J. Donleavy - Schultz

“Sir you must tell me immediately concerning this.”

“That’s exactly, as you might say, what I’m doing. My balls are swollen out like grapefruits.”

“I must sir, excuse myself and get to the King at once.”

“You do that. You wouldn’t want the King’s testicles to come plummeting off.”

Schultz, not a man to imbibe too deeply, drank off his glass of Echezeaux in a swallow and poured another. As the Ambassador, nearly tripping on his face, pushed his way through the throngs of feasting people. Rushing now around a boxwood shrub manicured in the shape of a peacock. And bam. The Ambassador upsetting a lady’s drink on her dress. Patting her about with napkins and summoning waiters and flunkies from the royal entourage. And just managing to pay his last apologies to the lady as the master of ceremonies announced.

“My Lords, Your Excellencies, Ladies and Gentlemen. His Royal Imperial Highness will now start the dancing, thank you.”

Schultz watching over the rim of his wine glass. As the King of Boohooland led Pricilla by her hand held high out on to the dance floor. The assemblage breaking into applause. The orchestra playing. And the big bellied King and Pricilla gliding about fox trotting cheek to cheek in the many hued splendors of flashing light.

“Jesus now she really thinks she’s the fucking Queen of Sheba.”

The Ambassador standing at the edge of the now crowded dance floor undiplomatically rubbing his anxious hands together. No doubt contemplating that the King’s medical advisers will never find a needle big enough to penetrate deep enough into the royal fat black arse and are really going to have to go digging all over the jungle to find herbs they think are strong enough to cure their Sovereign’s humdinger dose of Oriental Venereal Plague.

Six coal dark drummers in loincloths joining the orchestra. Faces streaked with paint, ankles jangling ivory bracelets and hands slapping their double ended tom toms. Bugles blowing. Dancers making room for the King as he erupted into a sweat flying, bug eyed, lip licking war dance hoofing in all directions. With Pricilla, hands wagging over her head, cavorting to the throb of drums, her hips pumping, legs kicking, arms writhing and head flung back and forth like her tonsils were exploding.

“Jesus christ the two of them look like they’re going to fuck right there and now. The son of a bitch’s big black hand just grabbed her straight on the tit. She smiled. I’ll kill her. What the fuck does she thank she’s doing. Making an ass out of me all here alone like I had leprosy at this table.”

On the sidelines, the Ambassador patting his white hanky at his ebony forehead. The King and Pricilla center floor. Surrounded at an admiring distance by the other frenzied oscillating guests. The King’s whooping mouth wide open. Medals bouncing on his chest. Fist shaking around his head. The diamond studded gold braid of a Field Marshal hanging askew off one shoulder. Any second now his fly is going to bust open. To treat us to a flash of his big black famous prick.

“And look at that fucking bitch will you. In a hula, a shimmy, can can, belly roll and cha cha cha, all rolled into one. And doesn’t even know I’m alive. This is the fucking thanks you get for taking a person to a party.”

The Ambassador from Boohooland still waiting for His Imperial Majesty to come in off the dance floor. A military attaché at his shoulder. The two of them in urgent conference. No doubt worrying about their own balls being chopped off and being hung in the sun to dry when His Imperial Highness’s private parts go swelling up like canteloupes and clatter off bouncing around their jungle kingdom like stale coconuts. This would be exactly the right time to slip away from this undiplomatic incident. Except no fucking two bit King is going to take a fucking girl away from me. Just throw back a big shot of this excellent cognac. And go cut in on that big black bastard. And maybe get some fucking justice and fair play and peace of mind for one night.

Schultz setting off to the dance floor. Stepping and dodging between the couples and putting his ligament out of place once more. And just as he reached the swirling King and Pricilla with a finger poised ready to tap His Imperial Highness on the shoulder, Schultz tripped over a loose royal foot. Grabbing as he did so a balancing hold on the Field Marshal’s gold braided epaulette. Which ripped off as Schultz fell. To suddenly find himself with the aid of five uniformed members of the royal entourage being forcibly air lifted from the floor.

“Hey get your fucking hands off me you cunts.”

The Ambassador from Boohooland covering his face. Schultz shaking and twisting loose from the grasping enclosing arms. Regaining his feet. Swinging a looping haymaker. Catching an equerry smack on the jaw. And sending him flat on his arse. As shouts went up and the lights suddenly went out. To the deafening screams of the ladies.

“Assassination.”

“Save the King.”

“Fuck the King.”

Reinforcements called. With members of Scotland Yard’s Flying Squad on duty in the street rushing inside. And Schultz immediately overwhelmed by an army from Boohooland, was knocked unconscious dreaming. Of standing one youthful day on an apartment house stoop. With his violin. The pink setting sun flashing on windows. As all the little girls on the block collected to listen. Smiling in admiration. Adoring as they heard.

This

One time

Child prodigy play

The battle hymn

Of the Republic

Police bells clanged around Belgravia that night. Folk who had fled in that dangerous direction, got soaked falling flat faced in the fish pond. Schultz knees cut crawling over crushed glass, slipped under a tent flap, and attempting to climb over a garden wall, was apprehended not only by a spike ripping his tuxedo in half but also by a Scotland Yard detective lurking in an alley. And frog marched back. Pricilla was staring daggers and dirks at Schultz.

“That’s right I came with her.”

“And that’s all you did. You got taught a lesson didn’t you. And if you ever try and touch me again the King’s bodyguards will kill you.”

The host Ambassador, all kindness, protocol and understanding had Schultz, for decency’s sake, wrapped in a damask table cloth and looking suitably and suddenly Arabic, he was conducted by a solicitous chargé d’affaires across to Four Arabesque just as Big Ben was booming two in the morning. Picking slivers of glass out of his knee and undressing for bed, he heard car doors slamming. With a painful head, aching stomach muscles, and sore ribs he stood in his pyjamas shaking a fist at the front window.

“Nobody, fucking nobody pushes Sigmund Franz Schultz around and gets away with it. That’s fucking gospel you cunts, believe me.”

Under umbrellas in the pouring rain His Royal Imperial Highness flanked by flunkies, went down the steps of the Ambassador’s house. Pricilla just behind him surrounded by military attachés. Ganged up on. That’s what I was. Look at that. That bitch. I even had to claim I came with her. Ratted on me the first opportunity she got. Doesn’t even give this house a glance. Heading in clothes I own to that first car in a caravan of limousines. Leave me in the lurch. Getting right in behind the King. Who’s going to fuck her ass now and worry about the Oriental Venereal Plague later.

Schultz this following windy wet day at one thirty p.m. in the office of Sperm Productions. Having dispatched a stage carpenter, scene designer and two assistants to Arabesque Street to effect repairs. Now reading the newspaper under Court and Social.

His Royal Imperial Majesty Field Marshal King Buggybooiamcheesetoo was guest of honour at a banquet given last night by His Excellency the Ambassador of Zumzimzamgazi.