J. Donleavy - A Singular Man

"No."

"Why don't you admit it."

"All right."

"You admit it."

"Four cases of whiskey. Have vanished."

"Two."

"You admit it."

"Who dat pagan sittin dere."

"Me dat pagan sittin here."

"When the flock is thirsty the dark complexioned redeemer leads them to drink. Mr. Smith."

"I'd prefer the redeemer to lead them to his own whiskey."

"No hard feelings. What's whiskey, Mr. Smith."

"Expensive."

Matilda's glistening eyes. If the days would unravel. When my guests stand over the polished plates, tureens in Renown. Matilda in her black china silk. Bonniface in hunting pink. Her Majesty could have handed him out The Order Of The Underwear, instead of being insufferable. Send her some smoked eel. Could cross the carpet and kiss Matilda. Hold her close. The terrifying strength. Of her arms. Massive legs. Could put up some fight.

"Mr. Smith, what are you thinking."

"I was thinking of kissing you."

"Come on."

"Herbert's coming."

"We got twenty minutes."

"Not much time."

"Let's break a record."

"We better not."

"Come on. Pull the curtains."

"You were singing a hymn when I came in. Sing to me now."

Matilda in her high and in her low haunted voice. Tip toeing from octave to octave.

How

Much of her

Was muscle

How much of her

Was sad.

Which of her

Was fat

Which of her

Was glad.

Solemn darkness. Autumn leaves gone. Lie on her dark breasts. Fallen on her black steely hair. The tired evening. The city on the way home. Cold chill lurks in all the bones.

"Matilda."

"Mr. Smith. I'm hungry."

"You smell good, Matilda."

Fluttering eyelids on the neck. Crushed butterfly wings lifted from a summer flower. Mr. Smith I'm not hungry, I'm horny. Miss Martin's round white ripeness. Matilda's bulge of tan. Close up Merry Mansions to desertion and dust. Move to The Game Club. Live high up. Each afternoon after a swim and steam bath. Sit staring in my lap amid the silence, the glass book cases, the tinkling kindly chimes of the library's old clock. Chess players murmuring down the vaulted hall. Steam whispering in the radiators. And down below in the streets. The sirens and gongs. To fires and murder everywhere.

"Mr. Smith, why don't you sleep here at Merry anymore."

"Woof woof."

"Down Fido."

"Woof woof."

Smith lightheartedly lowering to all fours, crawling on the rug. Between Matilda's legs. And snapping at a few imaginary flies. Sandals flapping. Bonniface is right. So nice to bow wow. Be someone's little dog. Faithful and true to the last. With a master all of ones own. Little gable roof. Bed of straw. Little roughness on Matilda's ass. Where she sits so much. Silken smooth all the elsewhere. Me Fido. Man's best friend. Woof woof. The buzzer.

"Matilda, that's Herbert."

"Don't go."

"Got to."

"You don't got to go."

"I must, a ticklish task ahead."

"Ticklish task here. Fool around some more. You old Fido. Yummy."

"Bow wow."

"Nice Fido. Good dog."

"Call down, Matilda. Tell Herbert I'll be five minutes. I'll be back later."

"I got a tabernacle meeting, at nine."

"Where."

"Here. Where else. You wasn't expected. It's the Second Communion of the Brown Angels."

"I see. That'll be another two cases of whiskey."

"Don't be mean. Feel me. Right across here."

"Fantastic stomach muscles, Matilda. How do you keep them like that."

"By laughing. And laying."

"Tell Herbert to come back in an hour."

"You sweetie pie, Fido."

"I yam das yingle humperdink woof woof."

Matilda wagging to the foyer. Big dark feet flapping on the floor. Voice mellow and low.

"Herbie, Mr. Smith is deliberately delayed by the unavoidable, you know the circumstances unforseeable and all that commotion. An hour. And fifteen minutes. Good-bye."

"Come here you, you brown angel."

"Herbie says he don't know how far he can go in this snow if you wait. Baby baby."

"You have gorgeous eyes Matilda. And the most smooth skin."

"Hee hee, you don't have to flatter this unhandsome Matilda. What beauty I aint got is enough to go round the world."

Strewn garments. Brown steam engine, puffing away. Delighted to be pulling out of the station. Moving once more. Loaded with a heap of hustlement. Of all the Hildas and Matildas. See you in the black and white hereafter. Without lashes without eyes. Crease gone from all my trousers. Choo choo down the rails. Where you going on that train. Where you pounding on that track. Waving out the window. When the world was waving back.

"Whoohoo, Mr. Smith."

"Choo choo, Matilda."

"Say that little thing again."

"Vas."

"Like dat sumpersink das dinkity rink."

"Mean dat yingle humperdidink. Das woof. Dee bow wow."

"Nice doggie."

A lonely birthday party Matilda gave me. Once when I sat unwanted at the window. She came carrying a cake and candles. No one else remembered. Or cared, happy birthday Mr. Smith. Lights off. The evening street throwing big shadows of the furniture across the floor. No little children with upturned palms. Here daddy, a present. I paid with my money and bought for you. I kissed Matilda then. All that person warm and kind. On this train clickity clack and blind. Take this turning. Before it bends. Or ask what's your style. Dog. And wham. One day dead. At a board meeting. Slumped over a chair. To the mortuary, change of socks, clean underwear. And evening clothes to sport through the longest night of all. Dear little pussy. Big fantastic cat. Waltzing in an old smile. Ice dancing in a hat.

Like petal

Cool

Like yingle

Yule.

BROAD phalanx of cars across the bridge moving slowly through the streaming snow. Towers holding girders wear white crowns and red lights high in the sky. Smith in the back of the dreadnaught, sandaled feet folded one on the other. Wipers fanning two snow frames on the windscreen. To see bolts and metal joists. Rust and grime, covered with the smallest of frozen tears. Wait for rain to wash troubles away. And snow comes and buries.

"Mr. Smith, the radio says it's going to be a blizzard. I don't know if we're going to make it out there."

Out there is a lonely coast. A beach tightly jammed in summer. Bare skins burning and sweating on the sands. Sad drownings, a grey body lifted away. And winter all cold, empty, and chill waves bleakly rolling across the shore. Matilda, let me go. Mr. Smith, you can get it up again. Just once more. Kissing one midnight breast. While the other is lonesome. Hers is a big red tongue for games and words.

Herbert's level headed confident look, under his black visor. Man to depend upon in a battle.

"Mr. Smith, this is getting pretty bad.'*

"Drop me at the first rapid transit, Herbert. I'll forge on, underground."

Two iron balustrades, two beacon bulbs of light, at the subway entrance. Hosiery sale in that store window. Manufacturer offering direct to the customer at phenomenal saving. Snow melting in puddles at the bottom of these steps. Smith standing on the platform, in the cold gloom, and sandals.

Rapid transit train rocking on its way. Screeching from halt to halt in the forlorn white tiled stations. A fat woman with a dark thick coat. Little slits cut in the bulges of her shoes. Her sneaking eye engrossed by Smith's crisscrossed leather on his white socks. Come down here out of the cold high wind, wrapped and shivering. Matilda said, vas dog are you Mr. Smith, I yam das yingle frankfutter dog.

And above here on the streets somewhere, lives Bonniface. Vas brand of dog. Ah, Mr. Mystery, he bloodhound. You see the sad eyes Smith, and ah, these flaps of skin down over them as they go baying and tracking on the trail, to follow the splashes of blood from leaky wounds and whiffs of fear.