Alphonsine tune our ears to vespers. Tea with crumpets and gentleman's relish. Jacques takes what he wants. And I must ask. To pardon my ancient expression. And the tremors of trouble bubbling behind the kneecaps. Hard pressed by evil. Snatch delight in these selfish times. Soft to kiss. Take up our memories in the Dell. Hear a Beefy beatitude. Blessed are they who out of a sea of human frailty climb aboard a piece of arse when it floats by.