J. Donleavy - The Beastly Beatitudes of Balthazar B

"No, I think we must not. Please."

"Why."

"It is not that I do not wish to. But I must stay here no longer. Please. It is very sad but it is so."

"Alphonsine. Let us sleep in the same bed."

"What difficult things you ask."

"Please."

"You want me. I want you. But why should we be allowed. Everybody passing on the street. They look. They want. But why should they have.' "No one wants you as much as I do. And I may never drink enough again to have the courage to ask you. I know it."

"I am thinking you are as wicked as you are sweet. You have such a way with you.' "Do I leave Jacques standing in his tracks.' "Ola la. You are bold.' "Watched you through the keyhole."

"Of course I know you watch me. It was so funny. I move this way and I move that way. I was so naughty. And you are so English to look through the keyhole. I am so embarrassed but I laugh at the same time. As I hang the towel slowly over the hole. It is le Comte Beefy who put you up to it. Both of you outside the door looking. I give you the towel like a curtain at the end of the performance. But Jacques would be jealous. He sometimes say at the end of a letter we are finish, that I have the affair in London. He has his dog. His boat. He says when he wants to make me unhappy that he likes his dog better. And I am only second."

"You are first with me."

"I cry a little. I miss the little fellow. I love him so. He has eyes like you. Now it seems so sad. I do not say to you all your wife said to me. I cry too because I do not want to go back to Paris. I would like always to be friends with you. But maybe it is not possible to be friends between a man and a woman. You never see me cry before. But please. Tell me. I want you to tell the truth. When you look through the keyhole. Do you think when you see it, that my bottom is too big."

Alphonsine looks down into her glass, head bowed. My study bells chime. One waits. And in the silence comes the distant boom of Big Ben. Lit up looking down on the Thames. Where it ebbs flowing up against bridge ramparts. Carrying all the French letters away. Alphonsine come with me. Don't say no. Bolt the doors. The windows. Only thieves can get in. Monsieur I am so ashamed. Take your arm. Both of us stand. Offer up your face. Lids closed over your sad dark eyes. Taste your tears. Apple smell of your mouth. The last bell of twelve comes over the rooftops. Climb slowly each stair. Kiss and hold tight on the landings. Up to your room. Undress your big bottom in the darkness. Ripe and round. Put my arms around you. Stand flesh to flesh. Till the day grows light up the valley of the Thames. My little fellow will not see the sun come up the street and gurgle in his crib and smile. Down on your hands and knees to clean this house. When I was aloof and mortified. Safe in my comfortable habits, sailing through little miseries. Lay me on you. You say I am so hesitant and shy instead of sportif and musculaire. That I have everything I want. But one never wants what one has. Except more of you. All through this night. As I see a streak of light. At a door opening in dreams. To let in things it's sad to know. And it's morning in Knightsbridge. Back in my room. When I was in yours. The world swirls. Fades light and dark. I rise up from bed. You sit all dressed again.

"O Balthazar. You are awfully sad, you had so much to drink."

"What happened."

"You were so sweet. So kind. So very drunk."

"O God."

"You will be better very soon."

"What happened."

"O it was nothing. You say you love me. You say you love someone else who's dead. O la la, such a pickle. You say you will buy me a little cottage with roses round it by the sea. Then you fall asleep and snore."

"I am sorry."

"You are a saint. You say such wonderful things to me. I will never forget. Go back to sleep. Later you will wake and feel better. Go to sleep."

Back to darkness on the crisp pillow with an uncrisp head. My eyes will open sometime again. Where I dream sitting at a white table cloth. On a crimson carpet. Pink spots on pottery. Lights glow and waitresses move to and fro. In this mauve illumined room. Vichy water on the bedside table and my red glass decanter. And at the window. A fluttering like butterflies. Moth wings beating against a shade. White winged figures. Roses in their hair. Am I dying. Smiles upon their lips. Quiet gleams from their faces. Tip toeing across the carpet. Towards me. To touch the hem of my coverlet and raise it gently up to my neck. Take light lemon flavoured water, wipe my lips and brow. Hear them all humming now. Is it the first chill day of London winter. When clouds lie striped on a western sky. And a wind blows cold and clear down Jermyn Street. Warm inside like Christmas. And there they stand. In summer. In all their beauty. Waitresses. Pouring tea. A flavour of blessing.

At a time

Told by

A sea's sad

Big clock.

A man in a belted mackintosh and brown trilby hat stood by the lamp post with a newspaper and sometimes a shooting stick across the street from 78 Crescent Curve. And when he was gone a letter arrived from a firm of solicitors with reference to protecting the interests of their client Mrs. Balthazar B. I read it in bed over a breakfast brought me by Alphonsine.

And one Wednesday when the air was quite pleasant, taking a crowded bus from the middle of Sloane Street. Which jerked and swayed with a rather playful driver. I fell back upon a small white wisp of woman standing just behind me. I could hardly see her under her red felt hat and red tweed coat. And out came her saddened little voice.

"Please don't, you're pushing on me.' "I'm terribly sorry madam."

"Well would you please be more careful and hold on to something. I know the bus is pulsating but if you crush me it would be awful. Because I am so tiny and weak."

The bus lurched on as I clung dearly with my hogskin glove. Holding life and death over the minute creature behind me. And suddenly the vehicle stopped abruptly and one was swung helplessly. I fell again upon the little person. As she cried out in her most forlorn voice.

"There you have done it once more. You are a big person and you continue to fall on me a little person."

To the end of Sloane Street I was thrown back on her again and again. Her small voice rising in its pleading high pitched manner begging for mercy. The entire bus viewed me with such disfavour and then suddenly with umbrage that I alighted before we turned into Knightsbridge and took a taxi the rest of the way. At the estate agent's I gave my requirements. And they said they had just the thing nearby. I walked with the man and viewed the commodious premises a couple of floors up overlooking a little piece of green grass and trees in Mayfair. I walked the long corridors and peeked into the ancient musty rooms. In and out of the servants' quarters and the large kitchen that reminded me of Uncle Edouard with its tiling and great ranges.

At 78 Crescent Curve Alphonsine was packed to go. Each day I pleaded for her to stay just one day more. To hope she would change her mind. And when she would not leave her room and then later come to me, her eyes red with tears, I knew a letter from Jacques had arrived. But slowly through the evening she would cheer once more. On fillet steak, mushrooms, camembert and Grand Echezeaux. As organ concertos trumpeted on my gramophone she would sit reasonably pleased, sewing buttons on my shirts and darning my socks.

A card arrived from Beefy. Rather risque but antique. A lady with her finer points exposed and garlands in her hair.

His tightly minutely scrawled message I deciphered under my magnifying glass.

My dear Balthazar, We cast our clothes from us again last night as we have done many the nights previous. The Violet Infanta has a sweetness of character of which I was totally unaware. Our room overlooks the harbour. Our toothbrushes stand together on our little shelf over the washstand and her childish flimsy garments are strewn on an odd chair. I have on, my dear boy, my rust brick coloured slacks, sunglasses and sandals. The dear girl weighs a cool fifty eight and one half kilos. Very flat on the belly, she is. A marvellous space between the thighs through which I get morning and evening breezes when necessary. She's my mare, dear boy, we trot off on the trail together, soon followed, I hope, by little Beefys. Now that one waits in nonchalant comfort I dream each night of what colour socks I will wear to my granny's memorial service. God willing it should come. But one dark note was sounded in the night when a couple moved in next door. This room it would appear is of cardboard walls. Chap and his wife from Orpington, Locks Bottom to be exact, very south London if I may say. Me and mine were up to some rather very naughty and nervy tricks together when in the middle of one came these raised voices doing their accounts of the day together. Adding up tips, price of postcards and where they were robbed, cheated and miserably duped beyond, it seems to me, belief. It didn't half put me off my canter, but being cheated was the least of it. My dear boy, both were poisoned by some fish dish or other. And the toxin was only at that moment getting a grip on them. They yawked, howled and bitterly complained through the entire night. Having ruined two of my most flagrant caprices I went into a rage on the third just near dawn and put my fist clean through the wall. This appeared to cure both of them but brought the owner. He promptly did his nut and his own amazing caprice but was silenced by a note of large denomination. However the world is colourless without war. My banker loves me now. And by the time you get this I should be back visiting estate agents to get fitted properly out for the future. I hope you manage to read my minute scrawl. And one little beatitude, blessed are they who do not eat poisoned fish and yawk for they will refresh themselves with filthy multiple perverse practices in the night.