J. Donleavy - A Singular Man

"Keep your mind free of emotional ingredients when looking for profits."

"Gosh. Simple as that."

"Yes. I'm in rather a hurry, if you wouldn't mind organising."

"O sure. Good to talk to someone who knows what he's talking about."

"I'd like the key left in the lock of the suite."

"Now this emotional ingredient, that how you function, Mr. Smith, I mean pardon me for asking this time of night."

"Morning."

"Yeah morning."

"And I'm imposing upon the graciousness of a country citizen. This is an emergency."

"O sure. Just remembering that. Free the mind of emotional ingredients when looking for profits. I need investment advice. My wife wants to know why you want to spend all that good money getting buried."

"If you don't mind Norbert, the suite. Flowers and hot punch if you will."

"Sure, Mr. Smith. Good to hear from you again. Just goes to shows, my whole life I've been getting all emotional looking for a profit. The key will be in the tunnel entrance."

"In the door of the suite, please."

"Sure Mr. Smith, anything you want, you know me, boy I'll bet you've got some doll tonight—"

Smith lightly hanging the little ear piece on the fragile hook. Hick turning from the door where he was peering out in the night. At what must be Miss Tomson. That gun makes me nervous. Don't suppose he's ever seen her likes before in tight blue satin, slippered in gold and silver twiddling a pine cone in this vague neck of the woods. He may make bombs in his attic. George Smith tendering a crisp treasury bill.

"Nope stranger."

Smith taking leave gently on the grey porch. With a thanks a million. Once is enough stranger. And stepping down three steps to the hard path underneath the three great trees at the fork of this road. Turning to look back. The shadow standing in the light of the hall, gun at port arms. People who live in the country like strangers to call out of the blue.

The dirt road goes down winding, twisting and turning. Lights flooding the passing woods enclosed in an endless wire fence. A small pond. Up on a hill again faint grave stones of a cemetery. Apples must grow there and drop on the dead in summertime full of flavour. Handfuls of hair round Miss Tomson's head. Turn right at this turn, Miss Tomson, left at the next. Silent cruising through the night. South. Catching up with the storm splashing down the heavy rain. A rabbit popping on the road, Smith isn't that sweet that rabbit.

"Miss Tomson what were you going to tell me, back there in the bar."

"It was nothing."

"Come on tell me."

"It embarrasses me now."

"Please tell me."

'Well. You know when I was working for you. Saw you get all those letters, and the pathetic little set up you had and all, in Golf Street. I can't tell you. Seems too silly. Might make you sore."

"O."

"You'll get sore if I don't tell you."

"No I won't."

"I just used to add money to the petty cash box because I thought you were really having it rough. You'd come out and when you thought I wasn't looking you'd take it back into your office and count it and come back looking so pleased because it was more instead of less."

"I never did."

"You're getting sore. Real sweet, the way you used to look with that cash box. Even cried one night over my pay check but next morning I thought what the hell, this is a jungle, and paid it into my account. Which way do I turn."

"Go straight."

Smith slumped back on the leather. The tiny sound of windscreen wipers fanning across the glass. And down into a valley. A swollen river. Raindrops flickering through the light beams. Across a stone bridge and train tracks into a sleeping town. Spread across a hillside, a hotel, terraces built out on the jutting rock. Car mounting an incline towards a great brown door.

"Smith, where we going can't you see the door's closed."

"Drive on, it'll open. Watch."

"Gee."

Hollowing bubbling sound of Sally Tomson's long black car sliding in out of the dark rain. Three moss green armoured bullion trucks. Vast concrete wasteland. Miss Tomson turning and looking at George Smith. Her hand slowly sliding across the black leather to his. Entwining his fingers. Her face a little flower. As the lids lift up on the eyes. Her voice so soft and low. Saying O and O and O.

In the vast underground garage. Their voices echoing. Smith with a finger raised. Beckoning. Come Miss Tom-son. Cross this chill interior. Your legs. Watch you walk ahead of me through life. To open doors, buy my lamb-chops and pay the milkman.

"Where are we, Smith. This is crazy. I feel they move dead bodies in and out this door."

"For God's sake, Miss Tomson."

"I just was thinking this place is built for death."

"This way."

"This elevator is like a little church, Smith."

In Miss Tomson's eyes, down the steps, at the bottom, is her soul. When she was a little girl she had a little boy friend who looked up her dress every Friday after school to see if anything had changed. Easy joys of childhood.

"Smith."

"What."

"I know I said yesh. About a port. In the storm and all."

"Miss Tomson, what's the matter."

"Please take me back down. I'm going to try to get back to town."

"Miss Tomson I can't let you go out in the stormy night again. Might be trees down across the roads."

"This the down button."

"I wish more than anything you wouldn't press it. Wanted to bring you somewhere dry."

"Smith. I just wish it wasn't you. I just wish that tonight wasn't tonight. Don't be sad. Come on, don't be."

"I'm all right."

"I know it's silly but the tunnel. I'm nervous, a litde scared. Smith I've been thinking I've got you figured. I haven't got you figured at all. Face to face like this. I'm a coward. I've been bluffing. Like I'm some sort of careless society girl. I'm a hick."

"Please Miss Tomson."

"And I'm just scared."

Paneled door sliding back. The tunnel The steps to the underground garage. Miss Tomson's beige medallion on her tan finger. Wet tire tracks of her car. Worship the cement she walks on. Across this entrance of death. Night time nearly over. Smacked up her car. Stood by while her dog got killed. Mustn't cry. Just watch her drive away through clear, cool eyes. Got to be hard. Let her go alone. Never see her again. Milk truck bumping, grinding by outside. Her door clicks, engine roars and she spins the wheel. Backing and turning around. Don't go. Look back at me. Please. Standing here. With the nice tie you said I was wearing. Two little corners of a hanky I pulled up to show from my breast pocket. To look natty for you. Wave. Goodbye. Into the faint light of morning. Goes Sally Tom-son's car.

Sad

Starts

Under the eyes

As age begins

With lies

Laughing hardly at all

The way to

The grave.

SMITH back up these steps. Two minutes ago she left. Train thundering through the station in the town. No anger. Gave her fear. I mind so much. To keep her, must let her go. My hands folded under elderberry blossoms today. All marked with dying. Start off in the carnation smell of Brandy's death wagon to meet Bonni-face on the train. Find him enthroned on an ice block. We all get left.

Smith rose in die elevator. To a room full of flowers. Low table with a bucket of ice and thermos of wine. Across soft green carpets, a bedroom. Fat white marble lamps. The window looking down at the train tracks. Shingled roof of the station. The road under the bridge and up round the war memorial in front of the hospital, curving down again to the river and the highway that has taken Miss Tomson away.

Lock the door. Draw the curtains tightly. Sit. Take a sip of punch. Close eyes. What you want so much you lose. Die and carry me away. Once at college, I thought I'm dying. And tried to run. From the terrible loneliness. Bereft in those university rooms, cold and tall ceilinged, late at night. I fell to my bed. Looked from the top of my head down to my toes. Said I'll never make enough money to live. And too young to die. I thought at least I would make a stagger for it while ticking my last. Go down from a standing position. And out I went from my college rooms hobbling down the old stone stairs, clutching wall and banister. Yelling to two students busy peeing against the college granite. Said help me I'm having a heart attack. They looked at each other and tried to smile. I said through my faint breath, I'm not kidding, I'm George Smith of number 38 College and I'm dying. They carried me out across nightly lit cobble squares of college. A moist dark wind blowing. And slumped in their students' arms, they finally carried me by the feet as well. At the porter's gate I squeaked tell my tutor to please see to my affairs. Porters made a space and let the red glow of embers shine on me. My china, cut glass, plain glass, and collection of Georgian decanters are bequeathed to college. My tapestries too. To help remember me. Dead so young. My head fell back against the lodge wall. The porters' scary eyes. Which were tickled at first for the college was famous for jokes. I said call a taxi, and one pulled in under the archway. I was loaded in. An ambulance too white for my last moments. All said goodbye. Waved. Like I did to Sally tonight. A hope to bring you back again. In front of the hospital I crept for the door feeling I must not make any movements, said taxi man I'll pay you later. And he nearly had a seizure, gasping he wanted it now. I dug into my pocket. Only that it was necessary to give all my energies to my own heart attack I would have hit him several times. I limped inside. Three medicos I knew by sight from the university having tea. They made a merry word. Not to be cheered I asked them, listen before it ticks its last. Out came the stethoscopes. They said together, my God what a heart. Will pump for years. Are you sure. We are certain. Are you absolutely. We are and will write it on a piece of paper for you. And sign it. And Sally it was dawn that night too when I went back to my college rooms sheepish and took up this little note which has lain in my wallet since and read it now, worn and old round the edges.