J. Donleavy - Schultz

Schultz stripping off his clothes. Running along his little hall into the bathroom. Popping in under the shower. Fight, team, fight. Splash chill water on prick and balls. Revive them. To fuck another day. Wrap up in the big warm white bath towels heaped on the towel rail. Cotton tips to dry in the ears. Comb hair in the mirror. Lean in closer. O no. One. Two. Three. Four. Christ. Five. Jesus. Six. Fucking new grey hairs.

Schultz draped in towels as the waiter brought tea. Setting it up in the sitting room’s bow shaped window. Gaze out through the branches of the trees at the backs of Mayfair town houses. Christ, although I’m still feeling I’m still dying, at least a cup of china tea with lemon, smoked salmon and brown bread and a piece of pineapple pastry will take the edge off my appetite till I get to heaven.

“The evening papers sir, were outside your door.”

“Thanks. I’ve seen them.”

“Terrible isn’t it, this massacre in Africa.”

“Yeah.”

“Is there anything else sir.”

“No this is swell thanks.”

Schultz shaking a fist at the newspapers on the side table. Suddenly focusing an eye at a new emblazoned headline.

COUP IN ZUMZIMZAMGAZI

The Zumzimzamgazi army assisted by invading troops of His Royal Imperial Majesty, Field Marshal King Buggybooiamcheesetoo, overthrew the government of Zumzimzamgazi in a sudden coup last night. His Imperial Majesty vehemently denies giving any aid to the new military regime.

Schultz putting down his tea cup. Picking it up again. And putting it down. My hands trembling. Jesus the behemoth and wife at dawn this morning were threatening to go live in royal cheesy buggy-boo’s palace. Take my unborn child with them. To be raised by a fucking bunch of blacks killing each other fighting over snake infested jungles. Like hell they will. Abduct part of my flesh and blood back into primitive society. Fucking around with that big charcoal sambo joke in Africa.

But holy Jesus this. O no. The Ambassador. Holy christ. The poor fucker must have got it in the neck. I never even this morning turned to look up at his windows where he was usually watching when I’m having a disturbance of the peace on my steps. He was becoming one of the last comforts and true friends I had in my life. This is really curtain time. Holy shit. I can’t cry now. In the middle of tea. Got to make rules. Rule one. Keep going Jackson. Rule two. Don’t read newspapers no more. Rule three. Put one foot in front of the other. Four. Fuck the cost. Get on the phone and get a limousine. Five. Get outside into living life. Rule five and a half. Don’t fucking trip on carpets or get garments caught in revolving doors. And even though I was a child prodigy with my prick.

Rule six

Don’t screw

Horror and sex

Don’t mix

In a misty soft drizzle of rain Schultz’s limousine purring past the street lamps on The Carriage Road alongside Hyde Park. The big evening lit dining rooms of the hotel. Turning down Sloane Street and left right between the red brick buildings of Knightsbridge.

Lady Lullabyebaby stepping into the lobby from the lift of this sedate block of flats as Schultz came in. Sweeping forward in a long blue dress past the doorman rushing before her to open the doors.

“Ah now milady, you have a good time tonight.”

“Thank you Alfredo.”

“Ah milady this is your gentleman, right.”

“Yes, Alfredo. This is my gentleman.”

Schultz’s chauffeur smilingly opening the limousine door. Lady Lullabyebaby ensconcing herself far back in the upholstery, taking in a deep breath and exhaling a great sigh.

“Well honey, you’re on time to the split second.”

“I abhor lateness, Mr. Schultz.”

Speeding along Piccadilly. Past the clubs. By the luggage and food emporiums. Around the circus. Across Leicester Square. The lights. The buskers. People everywhere. Buying tickets at box offices. And Lady Lullabyebaby lighting up a cigarette in a long ivory holder.

“Well Mr. Schultz, I’ll say one thing for you. You do know how to appear out of the blue.”

Ascending the soft carpeted steps. An usherette unlocking the door to their box. Schultz ordering champagne for the interval. As the curtain rose and the dancers pirouetted and arabesqued. And Schultz fell promptly asleep. His head hung over on his shoulder as he snored. To be shoved awake by her Ladyship.

“My god Mr. Schultz, sleep, but please don’t snore.”

“Holy christ honey, sorry. Went out like a light. The beauty of the dancing and music just carried me straight off to dreamland.”

“Mr. Schultz, I don’t think, do you, that we should remain present at the ballet.”

“I’ll be alright honey. I’m wide awake now.”

Schultz through the crescendoes, leaps and slides falling promptly to sleep once more. His elbow sliding off the arm rest as he slumped in his chair. Lady Lullabyebaby, knuckles sharp, punching him awake again in the ribs. At the interval Schultz taking a walk down to the lobby.

“Honey I’m sorry, I really am. I haven’t slept for days. You stay I’ll go home.”

“No. We’ll both go.”

Schultz on the sidewalk looking for his chauffeur and car. Beginning to slam the heel of his hand against his forehead, as Lady Lullabyebaby pointed with her finger.

“No doubt you’ll find him over there. In that pub with a pint of beer playing darts. If you wait here. I’ll fetch him. You might fall asleep crossing the road.”

Lady Lullabyebaby sending the chauffeur back in, insisting to bring away the bottle of champagne and commandeering the car back to Knightsbridge. The bottle between her feet and now cradled in her arm as she leaned forward, the chauffeur holding open the door.

“Well you poor man. You need your nice comfortable bed for the night. But if you’ve the strength to take my lift up four floors. I’ll give you a drink of this very good champagne that it would be a shame to waste.”

Alfredo in the lobby asleep on a chair by the elevator. Startled awake and looking at his watch.

“Ah milady. Back already. What, you not see the whole ballet. What a disgrace.”

Schultz putting his head back on the blue swans-down cushioned sofa. Sinking deep. Christ, the peace. What a place she’s got. Each room dressed to kill. My god, the antiques. Everywhere you look. A museum Everything perfect. Polished into a sheen.

“Let me Mr. Schultz pour for you.”

“Jesus not for me. Apple or orange juice if you got it please. And can I use your phone.”

“Certainly, please do. Right over there.”

Schultz crossing the room on this silk carpet. Blue taffeta curtains drawn on the windows. Shut out London. But now I got to phone the box office. Dial. Hear what the damage is. Numbers that’s all it is. Fatal numbers. O god, I’ve got to hold my breath. Even if there’s any hope at all. It’s only the beginning of the Chinese torture.

“Hello.”

“Sorry booking closed.”

“I’m not booking. Mr. Schultz here.”

“O hello sir. Well sir, we’ve just finished tabulating this moment. I’m sorry but the figures are much worse than we feared. Hardly any business at all on the doors. Ninety one pounds, eighteen shillings.”

“Holy christ ninety one pounds.”

“I’m sorry sir.”

“O.K. thanks, goodnight.”

Schultz turning away from the phone. Blowing breath slowly out of his lungs. Cross back again to where I was sitting. Before I faint. So now this is really it. The end of the line. Not even ten rows sold in the whole place. When I need at least a hundred sold just to hold out hope. To stop the cast from committing suicide in dressing rooms. Or god forbid right on the stage in the cold clammy death that an empty theatre collects. I should have been there. But if I was I’d be sunk in a coma of depression. As it is I’m in a coma of despair. Or maybe just a coma. O god I’m so fucking weary and tired. Blue. Everything is blue in this room. Or am I seeing things. Demon possessed. O god everything now. Rides on his blue blooded Lordship. That fucking Master of Foxhounds, cricketer, crack shot and prince. Who doesn’t give a fuck if I live or die. And if he finds me with his sister. After I turned one of his staff into a lesbian. Holy fuck. That will really spell disaster. With his temper he’s already flung me around a room at the end of a telephone. Asking people for money is the utmost in humiliation. The guy who can invent an unhumiliating way of asking, is going to make a million. But the real humiliation comes when you don’t get it. Here I am all these months dreaming of finally dipping my toes into a nice steady cash flow. Now I look down into a snake pit. After all the deals. All the cut and thrust. The outwitting, the outmanoeuvring. The constant in between face slapping you get. So severe it can be ball shattering. And each slap if you don’t watch out, it can be a knockout. Lords address each other in the House of Lords as noble. What could I say to his Lordship that will melt down his noble resistance. The son of a bitch has an accountant’s mind. Snow him with figures. And he doesn’t miss a fucking trick. His eyes flash down a ledger. And motherfucker if he doesn’t put his finger right on what you don’t want him to know even ever existed. What do I do. Plead to him. On my bended knees, kneeling on top of all the stacks of unpaid bills. In this world Judas is Jesus and Jesus is Judas. Binky says his Lordship can’t find his own foot in his own shoe. That his Lordship has never used the word marvellous in his life. That he abhors skiing on water or snow. Constantly loses cuff links. Because he takes off his shirt and shakes it to get his prize Arab horses to strut. Wears his underwear back to front and frequently inside out. And Jesus once he said to me. Schultz, have you ever chosen to disadvantage yourself by doing the noble thing. That really hurt. Only for a second. Because at the time he was signing me a cheque. That really helped. I could cable Uncle Werb as a last resort. He was like a father to me better than my own father. He has the midas touch in big business. While my father has the minus touch in his two bit operations. His Lordship could be anti American underneath it all. Told me once his nanny taught him to whistle the American national anthem over his bowl of raspberries to get rid of any wasps lurking in the fruit. This is still what the fucker does. And once his nanny got irritated at him whistling over the raspberries as she taught him to. She said stop that you naughty little lord. And his naughty little Lordship said it would make the wasps fly out of his raspberries. And just as his nanny was reaching over to slap him. A wasp flew out of his raspberries. Holy fuck. He’s a stubborn bastard. But I know he’s got one weakness. His noble rich Lordship, the cunt, is really an impressionable romantic. Thank god. Because once I saw real big tears in his eyes. When he told the story of how his grandfather, throughout the remainder of his life, in a locked chamber called the Titanic Room in one of his castles, had that ship’s last meal served on the anniversary day of the sinking. In memory of a young lady lost on the Titanic with whom he had been in love. Jesus it even gives me tears. And how his Lordship’s grandmother in high dudgeon would entrain for London where she would stay at Claridge’s till the mournful ritual was over. The Grandfather had pictures of the ship on the walls. And his letters in a glass case written to her awaiting her arrival in New York. And his Lordship had tears falling down his cheeks when he said, but Schultz saddest of all, when my grandfather was a young man, she was a dairy maid banished from the estate, and she’d gone steerage on the Titanic to the new world. But my grandfather celebrated his remembrance of her, not from the steerage menu but from the menu served in the Titanic’ s first class dining room.