J. Donleavy - A Singular Man

"You speak so beautifully at times, Mr. Smith."

Smith smiles. And stood up. Says this way Miss Martin. This way. Come, let me show you. And by the elbow, steering this left hander into the drawing room. The boulder fireplace. A big round stove. Screens on the windows. Beams across the ceiling. The monstrous radio. A bathroom, small but working. Twist the faucet and rusty water pours forth. Black telephone in the corner. Which bounces when it rings. And I know from experience you can pick it up and talk to the most strange people all dotted on the map in the miles and miles of these woods.

"And, Miss Martin, last but, ahem, not least. Your bedroom."

"O Mr. Smith it's lovely."

Smith providing one surprise after another. And the maple table for the repast. A bookcase. As Smith opens up the binding and displays the long line of distilled spirits. And wines. Not to mention some unheard of aperitifs.

"A drink, Miss Martin."

"I don't know."

"Have one."

"I really shouldn't."

"Bust out."

"Gee."

"Full bodied sherry. A round madeira. Iced muscatel."

Smith at the bottles. The long necks, the litde, the fat. Green, brown, two red and twenty deep dark green. All gently cared for through the cold winter, sealed off safely in their temperate darkness.

"I'd like a whisky and soda, Mr. Smith."

"Fine and we'll make a little fire."

"I had no idea, Mr. Smith. What a place. That where you sleep there."

"And the embers at night, Miss Martin. Glow. The firelight licks across the ceiling. Like being ushered somewhere precious to sleep."

"I like the way you speak now, Mr. Smith. Gee, it's nice."

Smith ladling out the whisky. Into glasses filled with ice. Armloads of logs fetched. Miss Martin opening the can of pressed ham. Corn. Peas. Pans bouncing on the red hot rings of the electric stove. Sun lowering in the sky. Shifting in under the newly born leaves. Miss Martin pausing at the front open screen door. Saw a deer. She sneezed. And it ran.

Little flowered mats on the table. Steel eating instruments. A vase on the window sill full of wax spring flowers. Which poor Smith would never dare pick from the snake lurking shadows. But Miss Martin went out with nary a thought for the rural dangers. There were daisies. Pick them and wet the bed at night. The afternoon is dying. Sun nearly set. Leaves flutter. Smell of corn. Woodchucks out there. And hear a black snake moving over the leaves.

Smith doing his little bit. Polishing the glass. Rinsing the dusty plates. Miss Martin opens and closes her mouth as she cooks. Raising her eyebrows. Seams of her stockings dividing each leg neatly in half. Somehow in the skidding about in deals, one never lets the mind rest enough to catch sight of the neat shape of Miss Martin's calf. Out here in the country peace. My God it looks good.

"Miss Martin this is a nice little morsel you have dished up."

Smith across the maple from Miss Martin. Thank God he made that tree. Her hands so delicate. A marvel. She twists a spoon so certainly. Puts out the peas steaming on this ornate clay plate. Only need now fresh butter, fresh lemon. Goodness me, there is beastly craving again. Never satisfied. Always want more.

"Miss Martin you have excelled yourself. You really have."

"I like cooking. Salt, Mr. Smith."

"Ah, please. I have always fancied peas. Defenceless little green spheres somehow they don't stand a chance between the choppers. So sad."

"You seem a different person in the country, Mr. Smith."

"Shall we have music Miss Martin. Tune in to some wavelength."

"That would be nice."

"Do you fancy light, jazz or the serious kind."

"I like serious, Mr. Smith."

"Splendid. Fits the sadness of the peas."

"I never knew you felt that way about peas Mr. Smith. I'd bring some to Dynamo House, could cook them on the burner,"

Violins came out of the big radio. With some other instruments. A flute. A horn. Smith sat. Looking across the table. Smiled. Behind Miss Martin the screen front door. Two steps down to the ground, and the gathering green darkness down the steep hill to the bubbling, roaring of Worrisome River.

"Mr. Smith. I'd like to ask you something."

"Yes."

"You won't mind."

"Not at all."

"What do you want to be. I mean not that you're not something, you know what I mean. Sounds as if I don't think you're important but I do. But is there something you would like to be."

"A great criminal."

"Ha ha, Mr. Smith. Really what would you like to be."

"That's it Miss Martin."

"But you're crooked already."

Smith's steely asian eyes. Muscles dropping on his face. General rigidity. Bleak silence.

"I don't mean that. Now I've ruined everything. I put words into my mouth I don't mean. You're not crooked. No. Mr. Smith I swear you're not crooked."

"Thanks."

"You're not,"

"I'm glad you think that."

"Gee. I don't know why I said it."

"Pass me the corn Miss Martin. When one proceeds straight in life there is always an obstruction."

"You're an honest and good person. Mr. Smith."

"This is great corn."

"Mr. Smith pass me the peas."

"Certainly."

"I didn't mean what I first said."

"It's all right, Miss Martin."

"Gee you're so different in the country."

Smith ladling up the yellow kernels. Outside a breeze in the leaves. Yellow light flooding out the door. Music featuring a variety of horns. Lifts the spirit. Suddenly one can look at Miss Martin and see her in all her glory as a cook. Out here with all this good loneliness. Wafts away that feeling of the haunted hunted dog. Until the telephone rings. That black thing. Bouncing in the corner. Of this primeval forest.

"Let it ring, Miss Martin."

Little jangling bell. Phone tilts to the side. Bounces. Trembling to the edge of the shelf rigged to the corner of the wall. And falls on the floor. Talking handle sliding across the maple.

"Ah Jesus."

"Mr. Smith."

"Shush Miss Martin. We're trapped. Put your hand over the speaker."

Miss Martin picking up the phone. Putting the part to the ear. Frowning.

"Mr. Smith. It's someone saying what the hell is the matter with you George."

"Nothing is the matter with me."

"Shall I hang up Mr. Smith."

Smith rotating his hands. Looking across the room at Miss Martin as she stands both hands gripped over the talking instrument. Times in one's life when you think there is good news. And you listen.

"Mr. Smith. He says he's catching the train. That he has little or no money. And is presently trying to sell his shoes to pay for the ticket. And four embroidered handkerchiefs which he sold this morning for the price of a glass of ersatz orange juice. He says he just wants to talk. And why, O dear, he just said an awful word, the hell are you behaving in this extraordinary matter. Why are you trying to hide. Is there something the matter. I must say something, Mr. Smith."

"Tell him I've shifted further north."

"I can't do that, Mr. Smith. He's a cultivated gentleman on the phone."

"Do as I say."

"I will not. He's saying, why are you listening and saying nothing. I've got to say something, Mr. Smith, he says he is in an unbelievable nightmare. That all he wants is just a few hours away from it all."

"All right. Miss Martin. Tell him I'll meet him tomorrow morning. An eleven o'clock train comes from the coast. Tell him alight at Cinder Village."

"Hello. Yes. Yes. Mr. Smith says he will meet you on the eleven o'clock train tomorrow morning at Cinder Village. Yes. Mr. Smith is all right. He's here. It's only that he's not available at the moment. I'm sorry you've had to sell your shoes. Yes. Certainly. God's goodly wishes to you too. Goodbye."

"God."

"Mr. Smith he sounds like a real gentleman."