A Singular Man

by J. P. Donleavy

  "You're not bitter Miss Tomson."

  "No Smith."

  "What makes you smile."

  "Just thought of that newspaper report about you. I want to know, did you really fart or something on the steps of Dynamo House. Report it to the Sanitation Department, that was rich. I read it about twenty times. Sweet, a crowd gathering around to watch you. Smith you should find some nice girl marry and have kids."

  Miss Tomson starting the immense engine. Any wind she made would be mystical. Not like some of the dust raisers Bonniface has sent up in his time, blowing out window panes, joining a little group known as the Musical Dynamiters. He lies when he says membership is confined to those who can backfire in morse code.

  An exquisite driver Miss Tomson. Hands so lightly on the steering. Each cog enslaved by her touch. Ahead a house behind three great pines. White porch. Closed up for night.

  "Miss Tomson. I'll find out where we are."

  "Gee we just can't bang on someone's door. You'll get shot this time of night."

  "Nonsense. I know how to handle hicks."

  Smith in the rain. Softening now. Faint flash of moon. Miss Tomson's black vehicle purring under these high evergreens. Tall gate in the iron fence. Hammock tied between two pines. Stone path round the house and another to the wide porch. All the pine cones. Windows from ceiling to floor. Saturday with all Sunday ahead. My throat is dry. Squeak up courage. How can I say it. I want her body next to mine. Hide from all the coming snows. Taste her golden juice. A hidden spring in the nicest little mound of hair in all the world. Go out of my mind thinking like this. Come back realism, big monolithic friend. Miss Tomson says find some nice girl. Have kiddies. Gather little problems, drown in one big one. Rap this door five times. Way to deal with hicks out here, let them know one is a slicker right off. Have a correspondence while waiting.

  Dear Sir,

  Where are you. So much cash is missing, we would feel better if we knew.

  Yours,

  Those Who Had Faith

  In You

  P.S. We abided by your regulations, won't you even give us an inkling.

  Dear Investors:

  It so happens I was reflecting in my mop closet near my office and I regard your greedy communication as a breach of faith. Therefore I am absconding with the funds.

  (Up) Yours (If necessary)

  G.S.

  Inside this white clapboard mansion, foot steps approaching, down stairs, and along a hall. Help a stranger lost on the road. Tomato garden and great barn down an incline with the woods behind. Flicking hayseed from the hair. Filling their quiet rural moments with bushwacking and wang pulling. In Cinder Village there's a hick called puller Pete, whispered with one so long, took ten minutes to unfurl. Just see the glow of Miss Tomson's cigarette in the car as it brightens. Nor will she ever know how I kept one of her long golden hairs she left behind in Golf Street as a bookmark.

  "Who is it, out there."

  "I'm lost on the road can you tell me where I am."

  "You're right here, stranger. You got me out of bed. Clear off before I sprinkle your ass with buckshot."

  "I beg your pardon."

  "You heard me."

  Smith retreating backwards a step. Not going to be easy to gain a foothold of rapport here.

  "It's a dire emergency."

  "Don't try to be a smart cookee stranger."

  Smith shifting weight. Turning briefly to survey the rear for running. It would finish me forever with Miss Tomson to be caught coward. This double grey door. Through which the buckshot will come. This is no moor of college days setting forth with Bonniface arsebone in heather, gamekeeper toting the decanter of sherry. All kinds of crazy game raining out of the sky. Please mister behind that door. You've got me wracked with fear, and I've got Miss Tomson the most exquisite human of them all sitting out there in the car.

  "All I want is the general geographic location of this spot."

  "Clear off. How do I know that's all you want."

  "I'd like to make a phone call, too."

  Lace on the window. This hick won't see the reason of the slicker. Kind who wears a shirt with the detached collar. Life seems to be out of doors these days. This critter inside might really let go with a barrel, if I whisper lilly livered in the keyhole. Or slip a mute card under the door.

  DON'T BE A SHID AS WELL AS A HICK.

  A hand laid itself upon George Smith's shoulder. Stiffening without letting out a squeal. Turning. Miss Tom-son nodding her head back to the car. Smith enough's happened already without you getting shot. Reaching the iron fence gate. A voice from the house.

  "OK. Stranger, you can use the telephone."

  Tomson and Smith stopping under the pines.

  "Ah see Miss Tomson."

  "Guess you're just a sweet guy Smith."

  "Miss Tomson, I may as well ask you right here. Will you come with me to a port in this storm."

  She stood still and tall and strange under the pines, lips apart. Eyes crinkling. Looking into the eyes of George Smith. At his lips. Nose and into the left eye and then the right. Hers with flecks of so many colors, yellow with green making a magic blue. Dripping rain drops spotting her dress. One silver slipper, one gold. How do I say now, forget it. I was kidding. Just one of those things you suddenly blurt out. Just wanted a port to be safe. And it sounds so stark and maybe even sneaky. Speak. I take it back. Right into my mouth again, down my throat and into my heart where it came from near the bottom. Let me go Miss Tomson. Let me run.

  "You poor guy, Smith. You really want me to come to a port with you don't you. I like that.'1

  Night. Rain and her black car sitting on the road, glistening with a few bumps and scratches too. A carpet of brown needles and pine cones. Two of us. Besides the hick with the shot gun. Her eyes light up because every single part of her lives there. I swallow mouth juices. Head full of tears. Pressing on my eyes. Hardly speak ever again. But must because if I don't the world will go rushing on without us.

  "Yesh."

  All so quiet now. Famished and lonely adrift at sea. And land on a shore. She says yesh and I can't believe my luck, or ears. This blond flower circled by so many bees. And your long strand of hair I've kept all these months. Each time I took it from the book I would let it gently curl in my hand and feel it between my lips. And some voice breaks this stillness.

  "Hey you out there, you want this telephone or don't you."

  Smith with a large leap took the four grey stairs landing on the porch at speed. A commotion inside. Hick levelling the blunderbuss at this sudden assaulting shadow. One thing to be squeezed out in a population explosion and distinctly another to be blasted for sprightliness.

  The double grey doors on the porch opening. A squat man with strands of grey in the hair. Under a blue woolly dressing gown his shirt showing with the detached collar missing. Shuffling ahead of Smith, heels of his slippers clacking. Telephone hanging on the wall. Next to a colored white bowl with a great green flower.Wow, little spine shiver, seen one other flower like that. Just one second before the alligator tried to clamp its jaws on my arm in the Jiffy conservatory. And how does one work this antique telephone.

  "Just wind her up mister."

  "I see."

  "Operator's usually asleep this time of night. Sorry I kinda levelled my gun at you. You came up them steps kinda fast."

  "Where are we here."

  "This is called Green Flower Corners. After the flower."

  "O."

  "Down the dirt road three miles, is the main route. Past the cemetery. Turn left follow the dirt road. You'll see signs."

  "Thank you. Hello. Operator."

  "Hello."

  "Operator, I want the Hotel Boar."

  "Sir, don't you know the number."

  "I think it's Bug 2-7222. But there's a life at stake. Do please look it up."

  "Please spell that, caller."

  "B for bugger, U for unseemly, G for goose."

  "Pardon but gee I like
your voice, it's really cultured. I'll connect you."

  "Thank you, operator."

  Little clicks, strange small sounds of voices on these wires over fields and through deserted woods.

  "Here's your party, sir."

  "Hello, this is George Smith, I want to speak to the maitre de hotel."

  "He's asleep, this is Norbert can I help yon, Mr. Smith."

  "Hello Norbert, this is an emergency. I require a suite within the hour."

  "O sure, like the last time you needed it £ast."

  "I beg your pardon."

  "Sorry Mr. Smith, I was meaning maybe the same suite. Saw your picture in the papers. Gee, just like to ask a question, what's your recipe for success Mr. Smith."

  "Keep your mind free of emotional ingredients when looking for profits."

  "Gosh. Simple as that."

  "Yes. I'm in rather a hurry, if you wouldn't mind organising."

  "O sure. Good to talk to someone who knows what he's talking about."

  "I'd like the key left in the lock of the suite."

  "Now this emotional ingredient, that how you function, Mr. Smith, I mean pardon me for asking this time of night."

  "Morning."

  "Yeah morning."

  "And I'm imposing upon the graciousness of a country citizen. This is an emergency."

  "O sure. Just remembering that. Free the mind of emotional ingredients when looking for profits. I need investment advice. My wife wants to know why you want to spend all that good money getting buried."

  "If you don't mind Norbert, the suite. Flowers and hot punch if you will."

  "Sure, Mr. Smith. Good to hear from you again. Just goes to shows, my whole life I've been getting all emotional looking for a profit. The key will be in the tunnel entrance."

  "In the door of the suite, please."

  "Sure Mr. Smith, anything you want, you know me, boy I'll bet you've got some doll tonight—"

  Smith lightly hanging the little ear piece on the fragile hook. Hick turning from the door where he was peering out in the night. At what must be Miss Tomson. That gun makes me nervous. Don't suppose he's ever seen her likes before in tight blue satin, slippered in gold and silver twiddling a pine cone in this vague neck of the woods. He may make bombs in his attic. George Smith tendering a crisp treasury bill.

  "Nope stranger."

  Smith taking leave gently on the grey porch. With a thanks a million. Once is enough stranger. And stepping down three steps to the hard path underneath the three great trees at the fork of this road. Turning to look back. The shadow standing in the light of the hall, gun at port arms. People who live in the country like strangers to call out of the blue.

  The dirt road goes down winding, twisting and turning. Lights flooding the passing woods enclosed in an endless wire fence. A small pond. Up on a hill again faint grave stones of a cemetery. Apples must grow there and drop on the dead in summertime full of flavour. Handfuls of hair round Miss Tomson's head. Turn right at this turn, Miss Tomson, left at the next. Silent cruising through the night. South. Catching up with the storm splashing down the heavy rain. A rabbit popping on the road, Smith isn't that sweet that rabbit.

  "Miss Tomson what were you going to tell me, back there in the bar."

  "It was nothing."

  "Come on tell me."

  "It embarrasses me now."

  "Please tell me."

  'Well. You know when I was working for you. Saw you get all those letters, and the pathetic little set up you had and all, in Golf Street. I can't tell you. Seems too silly. Might make you sore."

  "O."

  "You'll get sore if I don't tell you."

  "No I won't."

  "I just used to add money to the petty cash box because I thought you were really having it rough. You'd come out and when you thought I wasn't looking you'd take it back into your office and count it and come back looking so pleased because it was more instead of less."

  "I never did."

  "You're getting sore. Real sweet, the way you used to look with that cash box. Even cried one night over my pay check but next morning I thought what the hell, this is a jungle, and paid it into my account. Which way do I turn."

  "Go straight."

  Smith slumped back on the leather. The tiny sound of windscreen wipers fanning across the glass. And down into a valley. A swollen river. Raindrops flickering through the light beams. Across a stone bridge and train tracks into a sleeping town. Spread across a hillside, a hotel, terraces built out on the jutting rock. Car mounting an incline towards a great brown door.

  "Smith, where we going can't you see the door's closed."

  "Drive on, it'll open. Watch."

  "Gee."

  Hollowing bubbling sound of Sally Tomson's long black car sliding in out of the dark rain. Three moss green armoured bullion trucks. Vast concrete wasteland. Miss Tomson turning and looking at George Smith. Her hand slowly sliding across the black leather to his. Entwining his fingers. Her face a little flower. As the lids lift up on the eyes. Her voice so soft and low. Saying O and O and O.

  In the vast underground garage. Their voices echoing. Smith with a finger raised. Beckoning. Come Miss Tom-son. Cross this chill interior. Your legs. Watch you walk ahead of me through life. To open doors, buy my lamb-chops and pay the milkman.

  "Where are we, Smith. This is crazy. I feel they move dead bodies in and out this door."

  "For God's sake, Miss Tomson."

  "I just was thinking this place is built for death."

  "This way."

  "This elevator is like a little church, Smith."

  In Miss Tomson's eyes, down the steps, at the bottom, is her soul. When she was a little girl she had a little boy friend who looked up her dress every Friday after school to see if anything had changed. Easy joys of childhood.

  "Smith."

  "What."

  "I know I said yesh. About a port. In the storm and all."

  "Miss Tomson, what's the matter."

  "Please take me back down. I'm going to try to get back to town."

  "Miss Tomson I can't let you go out in the stormy night again. Might be trees down across the roads."

  "This the down button."

  "I wish more than anything you wouldn't press it. Wanted to bring you somewhere dry."

  "Smith. I just wish it wasn't you. I just wish that tonight wasn't tonight. Don't be sad. Come on, don't be."

  "I'm all right."

  "I know it's silly but the tunnel. I'm nervous, a litde scared. Smith I've been thinking I've got you figured. I haven't got you figured at all. Face to face like this. I'm a coward. I've been bluffing. Like I'm some sort of careless society girl. I'm a hick."

  "Please Miss Tomson."

  "And I'm just scared."

  Paneled door sliding back. The tunnel The steps to the underground garage. Miss Tomson's beige medallion on her tan finger. Wet tire tracks of her car. Worship the cement she walks on. Across this entrance of death. Night time nearly over. Smacked up her car. Stood by while her dog got killed. Mustn't cry. Just watch her drive away through clear, cool eyes. Got to be hard. Let her go alone. Never see her again. Milk truck bumping, grinding by outside. Her door clicks, engine roars and she spins the wheel. Backing and turning around. Don't go. Look back at me. Please. Standing here. With the nice tie you said I was wearing. Two little corners of a hanky I pulled up to show from my breast pocket. To look natty for you. Wave. Goodbye. Into the faint light of morning. Goes Sally Tom-son's car.

  Sad

  Starts

  Under the eyes

  As age begins

  With lies

  Laughing hardly at all

  The way to

  The grave.

  13

  SMITH back up these steps. Two minutes ago she left. Train thundering through the station in the town. No anger. Gave her fear. I mind so much. To keep her, must let her go. My hands folded under elderberry blossoms today. All marked with dying. Start off in the carnation smell of
Brandy's death wagon to meet Bonni-face on the train. Find him enthroned on an ice block. We all get left.

  Smith rose in die elevator. To a room full of flowers. Low table with a bucket of ice and thermos of wine. Across soft green carpets, a bedroom. Fat white marble lamps. The window looking down at the train tracks. Shingled roof of the station. The road under the bridge and up round the war memorial in front of the hospital, curving down again to the river and the highway that has taken Miss Tomson away.

  Lock the door. Draw the curtains tightly. Sit. Take a sip of punch. Close eyes. What you want so much you lose. Die and carry me away. Once at college, I thought I'm dying. And tried to run. From the terrible loneliness. Bereft in those university rooms, cold and tall ceilinged, late at night. I fell to my bed. Looked from the top of my head down to my toes. Said I'll never make enough money to live. And too young to die. I thought at least I would make a stagger for it while ticking my last. Go down from a standing position. And out I went from my college rooms hobbling down the old stone stairs, clutching wall and banister. Yelling to two students busy peeing against the college granite. Said help me I'm having a heart attack. They looked at each other and tried to smile. I said through my faint breath, I'm not kidding, I'm George Smith of number 38 College and I'm dying. They carried me out across nightly lit cobble squares of college. A moist dark wind blowing. And slumped in their students' arms, they finally carried me by the feet as well. At the porter's gate I squeaked tell my tutor to please see to my affairs. Porters made a space and let the red glow of embers shine on me. My china, cut glass, plain glass, and collection of Georgian decanters are bequeathed to college. My tapestries too. To help remember me. Dead so young. My head fell back against the lodge wall. The porters' scary eyes. Which were tickled at first for the college was famous for jokes. I said call a taxi, and one pulled in under the archway. I was loaded in. An ambulance too white for my last moments. All said goodbye. Waved. Like I did to Sally tonight. A hope to bring you back again. In front of the hospital I crept for the door feeling I must not make any movements, said taxi man I'll pay you later. And he nearly had a seizure, gasping he wanted it now. I dug into my pocket. Only that it was necessary to give all my energies to my own heart attack I would have hit him several times. I limped inside. Three medicos I knew by sight from the university having tea. They made a merry word. Not to be cheered I asked them, listen before it ticks its last. Out came the stethoscopes. They said together, my God what a heart. Will pump for years. Are you sure. We are certain. Are you absolutely. We are and will write it on a piece of paper for you. And sign it. And Sally it was dawn that night too when I went back to my college rooms sheepish and took up this little note which has lain in my wallet since and read it now, worn and old round the edges.