J. Donleavy - Schultz

“But Schultz before you rush off, perhaps you’d tell your old pal Binky about the prognosis of your Oriental Plague.”

“Jesus that worry got crushed right out of existence in the last twenty four hours. No microbe could live through what I’ve been through.”

“Ah but Schultz this is a most interesting development, your socking people.”

“That’s right. Any shit now from anybody. That’s what they get. This. Right in the gizzard.”

“But Schultz I must remind you this is England. You can’t go around punching people.”

“Can’t I. Just watch your daily newspapers you guys.”

Schultz folding his production agreement and shoving it into his jacket inside pocket. A rapping at the office door. Binky in his lightest airiest vowels saying come in. Rebecca with one of her long elegant hands brushing back a soft curled long blond brown strand of hair from her attractively wide forehead.

“Excuse me sir. O goodness, I’m sorry.”

“Ah forgive me Rebecca my momentary state of undress. We’re just doing a little experimenting with costuming. Do come in.”

“There is an urgent personal call for Mr. Schultz on Lord Nectarine’s private line.”

His Lordship suddenly sitting bolt upright on the chaise longue highly unamused. Having been lying back not unsmilingly in calm enjoyment of this morning’s marvellous showbizz conference.

“Schultz to whom have you given my private number upon which to take your personal calls when there are six other lines.”

“Jesus your Lordship, I gave it to nobody. And do you have to get steamed up about such a simple little item like that. Besides you never use the damn thing.”

Schultz hurrying out of the office. And back in a moment. Beaming ear to ear. As Binky following a puff of cigar smoke raised his chin enquiringly.

“Ah Schultz clearly good news.”

“Jesus that was the laboratory tests. The Doc just got in. You sons of bitches. I ain’t got a thing wrong with me.”

“Ah how nice to hear that, Schultz. How nice.”

Schultz his scratched face with one very black eye and the other fading blue and his rumpled ivy league attire now improved with Binky’s silk shirt, swept jauntily out of the office of Sperm Productions. Even popping on his head a fedora his Lordship abandoned on a clothes rack in the hall. As Binky further conferred with his aristocratic associate.

“Ah your Royal Grace we must really admire him I think. Especially in view of the dear boy’s ability to convert as it were your limousine into Schultz’s personal bandwagon. And in spite of his venereal tribulation.”

Binky who quite savoured to take hilarious delight in another’s mild misfortune was also as he had amply demonstrated this very morning, possessed of an astonishing magnanimity and humanity and would rush to any downed friend’s assistance. And now he especially relished the publicity which had helpfully befallen Schultz.

“Your Royal Grace I think, I really do, that we must now consider seriously buying up Schultz’s show.”

This previously glowering grey day, now blossoming a bird singing cheerful London bright blue. Pigeons cooing out on the roof. Binky, in Schultz’s bloodstained shirt and without his usual oval cuff links flashing gold, sifting and shifting one last time chuckling through the newspapers, laughing outright here and roaring there. And now finally taking up the morning’s post. And still convulsing himself with laughter with his somewhat less amused Lordship over this morning’s marvellous fun and games, not to mention the contemplated renewed efforts to reawaken somehow Schultz’s terror of clap, pox and plague.

“I wonder, your Amazing Grace, if we were lacking in imagination not to throw in some further dread, testicles popping off disease of mid Africa to befuddle his doctor and quake poor Schultzy boy in his tracks. Would you believe it that prior to these present well publicized mishaps that the prospect of throwing further jolts into Schultz, had me popping open the encyclopaedia last night looking for fresh scary medical afflictions.”

Binky loungingly tilting back in his chair and raising one foot to rest on his gout stool. His finger idly flicking through the stack of letters. Looking up from time to time as he selected an envelope which he sniffed before more closely scrutinizing. Then raising his smiling face to survey his Lordship who was removing a rather tattered old sock from one of his extremely white narrow feet, which had been encased, as were Binky’s and Schultz’s feet, in shoes from the male chorus line of a previous failed Schultz production.

“Bills from set designers and builders and lighting companies do have an unerring smell. Or goodness, your Amazing Grace is that perfume I perceive, your foot.”

“Now Binky you’re not to behave with me as you do with Schultz.”

“Of course I wouldn’t dream of doing so. But I say. Speak of the poor devil. What’s this little item. Addressed to Schultz. Sigmund F. And appended by Esquire if you please. And by god, from, of all places, Buckingham Palace. Well, I think we must look into this. I mean it’s just as exciting as spying on the middle classes. And we may indeed have revealed to us further insights into Schultz’s character. And just, ah, gently unstick this seal.”

“Binky you mustn’t do that.”

“But your Amazing Grace of course I must, when one confronts an envelope issuing from our Sovereign’s London residence to Schultz who simply no matter how one stretches one’s imagination, is not quite properly equipped to mingle among even the more shallowly Debrett of London’s aristocracy. Never mind, the Queen.”

“Binky that really is an outrageous thing to do. You mustn’t.”

“O pish and pother. Schultzy boy won’t mind. I say. Good god.”

Binky his nostrils flickering and eyelids fluttering, holding aloft a gleaming gold embossed invitation.

“I say. Good gracious me. How in heaven’s name does Schultz rate this. Your Royal Grace, you do realise that here I hold a command from the Sovereign herself to Schultz himself. Albeit through the medium of a Royal employee.”

“I don’t believe you Binky.”

“Ah you Royals are all the same, sceptic to the last. Allow me. To therefore read. The Master of the Household is Commanded by Her Majesty to invite Mr. Sigmund Franz Schultz to an afternoon party at Buckingham Palace.”

“Good god, Binky.”

“Ah at last I’m glad to see you alarmed your Royal Grace. And I mean to say my dear, to watch Schultz elbow his way about among minor royalty may be an amusement not to be missed. Being as he is so marvellously oblivious to their terribly high social positions. But ye gads. Heaven forbid. Imagine. Schultz. Bloodstained. Black eyed. Face clawed. In personal intimate proximity with the Sovereign herself, Her Majesty the Queen.”

With one bare foot wagging loose, his Lordship, rarely one to bestir himself unless in the most dire of emergencies, hobbled over to Binky to take the invitation in hand. Binky slitting open more letters and removing photographs sent by the usual young ladies displaying their particulars. Holding each picture up to the window light, moving the shiny surface this way and that. And with his desk magnifying glass uncovered from its scarlet kidskin case, perusing certain photographs more carefully.

“Ah, yes, just as I thought, this nicely rounded young lady is worthy of an audition. I do love the way they sincerely stare out at me so absolutely intent upon stardom.”

“My god Binky, this invitation is absolutely genuine.”

“Of course it is my dear, haven’t I just attempted to make such an impression upon you. Do you suppose your Royal Grace that someone at the Royal Palace got his hands on the wrong mailing list.”