Schultz

by J. P. Donleavy

  “Right there Schultz. Right there.”

  “Hey what’s going on. Why are you guys looking at me like that.”

  “Ah Schultz we look at you for three reasons. Firstly to see if any other symptoms of any other dread disease may have become obvious. And then we look at you because we like you. And lastly we look at you because we think you behave exactly like a hungry monkey.”

  “Thanks a lot. But right now folks who cares what I look like. I haven’t a fucking worry in the whole wide world. But when half the show’s investment’s taken is that all you guys got to say to me.”

  Schultz opening his Royal envelope. Taking out the stiff white card and after a brief glance, unceremoniously stuffing the invitation in his jacket side pocket.

  “Except to say Schultz you don’t seem to pay much attention to your mail these days. That letter you just crammed in your pocket looked rather emblazoned with engravings that might incline one to think it was an important invitation.”

  “Look at you fucking guys playing games while I got things on my mind. Hey why don’t the two of you guys get married and have fucking children.”

  “Ah Schultz you really are, aren’t you full of wonderful ideas.”

  “Well all you do is hang around here like you know where your next million is coming from. And both of you fucking well do. But I don’t.”

  “But Schultz his Royal Grace and I distinctly thought we saw a communication, indeed something which appeared might even be from the Royal Palace.”

  “So.”

  “So Schultz we would love to see it.”

  “Jesus you guys haven’t you ever seen a royal invitation before.”

  “Well I’m sure his Amazing Grace has seen many but such as myself is not always invited to every top occasion and the word frequently could never apply to the number of times I have popped into the palace. Surely in view of my socially deprived situation you can let me in on the royal communication.”

  “I’m really sorry you guys, you know how it is in those circles, I can’t tell you a single thing about it. But you know how everyone over there in the palace is always trying to rub shoulders in show business.”

  “I must confess Schultz you really do have us stumped. Neither his Amazing Grace nor I know of such inclinations of the Royal Family.”

  Schultz changing into a new silk shirt he’d bought and towards the waning afternoon following Schultz’s smooth telephone conversations with less resisting investors, there nevertheless appeared a certain anxiety creeping over Schultz with his increased visits to the water closet. And it especially became apparent, when Schultz pretending to search the telephone book for new possible showbizz victims, was yet again overheard screaming at Rebecca, his Lordship’s and Binky’s adored shapely and charming secretary.

  “Yes, I want the same kind of certain doctor not a different one in Harley Street. I threw away his number.”

  “What kind was he sir.”

  “Didn’t you hear me last time what I said, a certain kind. The same doctor I had before.”

  Binky and his Lordship were now once more hopeful that indeed Schultz might as the afternoon ebbed provide one more good laugh before they repaired to tea. And they were both not unpleasantly instantly alarmed, not to say momentarily stunned out of their privileged minds. To have Schultz with his sunglasses hysterically removed, and with black and blue eyes blazing come charging into the chairman’s office just as they were departing for a slap up Fortnum’s repast complete with salmon sandwiches, gulls’ eggs and topped off with sacher cake and lapsang souchong.

  “Hey hold it you guys.”

  Schultz putting his hands up and down and through his hair which he indeed was unquestionably loosening at the roots. Binky already steamed up with suppressed laughter finally exploding as Schultz’s tongue nervously licked his lips as he regarded the dislodged strands in his palm. Plus his back now seemed to lose its straightness entirely.

  “Jesus christ almighty what are you laughing about Binky.”

  “Not a thing.”

  “You know don’t you.”

  “Know what Schultz.”

  “What’s happened.”

  “What’s happened Schultz.”

  “I’ve got the fucking god damn clap. That’s what’s happened. The Doc this minute tells me on the phone I got all the symptoms. I’ve got a burning discharge started this afternoon like crazy.”

  “Please Schultz do then please stand back a bit from his Royal Grace and I. And pray tell who did this awful thing to you.”

  “I’ll tell you who. And I’m telling you too, you can’t trust nobody in this fucking world. I got it from the cunt you sent me down to visit in the hospital. She gave it to me. Posing as a vestal virgin. Where’s some notepaper. I’m making a record of this. I’m going to sue her and her mother. Come on your Lordship let me at the notepaper.”

  “You know Schultz you do rather harden one.”

  “Why. What the fuck’s the matter now.”

  “Well you rush in here. And proceed to open personal desks, fish out personal notepaper.”

  “I’m looking for some good fucking engraved notepaper you guys keep locked up. Plus I got to give Binky his shirt back.”

  “But you also handle one’s personal desk furnishings without the least concern. Having just announced you’re clapped up. And not once, not even once had you exhibited or made any effort whatsoever to avoid handling Binky’s or my personal desk gewgaws.”

  Binky in his undershirt, holding away from him with his pincered fingers Schultz’s bloodied garment as he on tiptoe announced.

  “And Schultz, please do keep my shirt. Merely give me back my cuff links. Just pop them there on the edge of the desk. I do believe boiling them may be sufficient sterilization. Don’t you agree your Royal Grace.”

  “Holy shit, you guys. Treat me like a leper now. I come from the cleanest country in the world. I mean you only got soft toilet paper in England a few years ago. And now here I am. A wonderful future ahead.”

  With only

  The clap

  Holding me

  Back

  10

  His own comb having been commandeered by Magillacurdy rushing to adjust a curl on some lady’s dog in the street, Schultz asked for a loan of his Lordship’s or Binky’s who both demurred. Especially as at that very next moment Schultz had the effrontery to attempt to also borrow a handkerchief before heading down to his taxi ordered to take him to Harley Street. Where the attractive nurse smiled welcome in the dark hall and led him with her prick stirring legs up the stairs.

  “Of course Mr. Schultz it can hit that hard and that fast as you put it. The incubation period can be anywhere from two to ten days. From our previous conclusive tests it is established that you have never had gonorrhea previously. But this does unquestionably look like a particularly virulent case of clap, to use its more common appellation. It could also be a form of non specific urethritis.”

  “Just cure me Doc just cure me. I really am in a hurry.”

  “May I enquire if you are likely to be exposed again to the source of this present infection.”

  “Doc, can you just give me something so I don’t get it again.”

  “I’m afraid Mr. Schultz I can’t. You are simply going to have to refrain from sexual intercourse for a while.”

  “Doc, it’s the one thing in my life I can’t do without.”

  “Well Mr. Schultz let me say that that is extremely apparent. As indeed I fear you went right ahead with the intercourse which gave you your present infection without waiting for clearance from me as to your possibly being already infected.”

  “Doc this girl imposed on me. And gave me this what I’ve got. I was really trying to control myself.”

  “I see. Just bend a little forward. Well now let’s find a suitable spot on your buttock. Your punishment as it were is ready to be administered.”

  “Holy shit, excuse my language Doc. You’re not going to shove th
at all the way into me are you.”

  “You won’t feel a thing except a sudden deep jab or two into a very large muscle.”

  “Jesus Doc I got a special aversion to that kind of pain from big needles.”

  “You seem if I may say so Mr. Schultz, to take your other injuries rather well. Black eyes, and the rather deep scratches on your face. I hope I’m not maligning you. But I do believe I’ve been reading about you. You are the Mr. Schultz to whom the papers recently refer.”

  “Yeah Doc. Regrettably.”

  “Well the theatre must be becoming a very lively place these days.”

  Schultz with his pained arse in a taxi heading south across Oxford Street. Down New Bond. Grand emporiums of auction houses. Art dealers and women’s fashions. Turn west on a sedate and grey stoned Brook Street. Grosvenor Square and its flat green park. Tall elms. The statue of an American President standing solemn in a cloak with a cane. The Embassy with its great eagle spread high over its entrance. Christ if clap has to get mentioned in the renewal of my passport. Have you at any time had a virulent venereal disease. How often. Caught it from whom. And when infected how many other people did you then give it to. Do you intend to disloyally import it into the United States. In which case can you give the names of those people who will risk exposure to you on your return home.

  Down Park Lane. The dear Dorchester radiant in pink rays of sun. Late afternoon whores patrolling. Even thicker than they did when I first came to this town. And spending every cent I had, trying to live like a big time producer. Till I was broke with nowhere to live, without a penny in my pocket. Cold and hungry on a last desperate day. Standing around the corner from Piccadilly Circus in Air Street. Before I was going to deliver myself to the Embassy. For a taxpayers’ sponsored ride back to America. Kind hearted Lizzie from Limerick stepped up behind me in the shadows. Supported me for six peaceful weeks. While customers were pounding her in the next room. And I pounded her after her night’s work without even getting so much as a cold. She gave me pocket money and the least troubles I ever had from a female. Except when she made me go into a Catholic church on Sunday. To stand around freezing my balls off with a bunch of vacuous mumbling Irish.

  Circling Hyde Park Corner. Wellington Statue. The great Arch. And the Artillery Memorial. The traffic in its thickening stream. Slowing bumper to bumper. At least one person in every two cars has got to buy a ticket to my show. Everybody needs entertainment. If only there was no censorship I could sell serial rights of a T.V. film of my fucking life, for a fucking fortune and retire forever from being a producer. Got to keep my mental faculties together. Stick Binky and his Lordship with the rest of the investment. And start paying off bills stacking up at the Dorchester.

  The taxi cruising past the ambulance entrance of St. George’s Hospital down Grosvenor Crescent. Into Belgrave Square. The cream painted facades. The always shrouded secret park in the middle. Down my nice private quiet street. Lights all lit in all the windows of the Ambassador’s house. He’s about the only friend I’ve got in London.

  “There are you Squire, Harley Street to Belgravia.”

  “Thanks. Keep the change.”

  “Thank you sir. And enjoy your stay in Britain.”

  Schultz looking up at his splintered front door as he pushed open the squealing gate in the railings to the steps down to the basement. In the cold kitchen, sticking a knife in a jar of peanut butter. Suck a big glob of the stuff off the blade. Take a spoonful of strawberry jam. Gnaw on a piece of stale bread. Sustain me till I see what new shit is going to hit the fan. Climb up the stairs. Peek in the pantry. And wince into the library. The front door propped closed with the hall table stacked with wet books. Everything is worse than I thought. Jesus the end of the world can come hidden away in your own life.

  On the hall table, atop the soaked books, two envelopes. Hand delivered and shoved down from the letter box. Schultz with his finger ripping one open.

  Chary, Leer, Unkanny

  Mumchance & Nightingale.

  Dear Sir,

  Upon certain newspaper reports having come to the attention of our clients Mr. & Mrs. Adams Apple-Apple, they did upon our advice instruct their surveyor, Mr. Johns, to inspect the property of No. 4 Arabesque Street in your absence, which is permitted under the lease which lease we hold no longer valid.

  Mr. Johns’ report is now in our hands. The general condition he described the house to be in, is to say the least, entirely deplorable. Extensive damage has not only been done to the valuable contents but to the fabric of the building. Walls everywhere are fingerprinted and marked and smudged as if items of food were flung about the premises. Indeed a piece of Gorgonzola cheese was found adhering to a signed and dated eighteenth century painting “Hounds Taking the Scent.” And the valuable plaster work on the ceilings of the bathroom and library have been entirely destroyed.

  The disappearance has also been noted of the fourteenth century bust of Justinian, from the landing. In this latter matter we would be glad to have your immediate check in the amount of fourteen thousand pounds being the assessed value of the piece. As soon as builders’ estimates are in our hands we will advise you of the final amount required to cover other damage. Meanwhile your early check in the amount of ten thousand pounds as part payment is required forthwith.

  Aside from the clear evidence of moral turpitude expressly forbidden in the lease, and in other extraordinary circumstances prevailing and in order to preserve that more damage does not take place and, without prejudice to any other remedy we may have in the matter, we are instructed by our clients to hereby serve notice upon you to vacate the premises of No. 4 Arabesque Street, Belgravia within seven days or legal proceedings will be taken against you so to do.

  Yours faithfully,

  Chary, Leer, Unkanny

  Mumchance & Nightingale

  P.S. As a personal note from a senior member of this firm, I should like to make the point that this is not what one would expect from a citizen of that country which came to fight beside us so gallantly following our winning single handedly the battle of Britain.

  Schultz holding the letter up shaking it. You dirty bunch of British tight assed fuckers just let me give you a fucking point or two. In the first place that bust of Justinian was unadulterated plaster and a piece of lousy cheap junk. In the second place the bathroom faucets all exploded leaking till I got a wrench myself to twist the fucking things shut. In the third place the place was practically a sewer when I moved in. In the fourth place all my fucking problems are caused by women. In the fifth place none of you are going to get a red cent out of me.

  Schultz leaning against the wall, momentarily relaxing from his shouting match with the physically unrepresented firm of Chary, Leer etcetera. Taxi diesel engines throbbing by in the street. Schultz’s finger slowly ripping open the second envelope. With the same black heavily engraved letterhead. Jesus christ at least no one can accuse me I’m handicapped by my optimism at this fucking time of my life. They’ve added a really appropriate new partner’s name since their previous letter two minutes ago.

  Chary, Leer, Unkanny

  Mumchance, Voyeur &

  Nightingale

  Dear Sir,

  We are instructed by Mr. Al Duke and Miss Pricilla Prune to act upon another matter separate from the one concerning clients from whom you have leased No. 4 Arabesque Street.

  In court proceedings this morning you pleaded guilty to assaulting our clients. Who as a result of such assault were both treated for abrasions and contusions. Miss Prune, who now requires extensive dental work having lost and swallowed her tooth as a consequence of being struck by your fist, also suffered severe bruising to her chest area and will be unable to work for some considerable time. She must also due to dental damage eat slops.

  Mr. Duke who so bravely defended the honor of Miss Prune, had to have administered prolonged medication to stop the persistent bleeding of his nose. The clothes he was wearing as were those of Miss Prune were s
tained with blood and cannot be worn again.

  Mr. Duke however, has agreed to waive his right to any damages subject to your fully compensating Miss Prune who had a brand new dress of hers scorched irreparably through your having kicked it up on top of a lamp bulb. We would be glad to have your immediate check in the amount of six hundred and forty nine pounds and ten shillings to cover the above as well as our own out of pocket expenses, otherwise we are instructed to issue proceedings against you for this amount and hold you liable for all costs in so doing.

  Yours faithfully,

  Chary, Leer, Unkanny

  Mumchance, Voyeur &

  Nightingale

  P.S. As a senior partner of this firm, one hopes that your unchivalrous treatment of a lady will reach the attention of the Home Office and the appropriate action ensue.

  “You fucking sons of bitches I’ll give you something to sue about.”

  Schultz sailing his right foot into a hall chair. Kicking the brocaded seat upwards out of its frame. His left foot sailing through the presently knee high lamp shade on top of which Pricilla’s dress scorched. Tearing down a painting from the wall and sending another foot through into the infinities of its rural scene. Schultz as his Lordship would say, was in an excitable state. And foot kicking crazy. As well as foot kicking mad. Till hearing a voice. And fingers widening an aperture in the splintered door.

  “Ah let me give you a hand in there me boyo, that’s no way now to wreck a house. You’d be hours doing it. Here let me show you now how that’s done. As soon as I break me way in.”

  “Jesus Magillacurdy the door’s blocked, go downstairs for christ’s sake. Don’t do nothing. I’m a ruined enough man as it is.”

  “Nonsense. Nonsense. Sure what kind of dissident black bile talk is that to oppress the breast. When there are pints of the finest to be drunk off hundreds of mahogany bars all over London. And women to be downed with them. Ruined. Never. Redeemed is more like it.”