A Singular Man

by J. P. Donleavy

  Smith feeling the chill of stone strike up the bottom. Stood raising parcel to his arm, waving to taxies. Then stopping, turning, to climb into a jaunting car.

  Promoting a brief friendly altercation with the driver, who gesticulated with his whip. A brand new bank note sparkling in the air. And they were jaunting up the avenue. Coachman telling Smith what happened to the horseshit. A little old lady comes late each evening and collects it for her sky garden.

  At each hotel, stopping. Smith dismounting, pulling up a few corners of linen hanky in his dark suiting, another tucked up his sleeve. Foolishly in each lobby. Her Majesty the Queen, please. Eyebrows raised. Twice Smith slipping between the evening cocktail faces. Eyes staring after him as he lowered a brandy for the road. And once next to a dowager encrusted in gems, for one second through the dark light it could have been Her Majesty. Madam, may I trespass upon your buoyant property, God just told me it was mine.

  "Why don't you give up mister. We've been to ten hotels. My horse is tired. Street's tough on his hoofs. I'm going to have a lame horse."

  A note flashed crisply. Once more silence. Except for the clip clop. Odd waves from pedestrians. So many-fellow men about with vibrant lightheartedness. In the next hotel and bar, I vouch the clientele will merge into one big sigh of happiness.

  "Mister this is positively the last. Look where I am. This is a berg."

  "Are you unhappy."

  "Yeah. My horse's feet hurt. I could be held up and robbed in this part of town."

  In front of a grey stone building. A faded canopy out to the curb. A bronze plaque. Dim dark interior. Smith slipping across one more note to the horseman. And another asking him to wait. George reeling quietly through the heavy revolving doors into this elderly place. Little parcel held on his arm. To tip toe across the fat carpet and whisper boo at the reception desk. A balcony round the lobby with little tables, chairs and lamps. Doorman passing by with a miniature dog. Take it out to pee. That tiny canine would have been one mouthful for Goliath.

  "Can I help you sir."

  Smith looking out at the eyes. Holding the counter with uncertain hands. Mouth opening and closing. Eyes fixed on all the hanging keys. To open doors. Shirl seems to stand somewhere behind this desk. With her unlit heart. However cold you get, remember me. Gripped in solitude. There can't be a jamboree all the time.

  "Excuse me sir, can I help you."

  Smith swaying backwards. Surveying a potted palm. A forecourt, a little fountain. Drapes drawn on windows. Tall grey woman passing, silver sandals poking out under her gown. Marble cornices on the balcony. Across the soft distance of this lobby a green carpet disappearing under closed mirrored doors. Smith delicately separating the strings of his paper bag across his forearm. Focusing eyes once more. To the pigeon holes, brass numbers and red white and blue edges of foreign mail.

  "Are you all right, sir."

  Smith a feeble smile and wave of his hand. Life is made up of a lot of immediate events. Must not sidle across and pee upon that potted palm. Or with the handy screwdriver I happen to have in my pocket go over and unfasten the doorknobs to the ball room. How dare you keep such things there. To think it was only yesterday I distinctly heard a man walking by say he had the whole world under contract. Naturally I stopped him and asked if I could buy a piece. Regrettably to find he had only a three month option.

  "Look mister, I don't know who you are."

  "I'm drunk."

  "At least you're honest."

  Smith turning to a rustle of dresses for evening. Four pastel colored girls and three dark suited men. Clean and scented. All so elegant. Please let me come with you. Just to sit quietly by. To watch, listen, laugh. Lift me out of the dark abyss. Take me back into my own foolish life of youth before I wisely made money. A little of it in this parcel. To scatter around this lobby. Can't you see I'm Smith. The big maple, once an acorn. Desperate to be the oak Miss Tomson whispered.

  "Perhaps sir, you've got a reservation."

  "Perhaps sir, you've got "Perhaps I haven't."

  "What have you got."

  "I beg your pardon. Are you being forward."

  "Sir, I'm trying to be of assistance."

  "Her Royal Huzzy the Queen."

  "I beg your pardon, sir."

  "I wish to be connected."

  "Have you a prior connection."

  "I beg your pardon."

  "Sir, I mean are you expected."

  "You're joking, she's not here, bell boy."

  "I'm not joking. I'm not a bell boy. And are you expected sir."

  "I am unexpected."

  "Now please."

  "I am a lamb's kidney. Several people have been now clouted into the tracks. If we keep hitting them there, there will finally be respect, courtesy and kindness for millionaires. Now get me a bottle of brandy and two glasses and we'll have a drink."

  "I can't do that sir. This is not the bar."

  "Do you want me to buy this hotel and reshuffle the staff. Now get that brandy. I'm going to take the heights tonight. Huge deployment of armour on both my flanks. Commandeer this reception desk. Gee, I feel champion."

  "Now sir."

  "Then take the balcony. Let the howitzers howl. Adjutant."

  "Look mister, I don't know who you are."

  "I know who you are. Adjutant. At nine you check the mail waiting feverishly for the first coffee break. Then rustle through the few blank papers and sneak away to the washroom for a cigarette."

  "I certainly do not."

  "Adjutant. Silence. Then you make a few personal phone calls before lunch. Get back in time for the afternoon coffee break. Make two erasures before five. Time for pot roast at the automat just round the corner. Then read a questionable book on the night shift which was found left in a room by the chambermaid."

  "I never have."

  "Attention. How dare you back chat a commanding officer."

  "I'm not. I'm trying to be of assistance. Is it you want to be accommodated."

  "I want the moral fibre of staffs everywhere to hold up under the strain of trying to seize opportunities for advancement."

  "Sir, you mustn't shout."

  "I want to reverse the decline. Rebound to boom. Land in a field of golden sneezeweed."

  "Sir I don't have the faintest idea what you're talking about. I must hand over now to the manager."

  "I asked for her royal high jinks. This dreadful up-creep of unhappiness. In the bag here I have enough toadstools of the green yellow and red variety with the purple dots to poison this evening's menu."

  "Sir maybe you want an invalid requisite or something. Our manager is coming."

  Smith rearing to attention. Appearance of a dark portly person. Hair sharply parted near the middle. Flat fat fingers, bubbling at the ends, drowning tiny fingernails. Both these hands spread before George Smith on the counter. And a little bow. Smith's visage chill and remote.

  "Good eveningsir. Good to see you."

  "Hello."

  "Nice to see you again, sir."

  "You've never seen me before."

  "Ah but I have. The brandy is on its way. And you will be pleased to hear we have not just made it in the back room. Please be my guest."

  "Well. I can see your ancestors did not come from a stock that would make one wonder."

  "You are too kind, Mr. Smith. But I always try to feel important, handsome, well dressed. As you are this evening."

  "You too are too kind."

  "What shall we drink to Mr. Smith."

  "Havoc."

  "Ha ha. Of course. If you wish. But perhaps, a toast. Her Majesty. She is as you've no doubt heard, a permanent resident with us now. And we are extremely honoured."

  "I'm relapsed. Heigh ho."

  "In that case, Mr. Smith my vision is that this hotel will be a refuge. For a safe relapse. Ha ha, nice mix up with words. It's what we're trying to do here with comfort. Every distinction for the distinguished. A client asks for a drink at the reception desk. We have a drin
k at the reception desk."

  "Good on you Mr."

  "Park."

  "Mr. Park. I've been sweating it out too long at my outpost. I'm enveloped by the enemy."

  "A man as measured as you are, is a contribution to the community."

  "Thank you major."

  Four bell boys in their quiet grey uniforms. Gleaming brass buttons on tunics. Smith swaying, smiling. Mr. Park clapping hands. Bell boys snapping to attention.

  "Take Mr. Smith to Her Majesty's suite eighteen B."

  Platoon leading George Smith to the elevator doors. Stepping aside as Smith stepped in. Protocol has not packed up yet. I'll go if her nibs says get out. Shirl said I never offered to get my hands wet in the sink. She'll go into old age without me. Sitting in her empty nest. Small body in apron. Ladling out porridge in the bowls. Here is your daddy kids, shouting for justice and getting his just desserts instead. Your mother says sue. Stretch me out on the altar of the law. When in my heart I chirp.

  Meet you

  In apple green

  July

  Hiding

  Arm's length

  Under the

  Uttermost tree.

  We'll

  Play

  A pink

  Piano.

  Become

  Each other's

  Sadness.

  Her Majesty stood at the door. Her arms open. Smith walked between them clutched up tightly to her breasts. Platoon retreating. Grumbling back into the elevator without a tip. Easy money corrupts. Hard to know how long one keeps gripped in greeting. Across the beige room curtains fluttering in an open terrace door.

  "George can I make you some scrambled eggs."

  Smith holding Her Majesty away from him. To sight her and see her blueish eyes in soft moist lids. Something unpardonable happening in my trousers. To the sound of her voice. Take her hand and put it there.

  "George you rude thing after all.'1

  "Your Majesty squeeze it tightly. It needs comfort."

  "George you haven't changed. Bold. Grey too. You are, you know. Kiss me."

  Little parcel dropping from Smith's dark arm. Tightening around Her Majesty. One of her soft hands reaching to tug Smith's ear, the other to catch on a lobe of lower haunch and there impart a friendly fingering. North and far away. The Goose Goes Inn.

  "Your Majesty you smell so good/'

  "Whale sperm."

  "Take off your clothes"

  Her Majesty unfurled her sari. And kindly took her two breasts and put them in George Smith's hands. He said they weighed the same. Lights out Glow on the sky. All rainbow. Pots of gold everywhere.

  "Dear George."

  "It's me."

  A few

  Good old

  Days

  Are left.

  19

  GEORGE Smith taking his personal temperature which was chilly. The thin silver line showing just below the red mark for normal. Last night with Her Majesty. And this cool morning, hungover, mouth dry, head throbbing. A dream. Big fat woman in a green raincoat, really enormous, started beating me with her walking stick. Of all the blasted cheek I said, desist. Miss Tomson stood smiling by on a marble step between pillars and on her blue sweatered chest hung two little golden balls, one below the other, just as it should be and Smith she said, these are yours, I did some alchemy.

  Sound of the opening door. A shuffle. Miss Martin wearing low heels. Said men with power were real men. Up against a lot of corporate bodies what was the use of struggling. We're plankton.

  "Good morning, Miss Martin is that you."

  "Yes."

  Smith turning on his naked shoulder. Slippery surface of the horsehair sofa, now tucked up tightly to the partition. I fear out of caution for Miss Martin's rifle where a bead could be drawn if still asleep when she came. Also need that added bit of privacy which makes one's lot easier. Plus the convenience of the shelf near the wash basin for the regimen of these mornings. One dark tiny pill of the day's vitamins on one big white plate. Two oranges, oatmeal, cocoa and bottle of cod liver oil that Miss Martin buys out of the petty cash. Matilda has exhausted me in Merry Mansions.

  "Miss Martin, what time."

  "I'm late. They stopped the train and were loading on lumber in the middle of the bridge. For about an hour."

  "I just asked for the time."

  "Twelve thirty."

  "Thank you. Don't come in. I'm indelicate. Utterly frazzled. After being vaguely champion. I think. Last night. O God."

  Nightmare. Somewhere between dreams. Bonniface appeared. Completely regaled in deep sea diving equipment. All the shiny knobs and valves on the waterproof helmet. We met on the sea bed. Bonniface smiling inside the little round window, lugging the great heavy square shoes on his feet. Mr. Mystery on a lead. We were having a serious underwater chat. I woke up when the sharks came.

  "Mr. Smith, there were three men here yesterday. Who wanted to talk to you. They wouldn't say what about. I told them I didn't know where you were."

  "Is there a bag out there, Miss Martin. A paper one with staples in it. Would you look please."

  "I can't see anything."

  "Are you sure."

  "Yes."

  "Look under everything. Is it hanging on the hook. Or the hat tree."

  "It isn't here."

  "O God."

  "What's the matter."

  "Find that bag."

  "Don't shout at me."

  "I'm sorry Miss Martin. Find the bag."

  "I have found something."

  "Where. Let me have it."

  "I'm pregnant."

  "No drolleries this morning please. That bag."

  "Three months."

  Smith spectacular. Throwing coats from the sofa. Knocking over the bathing screen. Miss Martin at the door, eyes blinking at the papers and garments flying.

  "Come on Miss Martin, we must find this paper bag."

  Miss Martin silently at the door. Smith on hands and knees looking under sofa and desk, two soiled soles of feet sticking out. Opening the window to peer down the airshaft. Pulling open drawers, scrabbling through files. To turn around wearily and face Miss Martin behind the tiny dark hole of her rifle.

  "Miss Martin what are you doing with that gun."

  "Listen to me."

  "I'm listening. Put the gun down."

  "No."

  "Miss Martin. I hope you're aware of what you're doing."

  "I am, you're not going to turn rat on me."

  "I beg your pardon."

  "No you're not."

  "Miss Martin get a grip. For God's sake."

  "My finger's on this trigger, that's all I need."

  "Do you realise you could shoot me."

  "Yes."

  "All right. Put it down then."

  "You think it's a joke."

  "I don't think anything's a joke. Just want to find my paper bag."

  "You didn't even hear what I said. I said I was pregnant. Over three months."

  "This is no time to be hysterical. My eyeballs are rusted in the sockets. I feel terrible, what a hangover. And I can't find my paper bag."

  "I'm not hysterical."

  "Just point the gun a little away."

  "What am I going to do. If my mother finds out."

  "Please, put the gun down. Guns have a way of going off. I know you're an experienced shot. But my army revolver once went off in my holster and split open the toe of my riding boot."

  "Shut up."

  "O."

  "You've ignored me all these weeks."

  "Miss Martin, I've seen you every day. We've talked. Chatted. Short of presuming upon you."

  "You presumed in the log cabin."

  "I rescued you from a venomous insect."

  "It wasn't. I looked it up in a book. You disappeared with that Miss Tomson. Glad her old dog was shot."

  "Just let me put on my trousers, please."

  "No. Stay right where you are."

  "I don't mind being shot but not without
trousers."

  "You lousy sneak. You're thinking of beating it. I can tell. Who's going to pay all the doctors' bills."

  "Control yourself Miss Martin."

  "You bastard."

  "I don't mind what you say but don't say it with the gun."

  "I've had nightmares nearly every night."

  "Is it me. The father."

  "It's going to be a satisfaction to see you drop in your tracks."

  "I mean, maybe it's me, all right. Why haven't you told me sooner."

  "Because I only saw die doctor yesterday that's why. You fucker."

  "That's unnecessary."

  "So's your damn burial vault. And the bullet proof car youVe ordered."

  "Well. All right. I mean is it any wonder."

  "It's you."

  "O.K. All right. It's me."

  "Yes. You."

  Smith putting one hand on the edge of his desk. Have a little support when the first bullet lands. I can take a few low caliber bullets in non vital spots. Terrible to sense she can hit a bee at fifty yards. One has premonitions. Which always come true too soon. Just a few more days and there would have been the armoured vehicle. Thing is keep talking. Leave any time between words and that's where the bullets fit in.

  "Miss Martin. I know you're distressed."

  "Shut up."

  "I can't."

  "Shut up."

  "Please you've got to let me keep talking. You might shoot."

  "That's right. Get your hand off that desk."

  "Couldn't you just hand me over my cod liver oil."

  "No."

  "Can I have the morning newspaper."

  "I can tell you what's in the morning newspaper. There was another man beaten and knocked into the tracks and an innocent bystander was arrested but the real one got away. That's what's in the paper."

  "Don't look at me."

  "You did it once and you probably did it again. Only now you've learned to run. And here read this filth which came yesterday."

  Miss Martin flinging a white card. Landing against Smith's ankle. Perhaps now is the time to jump her. Through all the war's strategy, map reading, signals to the front, this is the first time I've been held at gun point. Suppose it's better than being lonely. I wish folks' Christmas greetings would come from the heart. Take my time reading this invitation.