A Fairy Tale of New York

by J. P. Donleavy

  Christian crossing the soft dark green carpet. To the middle of this arena. Pink satin lined casket set in a bower of fern. Two red vigil lights both ends of the bier. Harriet a silver belt tightly buckled around her bulging belly. Spinning around to her girl friends and back again pointing to Herbert. And then to Christian. That tender hearted, do gooding Cornelius.

  "Hey what the hell happened. What is this. That's not my Herbie. What did you do to him.''

  "I beg your pardon Madam."

  "You made him into a playboy. Looking like that."

  ''Madam, is there something wrong.''

  "Wrong, you ask me is there something wrong. What the hell did you do to him. Fix him up looking like a whore. He should look dead. Dead and old like he was.''

  "Madam his preparation was deluxe.''

  "Deluxe. What deluxe. You call making him a fat clown face. Deluxe. I call it a crime.''

  "Please Madam. Please. Lower your voice. We have other mourners."

  "You have other mourners. You think I have another Herbie."

  ''Just take a seat Madam.''

  "Sit. While I 'm hysterical with what I 'm seeing. I should sit. I should sue you. When I don't recognize my own husband. Come in off the street to a complete stranger. You ask me to sit.''

  "Very well, certainly stand, if you wish Madam.''

  "Sonia, you saw Herbie when he died. You saw what he looked like. You see what he looks like now. Look at that. I'll tell you something mister.''

  "Mr Christian.''

  "What are you trying to be funny.''

  "No Madam that's my name.''

  "You deserve it. While my lawyer changes it fast to bankrupt."

  "Madam please. Certainly there's something we can do."

  "What are you going to do. Tell me. Take the stuffing out of his face. Make him look old, when you already disfigure him making him look young. Margie, you can see too.''

  "Please Madam. I beg of you.''

  "You beg of me. Is that what you can offer me. Begging. I don't want his body. I 'm not burying that. You keep it.''

  ''O god, please Madam. I'm responsible.''

  "You."

  "Yes."

  Christian standing hands clenched at his sides. Lips compressed. Shuddering and atremble. Harriet pointing her arm again. Wrap falling off her shoulders. Christian picking it up. Her arm knocking it away.

  "You did it to him. To my Herbie. You did that."

  "I was trying to do my best."

  "Your best huh. My husband you paint up like a five and dime doll. What did you do to his skin. It was normal before. A nice insult to an old widow. Margie witness every word out of his mouth."

  ''There could be some kind of refund."

  "Refund. Margie hear that. This fella says I get a refund.

  What are you running here, bargains for damaged merchandise."

  "Yes. We are. And I'll pump you full of formaldehyde and sell you as a bloody monster if you don't shut your ass you god damn fucking bitch.''

  "What. What. What did you say. To a widow. In front of her dead husband you hear what he says.''

  Christian storming from this dark suite. Past Miss Musk, nearly her whole hand clamped between her teeth. To go out again for the last time across this canary carpet. With your every ounce of energy. Do a good job. Sweat and slave. Shampoo and comb every hair. Polish each fingernail. Even use one of my own plaid bow ties. The whole god damn thing makes you want to cry. The hours of work. The hope and promise. That people would come in. Pull of sorrow. Have their hearts quickened by an earlier memory of a man's life ravaged face. Touched for a last moment with a glow of youth. A final pirouette in the silence of peace. A spark of blessedness.

  In

  This

  Cantankerous

  City

  13

  Christian striding rapidly west, coat tails flying. Over the honky tonk avenue of Lexington, the wide boulevard of Park and the elegant emporiums of Madison. To walk up one side and down the other of a people flooded pale grey Fifth Avenue. East chilling wind bursting out of the crosstown streets. Blown over Brooklyn. Through the bars of all the institutions. Where the imprisoned troubled eyes stare.

  Pass by the doors where Vine said he saw me. Polite and patient. Now a man stands clanking a tin cup. A seeing eye dog sitting before him on a carpet. Street lamps hang, two big tears above signs. No parking no commercial traffic. When it's all a long flowing stream of folk up for sale. Charlie said I want one of these golf driving ranges when I retire, that's where the money is. A dollar for a pail of balls. Just rake it in. Free pail to guys who hit the bull's eye, they stay there swatting all day trying. Said there was room for everybody to make a dollar. Even selling blood as well as hair.

  Four thirty on the clock inside that plate glass window. Where blue uniformed girls smilingly make people passengers on airplanes. Vine soon will be calling on his usual evening inspection tour. When my goose shall be cooked. And served gorging to every member of Harriet's bridge club. I know I'm a good embalmer. Just too forward looking for backward people without the cultural criteria to appreciate my creative up to date expertise. In through this window up high I see gold embellished ceilings. Behind that massive stone and shadowy shuttered windows I could stand shaving late to rush down or uptown for a date. Born to life pedigreed and rich. A daily new jade pot to piss in. And all I can do is keep walking. Moving all the time. Hoping for a master stroke of solace somewhere.

  Christian cruising past the crimson carpeted steps of this monumental hotel. And by a subway entrance you never see anyone come up or go down. Stand waiting for the traffic lights. Where they've just put out shrubs and stretched a striped cafe awning for gay sidewalk customers smoking big cigars. See a woman there with a hairdo. Would look good in my repertoire of styles for female deceased. And have a husband roar in complaining. You stretched out my wife like she was in a beauty contest. You bet sir. She's a winner. In a dead heat. Ha ha. You fuckpig you.

  Christian face down into his hands. Rubbing temples over the eyes. Wait for the green light to say go. Ankle deep in slander. Struggle ahead into my life across the street. A delicatessen and an apothecary tucked in the bottom of that tall tan hotel. On the edge of the waiting pedestrians a dark haired girl. Smiles at me. Gust of breeze blows open her white rain coat and see her flowered dress. A blue umbrella in her white gloved hand. Whiff of her perfume out of the traffic fumes as she passes. Heard her whisper a faint hello. Stop up on the curb. To turn and look. As she stops. And turns and looks. With another smile.

  Christian standing. She could be gone. If I don't make a move. Someone to talk to. A brain and soul still alive. For wrestling in love and happy in heaps of dreams. To make her eyes pour faith on me. For my nobility. She snatched right out of the crowd. Spend my saved fortnight's rent and maybe even take her to dine. In one of those bars with cozy booths. Where they slather gravy on big slabs of roast beef on rye. And wash it down with a golden cascade of beer.

  Her name was Carlotta. With soft shiny winey lips. I said can I buy you a drink. She walked in front of me down three steps and through swing doors into a dark bar. Fingering the blue and red beads around her throat. Waitress said what do you want. I said she wants a rye and I want a ginger ale.

  "You can't just have ginger ale."

  "Why not."

  "Because you can't. You've got to have a shot of something."Christian had a ginger ale and Carlotta had two shots of rye. Big blobs of bright red on her nails. She poured her shots over the ice and crossed her legs.

  ''What do you do if you don't mind me asking mister.''

  "I 'm an airline pilot.''

  "Ton really."

  ''Yes. Just flew in from Europe.''

  "I thought you had a funny kind of voice. You want to get me some cigarettes."

  Cigarette girl waltzing by with her tray. Takes a pack and unwraps the cellophane. Christian hands over a dollar. To get thanks and no change. Control myself. Don't boil over into anot
her rage. Once you let anything out of your hand in this town it's gone. Even the olive skinned beauty of this tiny big brown eyed girl. Unless I dig in my pocket and spend. And just this week I 've nearly paid half of what I owe for Helen.

  "Must be exciting that kind of life flying all over.''

  "Yes. What do you do."

  "What do you mean.''

  "Well I don't know, where do you come from.''

  ''I don't know whether I should answer questions.''

  "Why not."

  "Buy me another drink first.''

  Christian buying another drink. Carlotta pouring them down. A little bird behind the bar keeps dipping its beak. Stay brave and sober in a crisis. And go insane with worry.

  "I come from upstate. Geneva. That's on the finger lake. But it's none of your business where I come from."

  "Where are you going then."

  "Back to the room. I haven't got all day. It's twenty dollars for an hour. For ten dollars I 'll suck you off.''

  Big shadows gather in the darkness. A wide gentleman approaching the table. After Christian cried out in some anguish. Turning to rage as the waitress slapped down the check. And stood over him waiting for twelve dollars. Free of charge I get out of one fiasco and get robbed to get into another. Look for love and lose your money. Safer to stand up slowly. As this bouncer glowers. Rotating his steam shovel shoulders. Sticking out his chin. Curling down his lower lip. To show me he's tough.

  "Hey what are you a wise guy or something."

  "No I 'm just a quiet citizen.''

  "You don't come in here making trouble buddy. Because you get smart, we get rough. Now you pay that check and get the hell out of here before I bust your head.''

  Christian's eyes flashing over this figure. See if there's a bulge of gun. Lucky I look like a pushover. Folk feel they need only lightly shove and it saves them bullets. The shadows of customers bent over drinks. Mirrors behind the stacks of bottles. Bar stools for swinging and ash trays for throwing. Neon green and red lights bouncing round the darknesses. Holy mary mother of god I'm praying to you for old time's sake. Because a foster mother made me be a catholic once. Please don't let me slip into another abyss. And Vine's right, rudeness results in all the murders in this town. Hear Carlotta's voice.

  "Son of a bitch says he's an airline pilot and all he is is a cheapskate."

  "Ok wise guy flyer, you heard what I said. Pay. And get wings. And move.''

  "No."

  "Look I 'm going to tell you once more. Pay. And move.''

  "And I'm going to tell you. Touch me and I'll bat your brains out through the back of your skull.''

  "Hey what are you kidding sonny boy.''

  The wide gentleman calling over his shoulder to a shirt sleeved barman rushing down the bar. Christian feinting with a left and stepping back. The wide gentleman steps forward. With one hand reaching like a great claw the other tightened in a fist. Waitress spilling her drinks as she raises her tray like a shield. Customers turning. A jukebox with a voice crooning. Peanuts crushing underfoot. Last seen in a bowl on the table. O to be back puncturing with my trusty trocar in one's happy embalming room. As this wide gent whistles a fist by my nose. And bang into Carlotta as she stands up. And slumps down again with a groan. The waitress screams.

  "Tony Tony her eye is rolling on the floor."

  Tony looking down. Just long enough for Christian to make him look up. With a right hook arcing with slow motion strangeness from Christian's crouching kneecaps. Landing under Tony's jaw. Turning his neck lifting him two footed off the floor. Sending him crashing backwards his head slamming the curvature of the oak bar and sinking arms outstretched to rest in peace, one hand in a spittoon the other palm upwards over a brass rail. The low whistle of jesus christ through the teeth of the bartender as he stops in his tracks. And slowly steps back raising his hands. At an approaching Christian. Fists hanging loosely at the hips from the end of each half cocked arm.

  "Don't hit me mister, starting from right now I'm on your side believe me. I 'm just trying to keep the place civilized.''

  Waitress staring at the floor, her clutched hands held up to her cheeks. A voice yelling at the bar, get a doctor, keep the eye warm, they can put it back in. And at the end of an outstretched arm a wavering finger pointing at Christian.

  "That's the guy who did it. Knocked her eye out.''

  Bartender, natty garters on each sleeve, gaining courage. Raising his own finger to take umbrage in the pursuit of justice. Only stepping back two paces in the pursuit of safety. As he raises his hands shielding too high and too late from a lunging Christian whose right fist silently sailed in a wide low curve to land with a gurgling thud under his heart. A lightning left crashing on his right lung. Matches, cigarettes and pencils scattering from his shirt breast pocket. Bartender pitching forward, hanging suspended over a blizzard of rights and lefts to crumple flat faced in his oozing vomit.

  Two customers jumping over the bar. Another rushing for the back room latrine. A drunken one standing down from his stool. Hat back on his perspiring head. Mouth pursed and brow frowning as he wags his finger at the oncoming exit seeking Cornelius. A bleary eyed face colliding with a back handed swat from Christian. A hat sent flying. As Cornelius takes a crotch loosening leap up the steps past a last ring side customer trying to reach out and pat my back as I pass.

  "That a boy champ. Haven't seen slamming talent like that since Sugar Bay.''

  Christian turning right, taking advantage of a little hill and running. Weaving down the shadowy street. No need to make it easy for bullets if there are any. And if not can always use the extra exercise. Past these clip joint maws of horror. Little temples of avarice. None greater than mine tonight. You fuckers. Because jesus christ before I'm finished I'm going to join the pacifists. Stroll if necessary lily livered under my placard of peace. Screaming stop all ball crushing, eye bowling, arse puncturing, violence and war. Because. To be sure Cornelius that constant Christian himself is quite pleased to escape any such blood bubbling debacles.

  Slipped in the back entrance of the Game Club which is nicely situated in the shadows. A marble tablet in the gentleman's convenience says don't remove this like you've done everything else or you'll get your head broken. Stood in a crapper to recover a little breath and nonchalance. Present storm over. Comb hair in the mirror. Pat a bit of soap and water gently on the face. Stride out and down the marble hall. A wary eye for Vine. Cross the lobby. Earned a holiday. From the malapert and insolent. From all shabby inglorious rascality. From all bumptious bullying. And if you're lonesome strategising. To move honorably upwards. Into precious profit, luscious gain. And private peace. Have your ruses ready.

  Wavy grey haired bartender. Comes with lilting brogue and twinkling eye. To enquire ever so pleasantly of my frail requirement. In this low ceilinged softly lit room. Horses and hounds thunder by leaps and bounds on a mural over the bottles behind the bar. Beer I want. Please. In a tall cool glass. Take it golden and foaming to an oak table by the window. Sign my name and number. On a pink little paper.

  At a long table. Two white hatted chefs stand presiding. Over a baron of beef. A great side of ham. Sharpening knives. Cutting steaming slices. Laid so neatly out on your bread. Pick up your pickle and dig a little potato salad. Free of charge. To those who never hunger. Replace energy. Sit looking through this polished window at the lights changing. In this cathedral of a city. Where the skyscraper organ pipes trumpet. The tragedy and pain. Skin deep under the foolish alive forever smiles. All along Fifth Avenue. And I go and sit high up on the wind swept stone. To play the harp of great cables strung sweeping the gothic arches of Brooklyn Bridge. Trembling a music solemn and sad. For all those down deep and listening in their street walking sorrow. If the clatter, blast, clang and boom ever quiets. Hear me play. Melodious in the lull. Cornelius that Bronx and Brooklyn Christian. Orphaned by parents and wife. Fingernails strumming the singing cables. My hands Fanny Sourpuss said were so beautiful. When they're not ti
ghtening in these two knuckle hard justice givers. And now months ago. Seagulls were squawking over the water front. Tug boats nudging the great ship. When I came back to my land on a winter tide. All the waiting faces looking up. And even with my sorrow I thought they wanted me. Possessed of my little bag of beauty I had to bring. To awaken eyes just as I did those of Charlotte Graves. Who loved me first. When I was a little boy. And as she had said, you look so fine and gosh distinguished. I hoped that they would say grand, how splendidly you've changed. How lovely to have you back. And find them changed. And unlovely. Killing time in fear. Traitorous to any courageous voice.

  Waiter bringing Christian beer after beer. Till it was time to stand up. Murmuring one's most recent code. Do unto others as they would so treacherously delight to do unto you. George told me as I washed our instruments, of all the undetected murder that came to rest on the slabs. Not for rudeness but for lust, greed and even glee. And Clarance Vine said. Death alone is our domain. And we comfort. And we die and let die.

  Christian quaffing a last beer at the bar. Room crowded now with pin striped sportsmen and a laughing group of light footed badminton players. At the tables a sprinkling of graduates from the personal defence class. Trained to brave the sidewalk distance from doorway to limozine. Hop skip and jump before the addicts and muggers get you. And if they do. Flip the attacker on his skull and rub out his teeth with your toe. And for me. If only I could find one person to amaze. Without having to knock his god damn head off. Just go back down these beige marble steps. Face the portrait of an epeeist up on the wall. A tranquil vision of selfpossessed dignity. To encourage one onwards. Out through these bronze revolving doors. Towards a cool body. I can rapture upon.