A Fairy Tale of New York

by J. P. Donleavy

  "Excuse me. I'm a Mr Christian, Mr Vine's assistant. Is everything all right. Is there anything I can do.''

  "Well. Yes. Would you mind getting me a pack of Kools."

  ''I beg your pardon."

  "Kools."

  "What's that"

  "What's that"

  "Cigarettes."

  "O. Of course."

  "Just put them on the bill."

  Christian trotting down the street. In a previous pair of footsteps. Past a grimy statue of a cigar store Indian shading his eyes as he looks out under the trellises and girders criss-crossed darkly against the still falling snow. Shout Kools to the man over the crashing rumble of an elevated train and he hands across a pack. Says mentholated. With a free book of matches. In Europe they make you pay. Man thinks I'm nuts running around without a coat. At the moment I'm feeling good. With this snow cleansed air and a fresh change of people. Some with fantastic legs. Gives one a hope. That I could be good if not stunning at this job. Even show Vine a thing or two about pomp and ritzy circumstance if I had the right choice of socially elite people. Have my own band of Viennese musicians. And maybe two guys with spears and armour standing guard at the entrance. With a funeral parlor eight floors down into the foundations. And only an hour ago I was nearly a pervert. And a cocksucking mortician spreading pestilence.

  "Madam."

  "Thank you. Aren't you a very sweet young man. Thank you so much."

  "Glad to be of any service madam.''

  "I'm Mrs Sourpuss. I suppose you read all about it in the newspapers."

  "I 'm sorry I don't think I have.''

  ''It was quite awful. You're not a New Yorker are you.''

  "No, not at the moment.''

  ''I didn't think so. You sound English.''

  "Thank you."

  "What on earth is a nice young man like you doing working in a place like this.''

  "Well, madam, it is as you might say, my calling.''

  ''You got called. To this.''

  "Yes. It's my vocation. I'm hoping to work myself up. Perhaps even one day having a place of my own.''

  ''What a marvelously unglamorous ambition.''

  "I want to help people. My profession gives one an opportunity to do that"

  "You sound just like Mr Vine.''

  "I 'm very flattered to hear that.''

  "Don't you get sick of this.''

  "Madam giving comfort to the bereaved, to those left behind sorrowing is a fulfillment of my own peace of mind.''

  "Hey are you kidding me. But you do have a beautiful accent. Have a cigarette."

  "No. I don't, thank you. Do allow me please."

  Christian taking Mrs Sourpuss's lighter from her one tightly black gloved hand. Down upon which the gold bracelets cascade. Her jaw line stern and strong. Skin blond and smooth. Byes a greeny light blue. Get a little closer. To her perfume. Byes more blue than green. And as I came in this morning. I was waiting for a whiff of formalin. If I'd had breakfast I might have vomited. Eight on Vine's canary carpet. This lighter heavy. Must be solid gold. There's a blaze of shit hailing at you out of the heavens. And especially from your rented bedroom ceiling. Then suddenly one's standing with an erection punching one under the chin. With a vision of a mourner's thighs. Making you deaf around the ears.

  "Tell me Mr Christian. My you do have beautiful delicate hands. Will you be coming to the cemetery.''

  "Yes I am."

  "I'd appreciate it, if possible, if you could ride with me in my car. I 'd like to have someone to talk to."

  "I'll ask Mr Vine. I'm sure it will be all right. We'd like to be of any assistance we can.''

  In the emerald night club darkness Christian's eyebrows rose. Shyly retreating. Stopping under a ceiling light of the lobby to take a good look at my hands. Yes. They are rather splendid. If I don't wait and think of something to make my engorged perpendicularity go down Clarance will think I'm trying to put it up the bereaved. And he's right. A great life. This disposal of the dead. The only thing that can stop me now is failure.

  Or

  If death

  Gets out

  Of style

  6

  Madam's car was grey. With tiny little round windows in the rear sides. Like the portholes of a ship. A long antenna sticking from a snowy roof. Dark gleaming fur rug inside. Had a last look at Mr Sourpuss. Whose composure and bald pate was immense. Rouge on his chubby cheeks. Must have made a lot of money. Lips sealed. Otherwise I 'd ask him how.

  Along Fifty Seventh Street Mrs Sourpuss hummed the slow Polish polka. Turning her head to stare back at some fashion house windows. When our eyes met she smiled. The guy who was standing by the thermostat stood looking up and down the street while the other two watched me getting into the limozine. And Mrs Sourpuss's gum chewing chauffeur growled something inaudibly unpleasant as he slammed my door.

  Traffic crawling through the deepening snow. Abandoned cars little mounds of white. The sky dark with clouds. Eed funnelled ocean liner being nudged by tugs around the tip of a pier. Across the black cold water of the Hudson the undulating roller coaster of the amusement park atop the sheer stone cliffs. Went over there once after an annual June school boat ride. Was my city then. Belongs now to Vine. He just stared at me when I announced. That Mrs Sourpuss requested I accompany her. I stood waiting. Vine sat. Sheets of architectural drawings all over his desk. Held down at one corner by a small black book which in red said Social Register New York. Now he's found out I'm not listed, he might say what the hell do you mean trying to get familiar with the mourners. But he looked back down to his papers. Ok Christian. And said he'd just heard on the radio that this is a real blizzard we're having, make sure Charlie's put chains on all the cars. And Charlie's eyes opened pleasantly wide when I walked up to him. And he said Mr Christian what are you doing here. I said I 'm working. And he said holy christ.

  Mrs Sourpuss smoked Kool after Kool. I lit them for her with her lighter. She blew the smoke out from under a big wide brimmed black hat. Leaning forward to tap her ash in a tray pulled out from the walnut ornamented back of the driver's seat. She spoke to the chauffeur through a microphone like a little tea strainer. His name was Glen. He gave me dirty looks through his rear view mirror and once during a prolonged sneer crashed us into the back of the hearse. Charlie got out shaking his fist and shouting.

  ''For crying out loud can't you see me in front, you numbskull, you could have killed the deceased or something."

  Mrs Sourpuss put her hand over her mouth as she laughed. And turned to me looking right down into my fur covered lap. Where I was most rapidly rotating my thumbs.

  "Are you interested in sports, Mr Christian.''

  ''Sometimes I put on the gloves. I boxed.''

  "Really."

  "I 'm pretty able to take care of myself.''

  "But it would be terrible if something happened to your hands. Do you like good books and music.''

  "Yes I do."

  "I do too. Really good books. I really love books."

  "I like books."

  ''I knew you did. It's written all over you.''

  Crossing the bridge high up over the water where the East River flows in and out of the Hudson. Leaving the island of Manhattan. Arrive on the mainland of the Bronx. Mrs Sourpuss took off her hat and put her head back. Opened her mouth and rolled her tongue around in each cheek. Tapped ash from her cigarette and took a long drag. Up there in front of us, her husband. In a white satin lined casket covered in wreaths and flowers. One's own sorrow all dried away. Think it will never go. Till it's gone.

  ''What's your name I can't keep calling you Mr Christian.''

  "Cornelius."

  "You must have had an old fashioned mother and father to give you a name like that.

  ''

  ''They were immigrants and left me an orphan.9'

  "Hey that's sad."

  Cars keep away from a funeral on the highway. Folk rushing for home in the blizzard. Perched on the rocky knolls those ho
uses where people live who look safe from life. Behind their cozy window panes. In rambling rooms. Refrigerators full with ice cream, olives, pimento cheese. Sliced bologna and roast beef all ready to lay thickly between the mayonnaise slathered rye bread. Sit on a big sofa in the sprawling living room. Sink your teeth in all that eating and wash it down with soda pop. A big fire blazing. Dozens of radiators tingling hot all over the house.

  "Where are we now. Cornelius. How far is it."

  "Not far madam."

  "Do me a favor and cut out that madam. Makes me feel old."

  "Sorry."

  "My name is Fanny. Where are we.''

  "This is the Bronx."

  ''Doesn 't look like the Bronx."

  "It's the Bronx. It has woods, deer, fish, muskrats, possum, owls, snakes."

  "I didn't know it was this kind of burg. When are they going to civilize it. Hey that hurt your feelings what I said.''

  "O no."

  "It did."

  ''I was raised in the Bronx.''

  "No kidding. There. There are more woods. Just like you said."

  ''The cemetery has a lake with ducks."

  "No kidding."

  The cortege climbing the winding hill through the woods. Grey limozine without chains, skidding on the ice. Another two cars behind. White clouds of exhaust rising from the back of the hearse. Where I waited with Helen we wait for green on the stop lights. In my own romantic Bronx. I was a new little boy all the way from Brooklyn moved on the street. Made a friend called Billy whose mother just died. He asked me over. To try out his boxing gloves he got for Christmas. His father watched us from a ring side seat on the cellar stairs. I thought he would be too sad to fight and instead he beat the living shit out of me.

  ''What's that Cornelius."

  "The last stop of the elevated train."

  "That's a bar, where it says WicMes.''

  "Yes."

  Mrs Sourpuss took a new crisp ten dollar bill from a black shiny purse. Her eyebrows raised, she lifted her microphone and told Glen to stop. The hearse went on crossing the wide avenue, followed by the two cars behind. A man in a grey uniform directing them to halt inside the gates.

  "Would you be a real marvelous darling Cornelius and get me a bottle of whiskey.''

  ''Certainly of course. Any particular kind.''

  "Canadian."

  Stepping out under this haunted structure. The many times I climbed up and down from this train. Like a house on stilts full of windows. The end of the line or the beginning if you're heading downtown. Bartender with sleeves rolled up. Travellers hunched over drinks at the circular bar. Jukebox playing jingle bells, a sleigh ride through the snow. A customer saying that's what you're going to need in another hour if this keeps up.

  Outside snow getting heavier. Telephone wires bending along the lonely avenue north. Across the street the black high iron railings. And beyond, the rooftops of the great marble monuments. Some granite and grey. Spruce trees and winterish maples, oak and beech. All the death out there covered up. Cold white and lonely. Mrs Sourpuss pulling open a cabinet.

  ''Have some Cornelius, it's going to be damn cold."

  ''Thank you, no. Not while I 'm on duty.''

  "You call this duty."

  "No."

  ''Well then let's have a few shots."

  "I think I better not."

  "Be a pussy foot. Don't expect me to sit here gushing tears."

  ''I suppose some mourners are sadder than others.''

  "Don't give me that. Plenty are glad. Unless it's a kid or something."

  "Here's your change."

  '' You keep that, it's yours.''

  "I 'm sorry but I just couldn't accept such a thing.

  "You know in just a minute I'm going to pin a medal on you. You're just so god damn nice. Take it. "

  "Well thank you very much.''

  "Don't mention it. I married it. Well here's seeing you.''

  Fanny drinking back a mouth full of whiskey, adam's apple going up and down as she swallows. Can't wait till I see her black stockinged legs again. Vine never mentioned tips. As part of what looks like my fantastic emoluments. To use an old fashioned term. Throw it to Vine to increase his word power. Took Fanny two sentences and a gargantuan gratuity to relieve me of a life time of self respect. Nearly seven dollars richer. Just for being her errand boy. Enough to buy hot dogs and root beer on plenty of ferry trips and still have change for a pizza.

  "Cornelius, you're strong aren't you. Don't let anybody touch me."

  Now wants to know if I'm a Samson. Glen smirking again up front. Think he'd learned his lesson. Be driving us next in the door of the Sourpuss mausoleum. Knocking the liquids out of the deceased. Send the attendants running for their lives. And give me a chance to stop somewhere quiet and count my money.

  "I was married to a football player, Cornelius. He could hold me up over his head in the palm of his hand. But he couldn't make a dime. Cried like a baby when I left him. He kind of got sick in the mental department. Tried to kill me when I wouldn't come back. If he's waiting, Cornelius sock him, will you.''

  A winding road up and down these vistas. Past a statue of a little boy with his knickered legs crossed sitting on a bench. Holds a red carnation in his hand. I was dressed like that when I lost my first fight. They left me back a grade for being dumb. And I thought I could beat the second toughest kid in the class. He had books under his sweater where I hurt my fists. Knocked me into a hedge and I started to cry. Now Mrs Sourpuss wants me to unleash a haymaker on the iron jaw of some huge gorp.

  "Tell you the truth Mrs Sourpuss. I'm athletic. But this guy your first husband.''

  "My second husband.''

  "Well your second. He sounds pretty big. Do you really think he'll be waiting. I mean we like to give complete service where possible. But I could need some help."

  "I've got three private detectives with me. But I don't want any shooting."

  "Shooting. Mrs Sourpuss. This is a solemn ceremony. There are cemetery regulations. I'd be fired if there's shooting. Shoving and pushing, that happens at lots of funerals. But Mr Vine absolutely would not want gun fire."

  Went that way with Helen. The economically priced graves. Row after row. And this way to where teeth may be socked like dice all over the tomb. If bullets haven't shattered everybody's bicuspids first. All round here, edifices rear in their snowy elegance. Right behind any one could be Mrs Sourpuss's second husband. His telescopic high powered rifle aimed. The rest of his football team coming charging out with tomahawks. Not much has changed on this old Indian hunting ground.

  Ahead eight men in green uniforms. A canopy leading up an incline of path. A mausoleum dome held by columns and arched windows of stained glass. Cedar trees by the entrance. Cortege stopped. Whoops. Another two cars added to the funeral. Clarance I know would want me to use my own judgement. Prostrate myself on the floor of this vehicle. After the massacre is over take the survivors to the hospital. And Charlie can take the dead to Vine.

  "Mrs Sourpuss I don't want to appear as if I'm ungallant but before we get out. Do you see your second husband anywhere. In that car. There's someone sitting in it. For your own safety we ought be sure before you get out.''

  "Willie has a glass jaw. Just sock him. You scared Cornelius."

  "No I'm not. I'm a little rusty. I mean I should speak to an official of the cemetery. If there's some kind of unfortunate incident that could mar the dignity of the occasion. They don't let things like that happen here.''

  Charlie pulling and twisting the door handle of the hearse. Which sneer faced Glen jammed closed. If Vine were here he'd be climbing screaming up the walls of a mausoleum. Charlie now prizing with a spanner. And has just landed backwards on his arse in the snow. Putting a deep frown on that cemetery official's face. This could be my first and last funeral. Three of them pulling now. Whoops. Another down. Cemetery official scowling. Four tugging. Budging. A squeal. It's open. The whole door bent. Fanny squeezing my hand. I'll b
e stepping out of this car prick first.

  "Boy Cornelius. What a bunch of rubes.''

  Attendants taking the flowers laden down their outstretched arms. Six more in their green capes drawing out the casket. Neatly heft it on their shoulders. Charlie stands watching ashen faced, his grey wisps of hair catching snowflakes. On that little green post it says Paradise Avenue. Instead of way up Shit's Creek. Fanny patting on her makeup. Snaps a gold case shut. A little fragrant powder up my nose. Here we go now. Vanity first. Before violence.

  "Please tell me if you see him Mrs Sourpuss.''

  "Who."

  "Willie."

  "Don't worry you can't miss him he's six foot eight.''

  Mrs Sourpuss in high heeled black rubber galoshes. Christian shivering. Pause under the awning just like the one that goes into Vine's. Left my coat back at the office. Smell her perfume stronger out here in the fresh air. Her black legs against the white. Everyone waiting. A strange group getting out of the two other cars. Four women in black head dresses and long black veils. Three dark swarthy men, one in flowing robes. Three detectives, two at the top of the steps and the other across the road.

  ''Who are those people in black Mrs Sourpuss.''

  "Peasants. My husband's relatives. I'm just letting them have their own little jamboree. Because that's all they're getting. Bunch of immigrants. They should go back to Bulgaria.''

  Take her furry elbow. Winds blow through my tweed. Along with a feel of her right tit. Cool down my perpendicular. Stands every time she stands. Steps swept clean. A moment to extend her a little amiability. Before any conduct unbecoming explodes.

  ''You look very pretty Mrs Sourpuss.''

  "I 'll bet you say that to all the mourners.''

  Cold musty interior. Smell of cement and plaster. Nearly answered Mrs Sourpuss. That she was the first mourner I'd ever met. She stands rigid and close to me. As the group gathers around. Tall bearded man in black robes has a little altar. Female angels kneel with wreaths up on the stained glass windows. Under that one it says Pax Vobiscum. All I know is I better try rejoin the athletic club where I first learned my fisticuffs and get in shape fast. Tragedy comes just like you're staring at a watch at exactly the moment it stops. That's when the bell rings with a good punch in the head and the round begins. Come out fighting. All low blows are especially allowed. So nobody's balls hang in peace. Mine presently dangle in awe. From a very stiff gibbosity. Standing in honor of Fanny.