A Fairy Tale of New York

by J. P. Donleavy

  "Now you're going to be too hot in that suit Mr Christian. I keep the thermometer at seventy eight point five on the button during the winter months. Sorrow demands a perfect temperature. I mean that. One thing I'm a stickler about. The other is I always like to be on the ball. You get over there to Brooks Brothers, corner of Madison and Forty Fourth. Tell them up on the third floor I sent you. They'll know what to do. It will goon my account. You know Christian, I'm really glad you made this decision. And I hope you'll never have cause to regret it.''

  Vine standing. Turning to his library cabinet. Taking down the volume Modern Mortuary Science. Blowing off some imaginary dust and handing it to Christian. As he leads him by the elbow to the door.

  "Come, meet Miss Musk.''

  Crossing the canary carpet along the softly lit hall. Here's where I'll be tomorrow morning. With the numb lingering pain I'm getting right up the arse. Feels now I've been here all my life. Two men in black overcoats and hats and a sleek willowy blond woman in furs passing by. Vine nods gently. His lips say words one can't hear. Must be the understanding whisper. The dark doorways and curtained doors to the green glowing suites. Miss Musk in a dark brown dress. Stands up from behind her desk. In a tiny office. A tall green filing cabinet with two silver trophies on top. Fluted pillars holding up a drum majorette.

  "Miss Musk, Mr Christian is coming to work for us.''

  "I'm so glad."

  "He has the makings."

  "I'm sure he has. I can't say how glad I am."

  Handshakes. Christian bowing his head to the light haired Miss Musk. Has long fragile fingers. And limp moist hand. A gold bracelet falls down on her wrist as she takes back her arm. And a blue vein bulges across her knuckle. Face all tanned. Says goodbye with a smile of team spirit. Her teeth gleam. Her breasts blossom in their brown.

  Vine guiding Christian by the arm. Past the chapel's open gothic arched door. Four candles burning inside the blue glassed golden topped tabernacle on the altar. Another color getting a chance. Two figures kneeling in the round domed interior. Looked like little children. Bent heads and hunched tiny shoulders. My heart pounding. As we go in this direction. To where there's that door.

  "Just through here now, Cornelius, you don't mind if I call you Cornelius."

  "No."

  The narrow hall. The temperature drops. A fire department notice on the wall. Red handled axe held by steel clips. Behind a glass door a big brass nozzle on a canvas hose wrapped around a brass wheel. What could ever burn in this chill. Door swinging open. Can't tear my eyes away. No where else to look but the ceiling with two big square sky lights. A cold grey falls upon two white coated and masked figures. Each bent over a colder body. Heads of deceased tilted up on tables of stainless steel. Two more covered in green sheets. Trolleys of tubes, rolls of cotton wool and bottles. The smell of air. Sinks into the lungs. Will never come out again. Makes the toes curl. How do I get out of here. The indignity when they get you stretched out like that. Pulling a needle and thread out of a nostril. Squeezing bulbfuls of fluid into your arm. That you can't raise to sock him on the jaw. Stop it.

  Vine suddenly turning and reaching out as Christian sways and plunges forward. Great heaving sigh from his lips. Two morticians rushing round their tables. One catching him under the back another by the feet. Vine holding him by the head and shoulders. Three undertakers lever him onto an embalming table. Pull loose his tie. Open up his shirt. Another button pops off. Bolls on the red tiled floor. And stops. Two little vacant holes in the pearl for eyes or thread. Sew it back on please.

  Before the fatal

  Rigor

  And the final

  Mortis

  Sets in

  5

  Snow white this Monday morning. Began falling in the night. Traffic sounds faint on the avenue the end of the street. Wake up with icicles on the window sill. Already an hour late for my first day of work. Not an ounce of heat coming up in this building.

  Christian putting on his dark tweed suit. Little wetting of the hair. A discreet pee into the basin. Steams up urinish upon the nostrils. Flakes still falling outside. Man in plaid lumber jacket, leather cap and black furry ear muffs shovelling snow. A police dog tied to the iron railing. Go out to face death now. Day after day.

  Muffled sound of the garbage men approaching. Radio says temperature twenty two degrees. Shuttered window opens across the street. A girl I watched Sunday night undressing. In a red kimono. Takes in a container of milk. Saw her get down to her underwear and when she finished brushing her hair the lights went off. Nobody gives a good god damn they're interrupting your show.

  Christian making his way along the shadowy hall to the bathroom. To face this color again. Like a wave of seasickness. In a green sea of grief. Reeking of formalin. Still feel faint. Every-time I think of that chill day. After Vine gave me a tumbler of brandy from a barrel in the embalming room. I hurried away up the street. Another limp handshake clinging to my palm from Miss Musk. Took the subway south. And stood waiting for the ferry. On the uttermost tip of town. Desperate to see sky and breathe air. Of which there is neither in this crapper. I spent that Friday afternoon three times cruising back and forth across the harbour. Devoured two bags of peanuts packed in Suffolk, Virginia. Forking out my future salary. Ate two hot dogs slathered in mustard and sauerkraut and downed with two root-beers. Which are roaring through me now. Was hoping to say to Mr Vine I'm really glad to be part of your operation. And nearly ended up undertaken. As the masked faces looked down. I looked up and fainted again. Now no damn toilet paper. Use my only clean handkerchief. Dried my wind watered eyes with it on the last trip of the ferry when the sun set. Little dots and glimmers of light in the tall buildings ahead. Passengers opening the sliding doors to stand on deck. Cold air pouring into the cabin. The flat bottomed vessel pushed across the waves,, Carrying on the rows of wooden benches all the faces. To the most unpleasant ones I flashed the title of the mortuary manual. Those who understood the words turned their heads away in a god damn hurry. To watch an ocean liner sailing by. Decks lit up. Tiny dark figures standing under the life boats. Fluttering pennants strung from funnel to funnel. And sadly watching the passing great silhouette, smoke floating a darker darkness in the sky. There came a tapping on my shoulder. And a face. Smiling. Waving his grey cap. The man with the fat cheeks on the bus. To whom I gave the friendly nod of the institution. Strange pleased grunts coming from his lips. As I shook his hand thoroughly. And now someone is pounding on this crapper door.

  Christian opening up. The sallow moist cross eyed visage of Mrs Grotz. Her grey kinky hair greyer and kinkier. Face contorted. Keeps her big boned knuckled hand pressing her daisy flowered dress closed. Or they may be petunias. Of the deadly nightshade family. If I dared to look closer. As I better not do. As she looks about to erupt.

  "I got something to talk to you.''

  "Yes."

  "What do you think you do in my house."

  "What do you mean."

  ''You mortician. I see book. Are you mortician.

  "No."

  ''Why you have book.''

  "I don't think that's any of your business."

  "You want I should lose all the tenants out of my building I work hard in. I should know with that voice you got. And the funeral car. You give me bullshit your wife die. I think you pervert with women's clothes.''

  ''I beg your pardon.''

  "You think you come in here and live like that you crazy."

  Christian pushing out of bathroom. Past the heaving boobs of Mrs Grotz. "Who carries hidden in the folds of her dress a lead pipe. Just about two feet long. Sticking out. What a friendly god damn country. Just get the hell out of this hall. And into my room. Never leave a door open again. She'll see the bed erupted asunder. Caused by a dream last night. That Clarance Vine had opened his new mortuary on the upper level of Grand Central Station. Polk were wheeling in their deceased. Prom the Mississippi and Boston. Trains loaded with cadavers. From Bronxville, Crestwood and T
uckahoe. Teams of morticians in football uniforms pounding down the Forty Second Street ramp. Vine with a megaphone blasting out commands from the Vanderbilt Avenue balcony. Directing the bodies laid out in vast rows as he watched through his binoculars. Organ music throbbing under the immense vaulted blue ceiling. And I was there. Trying to look the last word in fashion. With my dark brown trilby hat. The throngs of newspaper toting commuters stood still, silent, and scared shitless. I was glad to see Vine. Went to him. Nudged him with a friendly nudge from behind. Said in my best American, how's it going Clarance. He said hey how you doing kid, good to see you, everything's going fine, real fine, if you feel like embalming grab yourself a cadaver.

  Christian turning to close his bedroom door. Mrs Grotz sticking her foot in it as she pushes it open. And Christian lunges it shut. Thump. A leaden object dropping. Christian slipping on the chain latch. Grotz's fists beating on the mahogany panels. Welcome to West Idiot Street.

  "What do you do in my house. I don't want no wise guy like you. You hear me. Get out before I call the cops. You dirty bum."

  A crash against the door. Screws flying from the latch. With another shoulder shoving. The growl of a dog. Door slowly yielding open again. The plaid arm of the man down shovelling in the street. Christian with a rather amazing collegiate heave assisted by a foot against the wall, crashing the door shut again. A throatful gasp out of Mrs Grotz, her high heeled shoe caught bent and crushed. Too bad it was footless. Just about had enough insociability. Ask that fucker in the plaid jacket when he got castrated and what else has he got going for him. As I hear the sound of a siren coming down the street.

  "Pervert. You wait my other nephew Broken Legs Vinnie fix you."

  Faint smell of garlic breath. Pity that marvelous bulbous herb has to taint some mouths. Give the poisonous words a flavour. With this kind of population embalming is the juice of justice. The siren subsiding. Car doors slamming outside. The police. Be charged with female impersonation while in possession of a mortician's manual. Sound of feet pounding up the stairs. Voices outside the door.

  ''Arrest him. Him voodoo. In there pervert.''

  "Take it easy lady. What's going on. Open up.''

  ''Women's clothes he's wearing.''

  ''All right lady. Is he armed."

  "How do I know. But I got hemorrhoids since he moved in."

  "Did you see a gun or a knife."

  "I see dirty pictures of dead peoples he's got. Without no clothes. You can see the balls.''

  "Ok lady we know what kind of enchantment. Open up in there. For the last time.''

  Christian pulling back the door. Four heads waiting in the shadows. Dog growling and snarling. Two blue caps and uniforms. No one gives a hoot I'm a recent widower. A gun pointing at me. Get shot before I have a chance to scream I'm wracked with refinement. Raise my hands. My fly is open. An additional felony of wang wagging. While human balls lie unbouncing on an illustrated page. Sewing mouths closed in Vine's studio is going to be a relief.

  "Ok buddy."

  "That's him. There the clothes. In the suitcase. I told you. Tell by his voice he wear dresses.''

  "Lady give us a chance. Ok put your hands down. What have you got to say buddy.''

  ''Those are my wife's clothes."

  "Where's your wife.''

  "Dead"

  "He butcher her."

  "Will you shut up lady. Now what do you mean buddy, dead."

  ''Dead, just what I said.''

  ''Come on fella don't get smart.''

  "I'm not. She's dead. Her funeral was over a week ago. Those are her clothes."

  "All right. Now the dirty pictures. Where are they."

  "There I suppose.''

  "You suppose."

  "Well it's a manual for morticians.''

  ''What are you a funeral undertaker.''

  ''Yes I am. I pursue that hallowed vocation.''

  "No kidding. What are you living in a place like this for. All the undertakers we know live on Park Avenue.''

  "Arrest him."

  "For the last time shut up lady or we'll arrest you. This guy has got a perfectly normal story. For this precinct anyway. Can you prove this. Your name Cornelius Christian on this tag."

  "Yes."

  "Hey who called us anyway. Ok it doesn't matter. Now everybody pipe down and stop pushing. Lady you got a telephone."

  "Yeah you pay to use it."

  "Ok buddy who do I check your story with.''

  ''Vine funeral home.''

  "Is that right. You mean Clarance. Vine.''

  "Yes. And I 'm late for work.''

  "Hey well you're working with him. Used to be my beat. Sure I know Clarance. Real nice guy. He's so successful he's opening up his third branch on the east side over there. Goes right down five floors into the foundations. Going to be really something. Well what do you know. Ok lady this show's over.''

  "He legitimate."

  "That's right."

  "Well he's undertaking."

  "That's right lady."

  "He should live with other undertakers. Not in a house with normals."

  "Nothing to do with us lady."

  "Cocksucker could have disease he catch off the bodies.''

  "Now lady why don't you have some manners. Calm down before you get yourself into trouble. Call the commissioner of health if you're worried. This is how murders happen. Be glad he's not a snake charmer with a bunch of cobras under the bed. And why don't get someone to put salt on the ice on your steps."

  ''My nephew here Angelo 's doing it.''

  "Hey whose lead pipe is this.''

  The contingent departing. Foot shaped puddles of water from the melted snow on the floor. Christian putting on his grey tweed overcoat and grabbing his manual. Quickly down the stairs. Past the sneering greasy face of Mrs Grotz peering from her door. Nice to know what makes people dislike you. To call you a cock-sucker. And there's Angelo the brother of Broken Legs Vinnie. Four glaring brown eyes, two belong to his dog as he looks up from his shovel. Policemen in their squad car. One gives a wave. Other writes in a notebook. He's winding down his window. Have to find a taxi I 'm so late.

  "Hey, Mr Christian, come on, get in. We'll give you a lift. We 're going your way.''

  Leaping across the drift of snow in the gutter. Christian getting in the back of the squad car. In the static coming over the radio a voice announcing. Go to the intersection of Fifth and Fiftieth. Man on sixteenth floor threatening to jump into Fifth Avenue, calling all cars.

  Siren blaring. Squad car skidding away. Streaking across the snowy winding road through the park. In the Hunter's Gate and out the Miner's Gate and down Fifth Avenue. Lady bundled in furs turns to look as her poodle in mink lifts a leg to pee. Good to be regarded with a glance or two as one goes ploughing by. Without a siren it's hard to get noticed. This jumper could be a prospective customer. Who may have to be cleaned off the street. Unless he's on the sixteenth floor of a doll's house. Might get embedded in the roof of a car. Or land on five pedestrians. Be six for Vine. Fire engine. Flags waving. Just in front.

  "Well Mr Christian. This guy jumps there could be plenty of custard around. How's this for service. Tell Clarance Dick was asking for him. You ought to change your address."

  Crosstown east. There's the dark green awning out. Covered in a mantel of snow. Buses splashing grey masses of frozen slush. Vine's pickup truck busy at the loading entrance. Street empty. Save for a solitary trudging head down shielding a big brown envelope. Commerce continues. Snow on the elevated train roaring past down the street. Enter here. Warm and comforting. Snow melting inside my shoe.

  ''Where 've you been Christian. You 're late.''

  "I'm sorry Mr Vine. My landlady tried to throw me out because she thought I was a mortician. Professional prejudice. The police came. One of them knew you. Dick.''

  Vine a dark visage planted the center of his canary carpet. A pearl pin in his tie. His thumbs rubbing up and down on his curled index fingers. He's ready to bark m
y head off, fire me, and hand me my wife's funeral bill. As I stand here soaking up the warmth thoroughly delighted. For the first time to have a job. In this new land of hair and perhaps prick raising opportunity.

  "Ok. Don't let it happen again. I'm sorry if I seem angry but we're short handed. Fritz now has double pneumonia. And my short wave says there's someone ready to jump down on Fifth and Fiftieth. If the snow stays and gets any deeper they'll be a lot more. They go out the windows like pop corn off a red hot pan. Happens everytime there's a blizzard."

  "I do apologise Mr Vine. It won't happen again.''

  "Ok then, on the ball now. Two reposings, Miss Musk is taking care of suite two the Brennan family. I need your sense of protocol in suite four. The Sourpusses. It's nothing to worry about. Cortege be ready to move in half an hour. To Greenlawn. Interment in a mausoleum. Think you can handle it.''

  "I think so."

  "Charlie the driver will know what to do at the cemetery. Now take off your overcoat. Wipe your shoes, comb your hair. Just go in quietly. On the right inside the door is the temperature control, if it's o k make believe you're adjusting it anyway. Gives people a feeling things are being looked after. Mrs Sourpuss, you can't miss her, the blond, introduce yourself as my assistant. The deceased was a wholesaler in ladies garments in a big way. Just keep an eye on things. No one's getting their feet wet with the tears. I'll see to the flowers. You ride with Charlie and the casket."

  A blond in black. Saw her passing in the hall the other day. Sitting reading a fashion magazine open across her lap. Two gentlemen standing each at a corner of the room. And this one near me inside the door looking me up and down. An older woman kneeling at the coffin, head bent. The deceased in a blue business suit. Saw him on the slab when I fainted. Looks twenty years younger now. Wearing eyeglasses and good lord an old Etonian tie. Stand here. Check the thermostat. Excuse me sir. Whoops. A degree too low. And the green light is just a shade too bright. Music sounds like a slowed down Polish polka. Just another step forward. The wife must have been half his age. Carrying a lot of gold embellishments on both her wrists. And an acorn sized diamond on her finger. Am I allowed to sit. Better not. Wow what legs she's got. Black gleaming stockings in the emerald light. Introduce myself.