J. Donleavy - The Beastly Beatitudes of Balthazar B

Balthazar B climbed up the steps and through the doors of the hotel. Up more steps to the man at the desk handing across two cables. To wait to be in my room knowing certainly from whom one was. Open the other first. Stand by the window. As rain pours down. And makes the roofs of the cars below gleam as they pass.

URGENT YOU COME TO PARIS WHERE YOUR MOTHER SERIOUSLY ILL DOCTOR PIERRE

I will never catch my breath. From one place to another. And never believe that people who travel get ill. Beefy is travelling. This cable from Perth.

AM ENROUTE PLEASE CHILL CHAMPAGNE FOR RATHER UNBLESSED MAN WITHOUT BEATITUDE BEEFY

In the dining room I sat near the window. Eating curled little pieces of toast with my escargots and steak tartar. Food to give one fortitude. And plan a life. Of how I no longer want to live. Performing comfortable habits. In London in spacious antique splendour at addresses more gracious than glad. Walking grey wall to wall carpeting in amphibious leathers. Keeping one servant, a secretary and female pug dog. My income big and private. To go each autumn whisking by train and boat to Paris to have a pair of riding boots made. Uncle Edouard said be wary with new friends and wise with old wines because it is sad that riches overshadow both good looks and an endearing demeanour of which you are possessed, my Balthazar. Journey to America, twice a year, once by sea, once by sky and you can marvel at the criminalities and cruelties of opportunity. You will reach an age when the past amazes you as much as the present. Then you will wonder if poverty held any sensual features you might have missed staying at the best hotels. But dear boy, you will find nothing better than good breakfast coffee or cake. And in the countries providing it, rise early. And remember do not be too overwhelmed with shyness for it is nice to sometimes weep in the face of beauty. And last. Be careful not to catch the crab.

Two bottles of champagne chilling in my rooms above. Eat one's strawberry ice cream. A group of youngsters laughing gaily waltz by through the room. My life lies as much behind as it does ahead. Won't matter now how I live it. That couple smile with a waiter over their bowls of caviar. Two dowagers sit sipping sherry and reading their menus. Winter comes and will bring smoke and fog to London. When the air sniffs sharp. And the streets are wet. Curtains drawn and everyone waits. For spring to blow the big cold grey clouds away. Order a cab for morning. Make my reservations on the train. Go out from Victoria, in a big comfortable chair amid the panelled walls and polished brass. And the little lamps with pink shades. By Battersea look down to see the dogs wagging tails in the dog pound.

Beefy stood with his hunting cap dripping rain and a worn brown leather briefcase hanging from his hand. As bells strike ten P.M. About his lips the trace of a smile. His face the bow of a ship ready to ply all seas and crash cutting through any storm.

"Balthazar. The sight of you is so welcome. The train of course was derailed. I ended up having to take a car through half the night through a lashing gale and pouring rain. But o let me just sit down. What a splendid drawing room. How quiet. Tucked away up here. That suit. You used to wear it at Trinity."

"Yes."

"It's charming. I like your colours. The soul needs a little pink here and a little magenta there."

In this green carpeted room. A writing desk. Two flowered sofa chairs. And round mahogany tables. Driving mists of rain tumbling over the tops of trees out the window. Where the lights are dotted across the great dark stretches of park. Beefy's shoes scuffed and sodden. A white hanky tucked up his shirt cuff. A golden one peeking from his breast pocket. So much said on his face. And were he alone I know it would be ablaze with worry. His hand falls from his wrist and his veins stand out blue. We will pour out the faint ash scented wine.

"Beefy how did it go."

"Not nice."

"O dear."

"Yes. I shouted at granny. I shook my fist and said I know that my redeemer liveth. After plunging through deep rutted gullies, shortcuts I knew from boyhood days, my man motoring me was in paroxysms. Kept complaining about his suspension. Then when we got in granny's gate we were surrounded by her four Irish wolf hounds. Took half an hour before I could charm them into doggish naughties with each other. And then I rushed up the steps and the door was locked. Finally had to climb through a window in the pig curing room which by day looks like the most gruesome sort of mortuary. And by night should be avoided altogether. My gout was aching in both my big toes and I could hardly walk. Cold, hungry and terrified Fd meet someone in the halls. As it was I fell promptly over an ancient fire apparatus, started wrestling for my life with the damn hose. I was completely hysterical. Near tears in fact. Thought I'd wake the whole house. And that Swithins would come beetling down out of some unnoticed direction in his wheel chair. That's how he gets around these days, keeps his walking stick across his lap and larrups the rest of the household across the arse, all except cook to whom he does other daredevil delights. Thank God everyone in that mansion is hard of hearing. Stood outside the billiard room. Thought it would only take a cue, one little tap on granny's birdlike head. But I just haven't such greed within me. I mean frighten her to death certainly, that's quite natural. But at four A.M. to clock her one on her nut. Not nice. So there I was, in her bedroom doorway. Trying to look a vision of terror in my hound's tooth knickerbockers. Good old Irish custom to frighten the life out of the old ones. I thought I was doing very well when she sat bolt upright in bed. Her night cap on. Me shivering drenched to the skin wearing my diabolical demeanour. She knocked over her bedside water. Turned on the light. And said how dreadful of you to come in with your muddy feet on the carpet. My God Balthazar she has vinegar for blood. I said granny, I am up the spout, I must have twenty thousand immediately. Her tiny old hand was opening and closing on her stick lying by her on the bed. I said granny, twenty thousand. Balthazar she let out with a blood curdling peal of laughter. The hundreds of little old ladies I've helped across the street, flattered and indeed danced with. And all granny does is pour herself a dram of her own special brew from her distillery. And suggests to me that I go make cocoa in the kitchen. If I'd had the cue stick it would have been the end of her. How can she at her age remain so hard and soulless. I said the family name was about to be disgraced. She said pity. Her elegance crushed me. I mean she sits to an evening drink covered in black silk and eight rows of pearls. I know for a fact she smashes back two brown eggs laid by two pet hens at breakfast, steam pudding in the evenings. On Sundays she devours a kipper with a dram of the pot still. She gardens six hours a day. I finally dropped to my knees. Bowed my head. Said I beg you for the sake of my own newly wed, the pure Violet Infanta, who is having a little one to carry on the name, nineteen thousand will do. Balthazar, she replied don't dare to insult my intelligence with such impertinent humbug. Then I thought I would at least let her have a jolt of the truth. I said how does it feel with so many people waiting for you to die. You know Balthazar, the wind stopped, the trees were still. You could hear a flea fart. And she said my dear boy, what a refreshing question, it is no end of comfort and solace to me each day I live, to have so many concerned for the day I die. Nice of you to ask but I will die at my own convenience, not yours. Balthazar, I withdrew. Stood a few last moments in the hall, looking up at a portrait of me and my cherubic face as I posed in white breeches and black hose against a backdrop of foliage, a little hat in my hand and a big brown dog sitting at my side. And high up over the damp walls other portraits of the family's horse thieves, imposters and cads who married rich widows. And then the little old fashioned drawings of granny's distilleries. And suddenly as I was leaving she came to the balcony railing at the top of the stairs. Said go make yourself hot cocoa. And in the chapel you will find my private prayer book. On page three hundred and ninety three you will see an item marked. Try to take it to heart. O God Balthazar. Must quaff a glass of this fine liquid."