The Onion Eaters

by J. P. Donleavy

  ‘You chaps simply don’t have the poise for this kind of thing. Must keep high on the toes. Belly tucked in. Balls too. Easy Toro. Ha Toro. Of course you ruddy must make sure he knows he’s dominated.’

  Macfugger zigzagging backwards. Toro’s snarls of high pitched rage. The beast’s beige nose lowered to the cobbles hooking left and right pricked by Nails’ sword point. Lady Macfugger blowing her nose with a white hanky. We met in my dream by accident at a lonely airport. She stepped out of a small yellow airplane on the pale green grass. Strode up to me as I stood in a draughty shed. She said, I think we have something to talk about. At an inn in a brightly coloured suit she ordered lunch. Of asparagus, lobster, salad, hock, raspberries and cream. Across a lawn and roadway there was a row of clipped round poplar trees lining entrance gates to a castle with turrets peeking up behind greenery. After lunch her hand touched mine as we went down the flower carpeted stairs. To a dark back bar of the hotel. My heart thumping we sat on stools sipping port. She ordered four one after the other. Her teeth in the darkness. Gently slapping her riding crop against her thigh. Under the black of her jacket the white of her shirt and lace of an undergarment, her breasts. She said I would enjoy to get to know you better, I like your mind. I smiled she smiled. Her husband out there now where he might get killed. She said she liked men to assert themselves. My God Macfugger is cornered. Toro backing him up against the bars of a cellar window.

  Erconwald from a rampart lowering a small black ball suspended from the end of a long bamboo pole. Holding it swaying between Macfugger and Toro. The beast lifting it’s head sniffing, opening it’s sneering mouth and breathing in and out between its teeth and nosing after the bobbing sphere. As Macfugger looks up the castle wall.

  ‘My God, damn sporting of you to save my life like that.’

  Toro mute and lightly lacerated. His massive waddling walk as he follows Erconwald descending from the battlements. Out the yard gates beneath the archway and down the bramble path. Beyond somewhere to calm pastures. Charnel Castle inhabitants chewing the last of lunch watching after this magic display. Nails snatched from death by the hole making horns. Lady Macfugger might have become a widow. Playful and free.

  For

  Yours truly

  To ponder

  What one could do

  Up yonder

  In figments fiendish

  And much more

  Foolish

  With glee

  10

  Southwestwards from the octagonal room I watched on clear days the distant dark cycling dot of the postman approaching on the road. In sight on the hills, out of sight down dales. Spring bringing faint green to the wind stunted hawthorne trees. Sit over my tray of breakfast of coffee brewed from beans left each morning by the train at the crossroads. Dispatched with six loaves of bread and succulent barmbracks from an oriental café back in the capital. And charged by Percival to my staggering account.

  Midmorning’s activity stirred in the castle corridors with inhabitants groping in search of cigarettes. Franz raged back and forth across the great hall for two hours when Charlene threw away his jam jar of butts carefully collected from ash trays and grates from which he rolled new cigarettes of narcotic richness. Puffed while Erconwald awaited shipment of their usual asiatic herb. Charlene standing laughing as she told me the tale.

  ‘Sir he has the holy pictures gone and charts tacked up with writings and scribblings all over the walls. Gauges you wouldn’t know what they were to measure and ould lumps of rocks and hammers. When I found the jars of fag ends for decency’s sake I got rid of them. They had a smell that would knock you over. He’s in bed there of a morning and you couldn’t see him for the smoke with big maps propped up on his knees. I had to tell him what he could do with himself when he suggested a familiarity.’

  Mrs L K L’s concussion received fainting upon the ramparts gave her attacks of nightmare. During one of which she recovered sufficiently to cover her husband’s arse with weals from a malacca cane. But now lain for weeks abed corresponding with her solicitors. Who in turn addressed me concerning the spiritual disfigurement and moral maim resulting from her fall. Each morning waiting through the desperation. The slow approach of letters heading across the countryside. Agony creeping up the bowel. Just as spring is bringing breezes balmy.

  2 Culpability Buildings,

  Inns of Tort

  Charnel Castle

  Dear sir,

  We are in receipt of your attempt to sidetrack the issue of the injury done to our client by libelling our client’s husband with the groundless accusation of ‘attempting murder by the unlawful detonation of an explosive substance’. It is perfectly clear to us that the force of such a blast described would kill any witnesses present, therefore any such event if it did take place would be by its very nature without corroboration.

  We are aware of course that there are certain mitigations in the matter of damages and that you have provided food and lodging to our client and her husband. The sum asked in settlement is in our view trifling when one considers the cultural defacement of our client’s personality occasioned by her concussion. She can no longer recall paintings seen at some expense in the great museums.

  We regret to be informed that poisonous reptiles are kept at Charnel Castle and we would be obliged to hear at the earliest what measures are in force to protect our client. And there is further the serious matter of an attack by one of your guests in which lumps of scalp and hair were removed from our client’s head like divots from a golf course. We await your reply to these matters.

  Yours faithfully

  Bottomless Diddle

  Blameworthy and Dawn

  And one noontime a blue and red blanket over my lap and legs facing the fire as I nibbled cold lobster caught by Percival and sat uneasily over a castle account book, when he handed me a brown envelope from which I took a piece of wrapping paper scrawled with black crayon.

  From

  An abode

  Of decency

  In the district

  Dear sir or Occupier of the Castle,

  You are wondering why I write. Recently the goings on were much more than just filthy habits of idolators giving way to base motives of which the authorities (and medical officer of the County Council) would like to be informed. Did you know that you are being watched. Miss Ovary and that harlot Charlene have been long known whorers in the district having lifted aside clothing normally protecting morality and allowed disgusting favours to be indulged to the hilt by every impudent young cur in the district wandering crazed by impure desires. Do not think that it will be long before this wicked trespass on the path of virtue is brought to the attention of solicitors and others in the know who have the power.

  Well wisher In The Name Of Holy Purity

  P.S. And while the gentleman is at large who would defeat clean living by his carnal knowledge of barnyard fowl no chicken will roost in peace.

  ‘Now sir I wouldn’t want to be impertinent but there’s alarm all over your face.’

  ‘This letter Percival.’

  ‘Let us have a scrutiny. Ah now. What’s this. It do be a touch of the poison pen. There’s one writing in the area. Wellwisher is it. In the name of the Holy Purity is it. Take no notice sir. Miss Ovary and Charlene are ladies of the highest credentials. But now there is a lout loose beyond of the name of Padrick, to whom I’d say the P.S. refers. Saw him crouched not a minute ago under the willows near the cloisters there by the stream. In between the weeds he is waiting to take a slice off you with a hook. Carve up his granny by moonlight he would. Kick a beast to death. Or laugh shoving a crowbar in the eye of a wren. He keeps in trim smashing butterflies with a sledge. Didn’t he drive a team of horses up on an altar of a church smashing every type and shape of ecclesiastical object in sight. Ah but God sir he’s afraid of dogs. Sure you get one ankle high that would make him run for his life. And he’s an awful man for the women. Now sir I wouldn’t mention this save for the airing of it in th
e letter from the wellwisher. But it’s a fact that if he can’t have a ewe or a heifer he’ll have at a chicken. Sure everyone knows it for miles around. Now if you’ve a second I could show him to you in the flesh.’

  Down through stairwells and out a back passage to the cloisters. Percival leading a way through clumps of brambles and over black watery earth sprouting dock and nettles. That’s Clarence’s head bobbing high up along the stone wall. And dancing from tree to tree through the orchard. A misty rain falling. Glistening moistures on leaves and grass. Puffy light clouds cruising in from sea.

  ‘We should be in luck sir. If Padrick’s about Clarence is never far away. Adding I’d say first hand to his sexual knowledge.’

  Percival staying Clementine on the arm. A little incline and grassy mound surrounded by hawthorne, brambles and fuchsia. The sound of water. The boulder strewn brook. Percival crouching low beckoning. Pointing with a finger. A man big eared and dark haired leaning against a birch tree. Bushy brows over small glittering dark eyes. Sound of a female voice. Percival touching my arm.

  ‘Ah God sir I never thought I’d live to see this day. That’s Imelda. Poor unfortunate innocence. Having to do with the scurrilous likes of that impudence. Trespassing right into the castle. Be extra quiet now. Just over here we can get a good look without being seen or there’d be wild ructions and I’d be forced to give your man there a taste of me shod foot.’

  Imelda seated on a rock. Hob nailed boots peeking from under a long brown skirt. Percival and Clementine crouched hushed. Padrick legs crossed a long stalk of grass curving down from his smiling mouth. Battered hat pushed back on his head. A crescent of whiteness below his black hair above a weather tanned face. Imelda wrapped in a black shawl, teeth flashing as she giggled. Padrick pursing lips and frowning.

  ‘Ah now Imelda sure you know what a revelation is.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘And is it now you think I can’t give you one.’

  ‘That’s what I think. Sure that’s God’s business.’

  ‘Ah then suppose now instead of a revelation we call it a bit of hocus pocus.’

  ‘All tall talk.’

  ‘I will make an unveiling to you Imelda that you’ve never seen the likes of before. I have a tool upon me as can do tricks.’

  ‘Sure I know them fake tricks you see at the fair.’

  ‘Ah but it is a tool put upon me by the holy ghost.’

  ‘Sure what have the likes of you Padrick got to show me that the holy ghost wouldn’t show me if I asked in me prayers.’

  ‘Praying would get you no where now I’m telling you to see the likes of this thing on me as can change it’s size.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Tis true enough.’

  ‘More of your tall stories while the damp’s coming up through me from this rock.’

  ‘Wait till I show you now. Look away out there at the willow.’

  Imelda turning her head away. Her reddened cheeks and long black hair. Padrick unbuttoning his trousers. Putting in a big hand and taking out a long rigid white penis. A squawk of rooks flying low overhead and chatter of a pheasant away in the bush. Percival adjusting his monocle and staying Clementine on the arm.

  Imelda frowning. Staring back at Padrick hands on hips his tool twitching up and down. Sudden sunlight flashing pale across the grass.

  ‘What’s that thing atall coming out of you there.’

  ‘This is the thing Imelda as can do tricks and change its size.’

  ‘Is it.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘I am waiting then.’

  ‘It has got big now like this from being very small.’

  ‘You could tell me next now if I’d listen that you could grow the likes of that out of your ears.’

  ‘I haven’t shown it to you soon enough.’

  ‘You’re showing it to me now, isn’t that soon enough and where now are you changing the size. It looks the same size to me for the last minute.’

  ‘Put your hand there to it now for awhile and then it will change its size.’

  ‘Why would I put my hand to it, weren’t you changing its size yourself.’

  ‘Have you ever seen one of these before me Imelda.’

  ‘I have not.’

  ‘Then it is news to you.’

  ‘Sure it’s not news to me at all. What news would it be if I saw a pole sticking out of a hay cock.’

  ‘I can make it spit.’

  ‘Can you now. And maybe you can make it say the rosary too.’

  ‘Mind now don’t mention religion.’

  ‘Where’s its tricks. I’ve got to be back inside the kitchen or they’ll wonder where I’m gone.’

  ‘Ah now Imelda come here. Give it a pet. Coax it along and it will be spitting a white salty milk.’

  ‘What would I be wanting to pet it for. Can’t you make it spit. Wasn’t it you who said it could do tricks and me watching. It’s the same size now as it was when it was first staring at me.’

  ‘Sure as God will strike me dead if you give it a little pull like as you would a cow’s teat and there will come milk out of it.’

  ‘Next you will ask me to pull the handle of a shovel to get gold.’

  ‘Here now come closer. A bit more. So’s you can see the little shawl it’s got. Pulled over its head like a glove. Pull the shawl back like so and there now it is with its little pink head smooth as an eyeball. I could put it into you.’

  ‘Where would you be putting it into me. What kind of talk is that. Where would I have a thing like that put into me.’

  ‘Ah Imelda you have seven holes on you.’

  ‘And haven’t you got eight then yourself counting the one the holy ghost made in the top of your head to take your brains out.’

  ‘Put your hand to it.’

  ‘Why should I now. Is that all the trick you can show me.’

  Percival holding his finger across his lips for silence. Pulling Clementine back down as he tries to stand up. Moisture drops dripping from leaves and branches. Padrick with thumbs stuck under armpits swaggering forward tool wagging. A donkey braying. Across barren bog lands and muddy ditches. Imelda reaching out giggling touching the tip end of Padrick’s tool.

  ‘It’s rubber is it.’

  ‘The nature is confidential till you give this magician a chance and grab holt with a wrap around of your fingers there.’

  ‘It has veins.’

  ‘Hair at the roots as well. Take a good solid grip of it there now.’

  ‘How did you get that on you like the feel of warm flesh and blood.’

  ‘It would fool you wouldn’t it.’

  ‘Next you’ll be asking me to put a bit of salt on it and have it for me dinner.’

  ‘It’d do you no harm nicely nestled now between a couple of spuds. Would you eat it with salt Imelda. Would you be hungry enough to do that now. It’s a long time till tea. Go on there now. That’s your man. Pull away now.’

  ‘It’s a funny enough yoke all right. You’re not codding me now, will it spit.’

  ‘Will it spit. Ah God. Will it spit. The faster you pull there now the faster it will spit.’

  ‘Why don’t you pull.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be the same as a fair hand such as you’ve got nicely at it. Leaving me free to give full heed to the trick. Ah now. God. Pull. There. Pull. The trick is coming. Ah God Imelda don’t let go.’

  ‘It’s spitting. Messy white stuff.’

  ‘Keep holt.’

  ‘I will not. Sure it smells of something from down there by the sea.’

  ‘O bejabbers. Bejabbers.’

  ‘What’s wrong with you going on like you were fainting in a fit.’

  ‘Ah God Imelda to do a trick like that takes a lot of strength. I’m dizzy with it. Same as a man leaving you tottering after giving you a blow of a hammer in the back of the kneecaps.’

  ‘I think you’re a mental case. I’ve got some of it on me shawl.’

  ‘You’ll not breathe a w
ord of the trick to a living soul now will you Imelda.’

  ‘Sure if it was so special wouldn’t the likes of a layabout like you be showing off in a circus for prize money.’

  ‘Now if I tell you the trick was revealed to me by the holy ghost appearing from right there up out of the mound. He said by God keep it to yourself Padrick. He was a fine build of a feller. In a vision of disturbing beauty.’

  ‘That was no vision I was pulling and it was no holy water coming out of it either.’

  ‘O God you’ll have me ruined. Ruined.’

  ‘Will you stop dancing now like you were barefoot in purgatory. What’s wrong with you. And the size of your trick has shrunk.’

  ‘Keep your eyes off that.’

  ‘Only a minute ago you were panting telling me to pull on it.’

  ‘What’s that laughing.’

  ‘It’s not me I can assure you.’

  ‘I heard something. Over there beyond in the orchard.’

  ‘It’d be some old beast having a cough from worms.’

  ‘That’s laughter now. That I’m hearing. By God I’ll fix that.’

  Padrick buttoning and hitching up trousers. Tying tight the twine around his coat. Heading out crashing through the briars and up over the wall. The shadow of Clarence loping like a kangaroo beyond the trees. And speedily upwards into the grey veils of mist hanging on the mountainside. Pursued by Padrick roaring.

  ‘I’ll break every last bone in your body youse.’

  Two figures hurtling away feet throbbing on the rabbit clipped grass. Imelda spitting on her shawl and wiping the white stain with her knuckles. A grey blue sad beaked heron flaps up into the sky. Flying somewhere to spear up more fish. Away from the roars of this recent holy ghost.

  Amuck

  Now in the heathers

  Footpoundals ablast

  Wagging

  His whopper

  Softly

  At last