A Singular Man

by J. P. Donleavy

Dear Mr. Smith,

  I am so sorry to have to acquaint you with bad news. On December i4th your mother died peacefully and your father passed away in the same manner yesterday, Tuesday the15th, your mother having gone the Friday before. They both told me while they lived that they did not want to bother you as they knew you were a very busy man. Your father said I was not to give you any bad news that might worry you. But since he has now passed away too, I am writing. I hope to the right address which I found in your father's papers, and that this reaches you. As your whereabouts has been unknown.

  The details are that the clergy found a definite sum of money of which they will tell you soon, which they found useful for expenses regarding the undertaking and costs of other arrangements. They knew you would wish a suitable stone and they selected their grave under the yew tree in the old cemetery near the big rock. I know you may know this burial ground has been out of use but it is now believed here by anyone of the modern outlook that the rumoured vampire has been driven out, having been dealt with by the Clergy with a good sprinkle of the holy juice.

  And I would like to add a personal note myself that the dear old couple always minding their own business may rest in peace. I know it is such a blow to you I will not add further news. Except that the passing away is much mourned here in the village. It seems there are enough twisters and chiselers loose on the roads these days trampling graves of honest respectable people that I don't mind telling you the old folk are a loss. And condolences. The Clergy say they will be in touch with you later with the details.

  Mary Needles (Miss)

  Of The Post Office

  With deepest sorrow.

  Out the window the highway dips down under a stone bridge and up on hills stand lavish houses surrounded in grey brown thickets of trees. George Smith's tear fell plop on the paper. Out of a weak left eye. They never had a chance. None of us have. For what. A private telephone like the one in this car. Didn't want to worry me. When Shirl's father died she spat on me. Out of the blue. Right across a table in a drug store. Had I known her better, I would have punched her. She was having a chocolate soda. Had her father and mother died at once I would need an umbrella. News comes like this, and something is saying I knew all the time. I knew. Just as I went then back to our apartment with Shirl after the spitting and lay on her in the afternoon till she went fast asleep crying and crying. Waking when a warbling bird came pecking at a pot on the window sill. She said hear that sound. I had a hand on her young breast. I said it was a bird dipping in a dish. She said it's my father tapping on a tomb. I listened again. She said it's dark, birds don't come out at nights. I said bats do. And rearing up naked and thin in my arms she said O George it isn't a bat, please tell me it isn't a bat, bats come out for blood and get in your hair and God I don't want that, no. I held her down close underneath me. Just as we'd lain night and nights together clutched. And suddenly she bit me and I screamed. She said I hate you.

  Chauffeur turning and with a white gloved hand pointing to a sign. George picking up his microphone. Clearing his throat because nothing came out at first.

  "Next turning driver. Cross between the fences of the golf course. And straight at the next traffic lights."

  A little touch of the peaked cap. Had this driver before. Not servile but civil. Keeps an even ready eye on the road. Minds his own business. For mine is properly sad. And when I married Shirl my parents sent her beads on which to say prayers and later my mother's pearls. Shirl stood over them in the brown wrapping paper, wondering if they were real. I had hoped she would have die good breeding to take it as a gesture on the part of my mother and father. And not as she did one day at her jewel box whisper loudly, I wouldn't be caught dead in this junk. On the part of my parents it had been a sacrifice. And now one after the other they've been carried along the sea road and up the ancient lane in their coffins. And if Shirl stood in the cow pasture nearby, in her shimmering green and oriental amethysts watching them go, I can hear what her lips are saying, his God damn peasant parents without a pot to piss in. Shirl this one's jade which I send to you now. Use in their memory.

  Two trolley tracks in a cobbled stone road. Smith's car crossing them to tall iron gates laid open. Man in a grey uniform kicking his black booted feet together and clapping his hands in the cold. Looks and makes a gesture of pushing the gate wider which weighs three tons at least. But I appreciate that. Nod. He nods. Salutes. Never knowing I suppose if it's proper to smile as well. And one more letter here to peruse before further business.

  i Electricity Street

  December 22nd.

  The year is irrelevant.

  Dear Sir,

  Obviously you intend ignoring my communications. I do not think you quite understand who I am.

  Yours faithfully,

  J J J. & Associates

  I dispute that this man is the result of what his mother and father did. Joyless as it must have been. If you get slammed with one thing. Another, don't worry, is on the way. Where once there was no hope there is horror now. And if you are sad and remembering, wham, not long till they wake you. One brief reply for Miss Martin to send off when she comes in on Wednesday. And ask the obvious question with perhaps something as a post script. Make jocularity his lot. For the moment.

  Main Gate

  Renown Memorial Cemetery

  December 24th

  Do choose a year.

  J J. J. & Associates

  i Electricity Street

  Dear Sir,

  Who are you?

  Are you possibly a live wire?

  Yours sincerely,

  G. Smith

  P.S. What are your connections?

  George Smith's car pulling up in front of a grey stone building. Entwined with winter shrunken ivy vines and in summer full of buzzing bees. Tiny windows sunk in the thick walls. A gable roof, so like the little country cottage one keeps in a dream. Chauffeur popping up the steps. Nearly skidding on his arse on the porch. Whoops, neatly regaining balance. Pity. Gone by the board. Nice little action for damages. Liability for one shattered pelvis. And while I build my monstrous mausoleum my mother and father go to their small graves.

  Cemetery looks whitely sleeping. Big tombs. One round, with pillars as high as five men standing on each other's heads. Something to be said for these blue spruce trees. For their silence. And cold perfume. My mother and father lived laced in by roses. And walked once a week along the train tracks by the sea to buy pressed beef, four miles away. A spring at the bottom of their garden. Grey cat called Snooky who was a good ratter even with his balls cut off. Nature's full of foolishness. They had me late in life. Nothing else to do in the country on the edge of a bog with the sea getting nearer every year until it would take it all. Just like the village postoffice fifty years ago, now three miles out under the waves.

  Chauffeur carefully back down the steps. Smiles, looks over his shoulder, one glove on and his bare hand carrying a long white cylinder. His friendly face. What more can one ask for in these obtuse times. And handing the scroll through the window to George Smith, the car moved off down the crackling curving road. Sandalwood Drive. Marble, granite mausoleums bleak, cold. Up a steep hill. Along an avenue of leafless trees. Past a pink squat edifice, and a sharp turn into a narrow lane of spruce. Buttercup Drive. An open space of land, dark mud turned up on the snow. Tripod derrick and winch standing over the white stack of chiselled blocks of stone.

  A man with a soft smile round the edges of his mouth walks out to Smith's car. The door opening. He climbs in with George. The plan withdrawn from the cylinder is pulled open across their laps. Click, the map light. On.

  " Well Mr. Smith, mighty cold."

  "Yes. Cold."

  "That way this time of year."

  "Yes indeed."

  "Well I think I know what you want here, Mr. Smith. Given it a lot of thought. Kind of gate house you have in mind. The fireplace has in fact been passed by the committee."

  "Good."

  "But th
e wall surrounding the plot the committee has decided must not exceed eye level."

  "Whose eye level, Mr. Browning."

  "Ha ha, Mr. Smith, that's what I said. And they want to be liberal Been objections raised by several neighbouring plot owners but as they are some way off we feel they won't object to a height of six three. And of course upon that will be your boxwood hedge which ought to give you another foot or two in five years."

  "Mr. Browning are you a happy man."

  "Ha, Mr. Smith you always ask me that question."

  "Are you."

  "No."

  "Good. You always give me that answer. There's a blue jay."

  "Savage mean bird Mr. Smith. A grabber. Steals."

  "Seems I've blundered onto rather awkward ground here Mr. Browning."

  "Are you satisfied with how the work is going. As you can see we're at about sixteen feet now. Might make completion date with a month to spare. With luck and a good summer. And we don't run out of stone."

  "Know a gentleman by that name."

  "Use him Mr. Smith when we run out."

  "Ha ha Mr. Browning. Certainly you achieved my general vision. One gem of rustic simplicity. With several small inconsequential motifs of sadness. Ivy leaves unevenly hanging over the entrance. But discreet."

  "Discreet, Mr. Smith. As we discussed."

  "As we discussed. Glad about the wall. And a most merry Christmas to you Mr. Browning. And would you divide this among the men with my compliments."

  "They'll appreciate this Mr. Smith. Thanks. And a most merry Christmas to you Mr. Smith."

  "Thank you Mr. Browning."

  "Just one thing before you go Mr. Smith. Nothing at all. But thought I'd just mention it. It's just had me wondering. But you know the great black slab over there, the big financier who died mysteriously. Well for about the last couple of months or so, maybe twice, three times a week a woman comes. Spends an hour or more. Sitting on the bench there. In black, thick veil over her face. I'd say she was fairly young, really beautiful legs is her distinction. For awhile we took no notice and just thought she's visiting the guy's grave but the funny thing is, I don't think she's coming to that grave at all but is watching this mausoleumgo up. Just strange. Thought I'd tell you. Brought opera glasses last few times."

  "That is interesting Mr. Browning. But sounds like just someone interested, perhaps in the design, which as we know is a departure."

  "To say the least, Mr. Smith. I mean, you know, pioneering so to speak."

  "Well merry Christmas, do take care of yourself, Mr. Browning."

  "You too, Mr. Smith."

  "Bye bye."

  "Bye."

  Waves of the hand. Car moves off quickly across the hard snowy road. Past the black slab all white now. Brings opera glasses. Beautiful legs. Mr. Browning says it's nothing at all but why say it isn't anything if it isn't. At all. Legs. Black veil. Pity I have not employed the latter myself. Everyone tries to pry. And after prying they want to jeer. Good legs is her distinction. And my mother and father are dead. In a watery cottage with creepers growing out of the wall. But had they lived, to take them away from that, ripping them up, bringing them to a world of impersonal luxury. Snuff their lives out in no time. Crashes on you this Christmas eve. Lonely. Out the window, death everywhere. Stacked up. Sealed up. Paid up, a few celebrated, some famous, the rest rich. Things God gave them. And when I beat up my children's mother, they ran clutching round our batding knees and those who could reach higher did so, they screamed leave our mommie alone, leave her, leave her, tears streaming down their faces. Each of those four little bodies came on four distinct afternoons when take me George, take me, from behind, in front anywhere you fancy because golly. Never remember what side I took ShirL Four little freckled faces with constant throats and beating little fists drive it out of your mind.

  George Smith directed the chauffeur to drive round die lake once before leaving Renown Memorial Cemetery. Near the frozen waterfall car halting. Smith viewing nature through the glass. Ice broken, two ducks swimming. One multicolored male, one drab female. Things are different in the spider kingdom. And over there, a monument sucking in the sky. Stiff stone garments in the cold grey air. Statue of a wife. One hand reaching out, upturned. Come hither.

  Forty minutes past twelve. And the car sweeps out the high black gates. Grey guard, saluting. Back across the trolley tracks. Down through the woods again. By a lit-de hill. Children in bright red and blue caps sleigh riding. Ice crystals in the trees. Smith swallowing curious tears from the top of his lip. Christmas has always been so sad. At night when young with newly combed hair, tie and shirt all clean, all full of promise for this eve. I was sad.

  Black limozine whistling down die highway, passing across a bridge where far down flowed the litde river into a big river. No one to talk to, to meet, to laugh. When no one knows I'm alive at all.

  Black car sweeping by above the piers and ships, under the shadows of stations, by the shut up markets, empty freight yards. Tell the driver to stop by a grey building. The fireboat station. Two tugs tied up. Now walk across the cold windy park. Staring at two statues. A cannon. Out onto the ferry slip. A cruise for the price of a small coin. Until seven o'clock in the dark evening. Passing back and forth across the grey cold waters. Staring up at the towers as they receded and rose. Somehow at the tip. Down here. One can always jump. Somewhere. Or take a ferry.

  And up between the canyon buildings. Walking and wandering the streets looking in the windows. By bars. Peer through a grating. See down into a room. A girl lying back on a dim couch under bedclothes. Sad little fire flickering. Against fire regulations. Flames melting on her face. Wan and dying.

  A taxi back to Merry Mansions. Manse of rich mischief. More parties in progress. No sign of Hugo. Up the steps into Flat Fourteen. And the dark empty rooms. Light on in the foyer. And then to the sitting room. Where something moves. Shudder of fear. Goodly flash up the keester. And hair up on the back of the neck. Flick on some light. Sitting in black, a cowl over the head. For one second it looks like death. And the next with the veil back. Shirl.

  "Hello George. I was waiting for you didn't think you'd come. Hugo let me in. Don't get angry, not his key, got it right here, he got it from a Mr. Stone. Here it is."

  "Thank you."

  "I'm here George because I'm pleading for my children and myself. O.K. I said things. You said things. But still there are four children. Each with a future."

  "Do have a drink, what would you like."

  "No. I'm not staying. I just want to say what I've got to say and I'm catching the nine fifteen train. It's Chnstmas eve."

  "I know it's Christmas eve."

  "I don't want to fight."

  "Well what do you want to do."

  "I'm here because it is Christmas and I'm asking you to stop."

  "Stop what."

  "You know what, George."

  "I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about."

  "Your mausoleum."

  "I beg your pardon."

  "Let's not beat around the bush George. Please. Not tonight. I'm just asking you not to go on with it. You can't go on with it."

  "Why wear that get up to tell me this. Black veil."

  "And why are you wearing the get up you've got on."

  "That's my business."

  "And I know why, because that's what you wear when you go to that infernal cemetery."

  "You better have a drink Shirl because that's all you're going to get from me. I have nothing further to say."

  "You've been there, haven't you, in that ridiculous car with the radio telephone. As if you were playing cops and robbers,"

  "And you've been hanging around."

  "There. I knew it. It's yours isn't it. Admit it now."

  "Shirl if you don't mind, you're going to miss your train. In short I live here."

  "You don't have to tell me that. On your bathroom floor is Matilda. Absolutely unconscious drunk. And practically nude."

>   "How refreshing."

  "Don't be so smug. I call it enticement, not that she probably has to."

  "I prefer not to discuss my servants."

  "You're such a God damn phoney."

  "Now look Shirl I'll clout you across the face if you continue. I've had enough bad news today."

  "Why, run out of marble. O God."

  "My mother and father are dead."

  "Ha ha ha."

  "Are you laughing."

  "Yes. I'm laughing."

  Smith standing stiffly, silently. Shirl leaning deeply back, drawing in a deep breath. Black feather crossing down upon her cheek. Brown eyes. Raising one brow. As the staring contest is engaged. When her mouth moves she's weakening. With both her mouths such soft tilings. And kissed them honeyed blossoms both so many times. She can draw love out of stone. Even now. Four children later. Ripe under linen in summer, soft wool in winter. And clinging and black silk now. Eats an apple while she pops a baby out like a pip. They grow as little kings and queens.

  "Aren't you going to hit me George."

  "I'm tired."

  "What a rotten little trick, mother and father. You try everything. And what's that now."

  "None of your business."

  "Don't tell meyou're taking snuff. God."

  From the tiny turquoise casket Smith pressed a pinch at each nose hole. Shirl crossing legs. Beautiful legs that is her distinction. Means she's got something more to say. And beyond Shirl's head, across the street, out of this dimly lit room, a slattern mother. And her grey husband holds his head in hands. Over his eight mistakes.

  "Your train Shirl. This weekend's been enough already."

  "I can stop you building that edifice."

  "I still don't know what you're talking about."

  "I'm talking about one acre, foundations thirty feet deep, imported marble, and the biggest mausoleum built in Renown Cemetery. Doctor Fear."

  "What are you talking about."

  "That's who you are. Doctor Fear, who's building, whose name is connected with it. None other than George Smith."

  "You've been reading too many comic strips, Shirl."

  "My legal counsel is going to take steps. Are you pretending I can't stop you squandering what my children and I have a right to."