A Singular Man

by J. P. Donleavy

  Like petal

  Cool

  Like yingle

  Yule.

  26

  BROAD phalanx of cars across the bridge moving slowly through the streaming snow. Towers holding girders wear white crowns and red lights high in the sky. Smith in the back of the dreadnaught, sandaled feet folded one on the other. Wipers fanning two snow frames on the windscreen. To see bolts and metal joists. Rust and grime, covered with the smallest of frozen tears. Wait for rain to wash troubles away. And snow comes and buries.

  "Mr. Smith, the radio says it's going to be a blizzard. I don't know if we're going to make it out there."

  Out there is a lonely coast. A beach tightly jammed in summer. Bare skins burning and sweating on the sands. Sad drownings, a grey body lifted away. And winter all cold, empty, and chill waves bleakly rolling across the shore. Matilda, let me go. Mr. Smith, you can get it up again. Just once more. Kissing one midnight breast. While the other is lonesome. Hers is a big red tongue for games and words.

  Herbert's level headed confident look, under his black visor. Man to depend upon in a battle.

  "Mr. Smith, this is getting pretty bad.'*

  "Drop me at the first rapid transit, Herbert. I'll forge on, underground."

  Two iron balustrades, two beacon bulbs of light, at the subway entrance. Hosiery sale in that store window. Manufacturer offering direct to the customer at phenomenal saving. Snow melting in puddles at the bottom of these steps. Smith standing on the platform, in the cold gloom, and sandals.

  Rapid transit train rocking on its way. Screeching from halt to halt in the forlorn white tiled stations. A fat woman with a dark thick coat. Little slits cut in the bulges of her shoes. Her sneaking eye engrossed by Smith's crisscrossed leather on his white socks. Come down here out of the cold high wind, wrapped and shivering. Matilda said, vas dog are you Mr. Smith, I yam das yingle frankfutter dog.

  And above here on the streets somewhere, lives Bonniface. Vas brand of dog. Ah, Mr. Mystery, he bloodhound. You see the sad eyes Smith, and ah, these flaps of skin down over them as they go baying and tracking on the trail, to follow the splashes of blood from leaky wounds and whiffs of fear.

  A station. Car doors open. Grey haired and hatted man, melting mantle of snow on shoulders, lurching on the train. Doors close. Man standing, hanging one handed from a strap the other holding a mouth organ between his lips. And clawing out. In one motion his hand coming down savagely on the emergency chain.

  Train squealing to a halt. Between the bleak electric bulbs in the dark tunnel. Get on a train. Sit solemn, in honest lonely pursuit of one's destination. Making such good headway. And it happens. The last bugle has not blown yet. This grey figure hissing. Shouting.

  "You're all scared. Aren't you. You bunch of bums. Who's going to hit me. Come on."

  And Smith catching a look at the black letters tiled in the white wall. Fartbrook. One should have known. The station ahead, Ozone Plaza. And hanging over George Smith, the wet lipped, weak streaked eyes. And the growling ugly voice.

  "Why you bum."

  The frozen dark figure of George Smith. His eyes lifting slowly to stare with death into this unpleasant face. The mouth organ man parting his sour lips. Contest of silent eyes. A twitch in the jaw of the mouth organ man. Tie knot strung down from his shirt. Smell of alcohol. Someone's father. A dim soul dying. Smith's beacons burning into the mouth organ man as he straightens up in fear and withdraws slowly backwards. Fat woman standing up, shoe in hand, bringing it down on this head of the harmonica player. Three male passengers rushing to aid the destruction, felling him with fists, thumbnails and jabs of fountain pens. Mouth organ man's two hands bending back covering his kidneys, groaning on the train floor pink and grey with chewing gum. This wintery night of snow.

  Train moving backwards into Fartbrook station. Two police lift away the harmonica man. Doors close. Train on into the tunnel. On the floor, a little smear of blood glistening. A crunched mouth organ. Clucking voices. Bold and fearless. Up there a picture. Miss Rapid Transit. Selected by a Jury. Hobbies are dancing and ice skating. Mine are women, money and religion.

  Transit train's sound spreading out on the night. Lifting up out of the dark underground to cross a bridge on the water. Clicking on the track. Driving snow melting down in the light glimmers of sweeping waves. Wind on the windows. That darkness. And beyond are the ships waiting at sea.

  Smith hurrying along the cold concrete station, past the bumping posts at the end of the line. Look again at the address. Standing on steps facing a snowy deserted sidewalk. Street of dark wooden houses, large and shuttered. Ocean waves pounding a beach. Out there the lights of a ship, a towering dim glow on the high sea.

  Smith high stepping, in his sandals, following former footprints down this street. Man with a newspaper in a lighted window. Sitting in his shirt sleeves with the warmth of his little wife. Slippers under a kitchen table, a plate of two potatoes and sauerkraut. Yas I yam frank-futter. Memorable meal.

  A police patrol car cruising gently by. George Smith walking past the looming shadow of a temple in the snow. Police looking Smith up and down from their enclosed darkness. And pulling away again. Bonnif ace says they stopped him when he was carrying a little bag, asked him what the piece of rope was for. To practice knots. And the piece of cheese. To eat. And George how could one say, for suicide and catching rats. They brought Bonniface under suspicion to the police station. Where he asked for water and a game of chess. And they asked with warm mystery, where does a guy like you come from. And they gave him a cell, and night's rest. Taking up a little collection of money in the morning to see him on his way.

  Lonely street lamp on a cold pole in the ground. Telephone wires humming in the sea wind. Slow rhythm of ocean thunder. A number up over the entrance, in faded gold on glass. One six seven two. Mine are the first footprints in the snow to the door. Two little shrubberies. Card in the window. Fink, Bladder and Ball, nature cures. Tired soulless entrance. Butts stubbed out in a sand bucket. Press the button. Elevator doors open. Step in. Press floor five. Up we go. I'm late and sad. Don't know what I'll say. So far away from the glamour of the city.

  Color green, general in the long narrow hall. Smell of old carpeting, newspapers, garlic, and limburger. Door 5C. So hard to present oneself seriously in sandals stepping out of a blizzard, lugging a paper parcel Hear a voice I know inside, Momma, I'll go. Out of all these doors, streets, miles, through tunnels under the highways. And doors everywhere. Hello. Miss Martin lives here.

  "Mr. Smith, I thought you were never going to come. What happened. Your feet."

  "I kicked a vending machine to pieces when it failed to produce. Toes too swollen to get into a pair of shoes."

  "O dear."

  "Meant only to give a little kick but the impertinence of the instruction signs, machine fully automatic, I kicked it, I'm afraid, to pieces. And it produced."

  "Come in, we're going to have a few sandwiches. I hope you like tongue."

  Smith shuffling. Shaking snow from shoulders. Stepping into a thin hall. Miss Martin leading him to a lighted room.

  "And I want you to meet my mother. Mother this is Mr. Smith."

  "I'm so glad to meet you Mr. Smith, Ann has told me so much about you."

  "I'm afraid these sandals, Mrs. Martin, are the result of an accident. I'm delighted to meet Ann's mother. Ann's been such a splendid help to me through so many unforseen difficulties."

  "You can see Mr. Smith we're very modest here. I've always had to look after Ann since my husband died. Ann take Mr. Smith's coat."

  "Sure Mom, I was just waiting till the greetings were over."

  "We just put up the card table, Mr. Smith, with some snacks on it. Not much, Ann and I are not big eaters, until well you know, until Ann -"

  "I quite understand Mrs. Martin."

  "Well may as well be honest."

  "Of course."

  "Ann, you know, was the apple of her father's eye."

  "Mom plea
se, Mr. Smith doesn't want to hear all that."

  "Ann is such a spoilsport, Mr. Smith. Maybe you'd like a glass of beer."

  "Yes, that would be fine Mrs. Martin."

  "Ann get Mr. Smith a bottle of beer."

  Mrs. Martin sitting on the deep and crimson sofa, with white lace embroidery on each arm. Two thick red glass ashtrays. A piano. A sheet of music on the dark stool.

  "Does Ann play, Mrs. Martin."

  "We gave her lessons. You know how children are, Mr. Smith, they don't appreciate those things until it's too late. You are musical Mr. Smith?"

  "No, not really, Mrs. Martin. Just like to listen."

  "I'm sure you must like classical."

  "I'm fond of several classical pieces."

  "So is Ann. Would you bring in the cream spread Ann."

  "You like cream spread?"

  "Yes."

  Ann Martin. She came in carrying a little tray. With the cream spread. Pineapple and pimento. White and brown bread sandwiches. A bottle of cold beer with the little perspiration on it. Ann Martin pouring for George Smith. Who sat now deeply in the sofa, legs crossed having tucked up the white socks high to avoid showing leg hair. Wind whistling round the windows. A photograph of sand and shore on the wall. Another of a little girl with her father and mother, standing with hot dogs in front of a roller coaster.

  "You're looking at the picture, Mr. Smith. Taken of us when Ann was just six, always eating frankfutters, never eat anything that would stick to her ribs. Her first ride on the roller coaster. That's her father. He was an engineer. He worked on the bridge across the bay where the train runs. He was killed working on it."

  "I'm sorry."

  "Long time ago now. Ann has been my whole responsibility."

  "I understand Mrs. Martin."

  "She means everything to me, Mr. Smith. Her happiness is my happiness."

  "I understand Mrs. Martin."

  "Please Mom."

  "Don't interrupt me while I'm talking Ann, Mr. Smith knows and understands. That's why I've had him come out here. I know you're a gentleman of the world. Well I understand that too. I can be modern in my outlook.

  But when you see everything you've worked for just go in one night of carelessness, one moment when a girl's defenses are down."

  "Mom you promised, you told me you wouldn't -"

  "Now Ann Mr. Smith understands. He's a man of the world, you're not. You're an innocent young girl, don't pretend to Mr. Smith boys flocked after you, because they didn't. But Bobby from downstairs is a boy who has wanted to marry you since you were eight years old, now that's a long time, and Bobby is nicely situated now. He's moving right up. But that chance is gone. How would Bobby explain you off in this dress sticking out a mile as you went up the aisle, why his job wouldn't be worth a cracker."

  "Mom you just promised me you wouldn't."

  "I know what's best, Mr. Smith understands, don't you Mr. Smith."

  "Yes."

  "What do you expect him to say Mom, when he's out in this berg. Who wants to marry Bobby. I wouldn't let him touch me if I were a corpse."

  "Enough of that smart talk. A lot of girls appreciate his prospects, I'm sure Mr. Smith understands. What about your condition. Dr. Vartberg doesn't live on charity. You weren't raised on charity."

  "But you've got Mr. Smith trapped here, what do you expect him to say."

  "You don't feel trapped Mr. Smith do you. You're completely free. To go right now. I'm only explaining Ann's position as I see it as her mother. We have to be adults about this. Ann until she was eighteen was not allowed out past eleven o'clock. I always sat up until she came home. Right in this chair. And made it my business to meet any of Ann's boyfriends. They were all clean cut young boys. From good homes. This neighborhood wasn't all like it is now. Some of those houses on the shore were owned by prominent people. I organized some bridge games, and met them personally."

  "God Mom, stop. Here's your beer Mr. Smith. Shut up, Mom."

  "Don't you speak to me like that."

  "Mom Mr. Smith came out here of his own free will."

  "And your free will is responsible for your predicament, my dear girl. I knew when you were staying away those nights there was going to be trouble. I knew it. Don't think I didn't know what was going on, because I did. I suppose Mr. Smith you must have a lot of girl friends, don't you."

  "As a matter of fact Mrs. Martin I have very few friends of either sex. I'm very fond of Ann. She's been an extremely faithful and dedicated secretary. I don't know what I would have done without her on several occasions."

  "You got her pregnant on one of them."

  "Mom if you don't stop I'm leaving this room."

  "Leave then. Go ahead Mr. Smith I want to hear you talk. If there are two sides of this."

  Door slamming shut, Miss Martin retreating. Chill night, cold snowy wind beating against the window. Steam radiator hissing and throbbing. The world stands just outside one's ears. Waiting. Puffing in passion. Cabin in the woods. One grotesque spider. Weak moment. Throw the ashes up in the wind. I'm coming, Miss Martin. Yes yes do. George. Wake up wearing a suit of paternity.

  "I see your point Mrs. Martin."

  "Of course you do. Easy to see it, isn't it. That poor girl, out like a balloon who's going to marry her now. She could have had Bobby Richards downstairs who's doing well and able to set her up. Now what do you want her to do. You think Bobby's mother doesn't know about this. That the whole building doesn't know that since she began to show she's had to leave an hour early so she wouldn't meet anyone in the elevator. I'll tell you Mr. Smith. Ann won't, but I will. You could have prostitutes with your money. And left our Ann alone."

  "I'm sorry Mrs. Martin. I understand that you should feel this way but I don't think remarks of that kind help matters."

  "O you don't, well let me tell you a thing or two."

  In tears at the open door, Miss Martin with hands down at her sides, veins standing out on her wrist. Pale pity of her long fingernails. Her arms suddenly so thin and long and gangling from her brown dress. A large curl falling across the light sweat of her forehead. When my eyes were nearly next to her brown ones. Freckles on her smooth face. She tried a bath at Dynamo. When I stood over her big bosoms and peach rotundity.

  "Mrs. Martin I don't want to be responsible for Ann getting upset."

  "O you don't. You've upset her enough already for the rest of her whole life, she might just as well go out there on the bridge where her father lost his life and jump. You did it to her. You could have found some cheap tramp. Thousands of them. And you have to pick on a respectable girl to do it to. A married man with children. Aren't they enough for you, haven't you got a wife already. And this building you put up to put your dead body in. I'll tell you a thing or two, sure get up, stand up, sure, Ann sure, get him his coat, exactly what I expected from your kind, all educated with fine manners and accents. As if we weren't good enough for you. My daughter comes along and you use her body for your pleasure and throw her in the gutter. Go ahead get your coat and get out but you won't hear the last of this I promise you. And take that bag with you. If you want to know, residents of this apartment wouldn't be seen dead with a broken paper bag and an outfit like that, if you want to know. Goodbye good riddance. But you'll hear more don't you worry. Decent people know how to deal with your kind, let ham go Ann, he's not doing any fast talking. Not now with me he isn't. Next time he won't be so fast with an innocent girl from a good background and respectable people."

  Little creaks and groans as the elevator went down. Miss Martin stood at the door. Reached out her hand and put it on my arm. Slight pressure on her fingers. Face streaked with tears. Strange for the first time. With breathing so loud. Look in her eyes. And see friendship. And her strange distant dignity.

  Snow deeper. Night darker. On this icy strip of land of ramshackle wastes and marshland stretches of Far Bollock. Throat dry. Ears red and burning. They get cold again. Ghostly waves. Big ocean has a tongue. To lick so m
any shores. And again this year no one will send me a heartfelt Christmas card.

  Or remember

  I was

  A prepster

  Once.

  27

  FINGERS spread on the window sill Staring at the afternoon Saturday sky. Up the airshaf t, through a mirror installed two days ago in the forlorn room, 604 Dynamo House. White fluffy clouds on blue and tinged in pink from a setting sun.

  Saturday when there are no footsteps out in the hall. Mail no longer arriving. Save for one letter from Miss Martin. Postmarked Far Bollock.

  Dear Mr. Smith.

  I am very sorry for what happened on Monday night.

  So long.

  Ann Martin.

  All week, each morning, wait for her to come to work. And lay in my tub looking up in the steam. Suicides high after the snow. When the city was hushed and still.

  Standing here. Three o'clock. Wearing shoes again. Five days till the reception at Renown. Purple bordered menu. Providing a feast of baby beets and onions. Succotash. Triumph of shelled prawns. Choice of three wines and two pickles. And tureens of smoked eel. Like I gave Her Majesty. She sat stiffly when I handed over the box. She thought it was some stunt instead of the eel it was. Raised her eyebrows and said I suppose George you've heard. What. About poor Bonniface. Who was reading a book, something about bodies were the external essence of the mind. While standing on a platform at three A.M. in the rapid transit system. And he walked off die platform and was picked up unconscious from the center of the tracks.

  And Thursday near the botanical gardens and zoo I visited the hospital. Sat by the Bonniface bed. His hands seemed white and strange. And all round his face a look of lighthearted resign. I heard a rustle under the sheets. He put his finger up to his lips. Then he leaned over, whispered, woof woof, Mr. Mystery. Is here.