J. Donleavy - Schultz

Jesus

This is what

The Jews

Did

To Christ

That night stepping crumpled up from a taxi. Schultz perambulated about the shadowy gardens of Belgrave Square. Until a black cat scampered along the pavement across Schultz’s path as he headed up the steps to the perfumed hall of number four. And shivered past the stack of roses. Past the pantry. Down the stairs. To flick the light on in the kitchen and look in the cupboards for some kind of stomach soothing concoction. And wham. Kick and trip over the garbage pail. Strewing contents across the floor.

“Holy shit. I’m distraught. What’s all this. On the tiles. My fucking mail. O dear god, my Royal invitation to the palace. Torn into little pieces. And this. Photographs. Ripped up. The bitch must have gone through every one of my drawers and papers I had under lock and key. This is the god damn ruination of beautiful memories. Every girl I ever knew nearly. Or ever tried to seduce when I cast them in a fucking production. Or who might have meant something to me. Including, would you believe it, pictures of my own mother. And Jesus, my Aunt Essie, when they were good looking young women back in the ghetto in Prague. Nothing, fucking nothing is sacred anymore. I could cry. Jesus I am crying. My poor fucking mother and father. When you come to look at it, all the sacrifice they did for me. Marking down lingerie which were already bargains. Just to make a sale. Jesus this is too painfully sentimental. I’m having a fucking breakdown. I need an aspirin. Al calls himself my friend. He’s a big fucking mother spider. I’m going to keep out of their web. For the rest of my fucking life. I don’t care who hears me all over Belgravia at midnight, I, Sigmund Franz Schultz, am going to sweat, practise and train, and turn myself into the most indomitable muscle bound mountain of resolute unyielding fucking stubborn fortitude who ever avoided marriage. And no woman fat, beautiful or otherwise is ever ever going to do to me what was done to me through the recent past. Jesus what’s that.”

Schultz’s shoulders jerking backwards as if shot. And spinning around from his commiseration. Staring towards the larder.

“A noise was made in there. Christ now I got rats or something.”

Schultz stepping across to the cream panelled door. Waiting listening. Slowly pushing it open. The kitchen light. Shining in.

“Jesus what the fucking hell are you doing in here.”

“Forgive me. Please. I am nowhere to go. I run away. I look. I find nowhere. I come here. Don’t make me go. I am Greta.”

“Holy shit. I know you’re Greta. Honey come out. As if I didn’t have enough trouble without you already. Jesus you’re all dirty. Where the fuck have you been. Go have a bath.”

“Thank you. Thank you.”

“But Jesus. You can’t stay here.”

“I no like it there to go back to Hornchurch.”

“Hey baby. Look. I’m telling you. You can’t stay here.”

“Please, I beg. Please. I no can go back.”

“What’s wrong.”

“The man of the house. He try all the time jump on me to kiss me.”

“Jesus tell his wife.”

“I cannot. She try all the time jump on me too to kiss me.”

“Well Jesus, let them kiss you for christ’s sake.”

“I have done. And now they fight with knives over me.”

“Holy shit kid. You got a problem. O.K. for tonight you can stay.”

“O thank you. Thank you.”

“Shit no kisses for me tonight. Just make me some Horlicks with some honey and hot milk.”

“O yes. Yes.”

“Bring it up to the bedroom.”

“O yes. Yes.”

Schultz staring in darkness. The light from the throbbing diesel of a passing taxi flashing on the bedroom ceiling. A quiet sobbing shaking the mattress as Greta wept. Schultz reaching out to touch this arm and hand which squeezed tight to his own. Suffer little children to come unto me. Heard that somewhere in my life. Probably was some publicity provoking statement made by a grown up Jesus. Feel a welling up just below the lungs. My own tears now are pouring down my face. Christ here we are. This au pair turning now to comfort me. And we’re both clinging together, sobbing to sleep. Boy if that don’t make sad headlines. In my personal history.

A streak of light waving between the drawn bedroom curtains. Greta snoring beside him. Schultz reaching over across her to turn on his lamp. And catching his wristwatch by the strap to read the time. Christ almighty. Do I have to knock over a glass of water. First move I make waking up is a disaster already. It’s twelve o’fucking o’clock. I should have been at the office two hours ago. Now I got all this on my hands. Even with her limited English she must have understood everything I said in my moment of personal collapse last night.

Schultz rushing through into the bathroom. Turning on the shower over the tub. As the nozzle blasts off and hits him in the head. Following by scalding hot water. And a nearly neck breaking scramble to safety.

“What next. Jesus what next.”

Schultz dressed. A last peek in the bedroom. Greta one ankle sticking from under a sheet. And sprawled, her arms and legs flung out like she was being drawn and quartered. Her yellow hair splayed over the green and blue striped pillow. A breast peeking up pink and soft. And the long deep snores as she slept.

“Honey they may be fighting over you with knives but let me tell you it’s better than having a bunch of blackmailers at your throat.”

On a breezy sunny corner of Belgrave Square Schultz dabbing his face with a hanky and flagging a cab. Cutting himself twice trying to shave around his claw marks. And now jumping out of the elevator nearly catching and amputating four fingers as he slammed the expanding door closed. Rushing past Rebecca who followed behind him with a handful of letters, into the chairman’s office where a cavalry twill attired Binky sat with the newspaper, his open coat displaying a pink blue striped shirt, and a light blue polka dot tie.

“Ah Schultz I have been just trying to ring you. And was as usual answered in the customary fractured English. Those vague unhelpful expressions one expects at your end of the line. He gone no here.”

“Jesus Binky come on, I got work to do.”

“Schultz I should say you have. Everyone’s been on the phone nonstop to get you. Your property developing industrialist investor friend especially. Trying to get a personal urgent message to you.”

“He just can’t wait to put more money into the show, that’s all.”

“Agents are ringing about unsigned contracts for clients. And my god, Schultz. What. More scratches on the face. What ever do you do with yourself on your quiet London evenings. O and by the way your composing team residing at the Dorchester want a larger sitting room.”

“Jesus christ what else can fucking well go wrong with my life.”

His Lordship entering the office stepping out tiptoe from behind Rebecca.

“Good morning Schultz. I’ll tell you what else can go wrong. And it’s with my life. There’s been an absolute outcry to discontinue trains stopping at Nectarine Castle station. Several prominent members of the local county council who happened to be on that train we took claim that a member of my party gave them a sign signifying the word fuck you or sentiments distinctly similar.”

“Holy shit your Lordship. Hold it. One problem at a time. Let’s take the city problems first.”

“I’m sorry Schultz if I distress you.”

“Your Lordship you don’t distress me one bit. If everyone in this world did for me what you’ve so far done. My life would be one big fucking paradise believe me. Sorry Rebecca about the language.”

“That’s quite alright sir. But I have I’m afraid further difficult news.”