The Onion Eaters

by J. P. Donleavy

  A curly haired gentleman in a raincoat smiled. Standing near me in sympathy. I nodded and he bowed. He was naked from the knees down. Pawned all his clothes the previous morning for a sure win on a horse. Which beat everything in sight but ran the wrong way on the track. And left him incarcerated in his flat. Till three a.m. when he could get out barefoot without being seen for a walk around town. He asked me if I had a dark pair of shoes I could lend him for a funeral. Where he was certain of a loan.

  The smoke thick. Dust swirling. Mini Monk urging guests not to give up. That the odds got better towards dawn. I departed hearing a voice pleading behind a closed door. Give me your body before someone else spoils it.

  Climbing up into daylight. Wandering the quays past the moored ships. Arriving after a cup of coffee bleary eyed at the bank. To borrow the fare to get home. Mr Oboe said it was unfortunate my castle burned down. And loans to rebuild or travel were difficult at the moment since yesterday But perhaps when I’d supplied further and better particulars of the amazing thickness of the walls or the distance to be travelled he would see what he could do. I stood taking my departure backwards.

  Now Bloodmourn smiles. He said although no one knew it, it was a holiday the whole world over. He felt it in the bones. And with just a little rummage in his sports jacket he’d find some spare spondulicks. Now in the abyss was the time to spend. Run up credit with abandon. The increased turnover made everyone feel secure. And he rapped on the floor with a cane. And tapped on the bar with a coin.

  A grey covering the sky. Between these commercial buildings and banks to walk a haunted road. As it goes West. Bloodmourn a few hurried paces ahead. Tickling himself with his fingers. Skipping in little steps. Waiting at the bottom of a hill. Over which we must climb. Hoping to find on the other side white tables spread with condiments. To go skating over. Carving off slabs of beef sublime.

  ‘Bloodmourn I’m hungry.’

  ‘Clementine. Soon there will be time for that. Give me your blind demeanour and stop all that dementia and doubt.’

  Over a cobbled road. A detour down hill past a park, prison and hospital. A railway station. Where the castle goodies from abundant emporiums were loaded on the train. And where Bloodmourn insisted for the sake of light travelling that my gladstone bag go by freight. He is very flat on the back of the head. A big brow. Keeps mumbling pop off into top hole. Everytime he stops in his tracks, to coax me onwards west.

  ‘Come Clementine. It’s not far.’

  Each public house entered to study the architecture of the bar. And the facial qualities of the inmates. Bloodmourn patiently awaiting my hesitation under the sign, licensed to sell spirits and tobacco to the public. Grinning out a little smile.

  ‘Come Clementine. Once through and back out again fast.’

  Three hours to cover one hundred and thirty two yards. Bloodmourn said that’s the speed it takes to cut a social swath. And make conviviality with the natives. Get to know their quaint customs. Delight to their carefree buffooneries. Never slouch. Always spin twist and twirl. Laugh at a laugh. Smile at a smile. Accumulate a fact. Show shock at a fiction. In short take a moment to keep calm for a while. And pop. Off. Into top hole. With the utmost devastating rapidity. And stay there. In that lofty glad position.

  The last of a bleak red sun sinking. Below pink faint strands of cloud. All strung across the sky. The great gates of a park. Up along a curving road through plantations of trees. A lonely monument sticking high. The darknesses creep. The afternoon dies. Cattle grazing. The two figures following one another along the road. Bloodmourn said the latter day chaps had taught him a lot. Which added to some of the things he already knew. Borrow big lend small. And beat it later. If you have to.

  ‘Clementine I will tell you something. I have a wife and three little children. She is a nice wife. They are good little children. To say I did not regard them fondly would be heresy. Someday I will come to them with an armful of presents. Heaped all over. It may not make them like me. But for a moment at least they’ll think I’m big time. I know the pitfalls. I can tell you. You are just starting out. Listen to me. Then you will know.’

  Bloodmourn with hands quietly folded across his stomach. Moving along the byway. Tiny lightening steps. Clementine lagging behind. Breaking into a trot. Catching up. Walking briefly at the heels of Bloodmourn. Till he slowly pulled away again. A nervous hurrying figure into the distance.

  Ahead low hills. A village and row of houses. Another ochre coloured licensed premises by the side of the road. To catch up Bloodmourn as he waits smiling at the entrance. A pint of plain in his hand.

  ‘You are doing much better Clementine. I see great improvements. Note only the top half of my porter is consumed. Previously I have managed to down a whole pint. Ah you are tired. Are you not.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It will be worth it. There is a lot you have to face on the other side of this land. And you must not be lacking in fortitude. By pressing on. We build up that commodity. Till we have a lot. To waltz through a whole new avalanche of calamities.’

  ‘What do you do for blisters.’

  ‘Change socks. Right to left. Left to right. We are seafaring blokes. But we will make it. Now. Just stand here. Look. See. The highway straight all the way to the horizon.’

  Ahead two distant houses. Facing each other across the road. Pass between them in a crossfire of eyes. A figure lurches out. A little dot staggering and weaving.

  ‘It’s haunted out there Bloodmourn.’

  ‘That is because there are not enough humans to fill the silence. Just follow me. We go.’

  The last glimmer of light. A donkey and a cart outside a thatched roofed pub nestled low between two hills. Unseen till Bloodmourn smiled. And awaited my sore footed limping arrival. Pointing a finger downwards into the dell.

  ‘There now Clementine. A cosy refuge. Come.’

  Under a low smoky ceiling. Damp dark interior. A tinted picture of a purple mountain rearing behind a lake. An oil lamp flickering on a mantelpiece. A turf fire smouldering. Man standing at the bar his hand gripped around a dark pint. Battered hat with the rim down over his ears and eyes. I sit on a barrel. Dangle the feet. Wait. A half hour. A woman comes. Pulls the pump, fills the glasses and departs. Bloodmourn giving toast to the gentleman at the bar.

  ‘Good luck.’

  ‘Good luck.’

  The dark coated figure draining half his glass. Putting it slowly back on the oak planking. Raising his chin and staring over a right shoulder at a corner of the ceiling. His strange calm chanting voice rising.

  ‘O the captain said to me in great confidence. He said to me in great awe. I do be hearing the sound of waves he said. Are we still far from shore.’

  Bloodmourn staring down upon his entwining fingers. A wind blows smoke down the chimney. A beast moos out on the land. Bloodmourn bowing. Glasses raised and emptied once more. The woman comes in. Pulls the pints and is gone again. I feel my blisters and see blackness out the tiny window. Bloodmourn whispers.

  ‘Clementine this man knows something. It would be madness to go further on the road. And leave wisdom behind.’

  ‘For god’s sake hurry up and ask him so we can go.’

  Bloodmourn advancing to the bar. Outside a bicycle goes whirring by. A silent toast. Glasses up. The creamy liquid goes down. Man tilting his hat back on his head. Bloodmourn making a greeting.

  ‘Good evening.’

  ‘Good evening sir.’

  ‘It’s a nice evening.’

  ‘Tis that sir.’

  ‘It’s a fine pint.’

  ‘Tis that sir too. Tis the only thing. I’ve tried everything else. I took my time over the years. I had a farm there not half a mile away. I was out on a hot day with a scythe in the fields. I went to the hedge and looked down the road. I sold the hay. And came in here to this. Till I’d drunk all the money away. I’d go back then. Be there digging a ditch. And it wouldn’t be long till I’d be taking a look down the road. And I s
old me field. And came back to this. I took a wife. Tried being a married man. It wasn’t a month till I looked down the road again and got rid of her. And came back to this. I sold me stock one by one, bullocks, cows, pigs and sheep. Sold me every field. And came back to this. Right here on this spot I’ve sailed the seas. Travelled where there have been lights and people. Seen all the wonders happening up there in the corner of the ceiling. With no need for any other creature save me donkey and cart. Only thing I have left after my horse died. I loved him every bit as much as I love meself. Rode him at night across the fields. As hard as he would go. Mile beyond mile. Under the moon. I rode him and rode him. Till the poor powerful animal fell down dead. And I wept. And I came back to this. A pint of plain is your only man.’

  Midnight bells tolling. Bloodmourn buying bottles of stout from the silent woman. Stuffing them in pockets and under armpits. Making ready for the road. While your man of the many pints of plain stepped out and fell lying in a heap on the back of his little cart. And the donkey trotted away up the hill in the dark.

  Headlights of a car sweeping across the night. Bloodmourn raising his hand. An automobile stopping. Door opening. Gentleman said step in. I sat in the back. Bloodmourn in the front. Where he could conduct the passing of little pleasantries. As we rolled along. And every mile or so one heard a pop. Might be Bloodmourn going off into top hole. As he twitches nervously in his seat. And the car owner turns to look at him.

  At village signposts Bloodmourn said yes we should be pleased to go that way too. The driver talking about the labouring classes. Who were doing better than they deserved these days. He was a salesman of gent’s high class undergarments. Happy to be of assistance in aiding two respectable stranded travellers. Another pop. Each louder and getting closer to an explosion. A quiver, the vehicle wavering and wobbling as the gent gets a grip on himself to steer a steady course again. To hopefully find a light somewhere. To see what was going on.

  A crossroads. Man waiting asking Bloodmourn cautiously which way did he want to go. Because he wasn’t going that way too. Bloodmourn’s efforts to look good, fading. His door opening. We pile out along with the flooding liquid. And a cascade of corks. Popped from foaming bottles.

  The two vagrant figures by the side of the trail. Gent leaning wide eyed from his automobile in approaching car lights. To grab his door. And slam it shut. Shattering the window. To roar off down the road. Followed by a quiet Bloodmourn murmur.

  ‘You ubiquitous fuckpig.’

  Don’t you

  Ever

  Find my face

  Familiar

  Again

  Or I’ll

  Break yours

  18

  Bloodmourn soaked in stout. Armpit to ankle. Dripping the universal visceral solvent from knee caps. Undaunted at the side of the road.

  The night chilly. A wind in tall poplar trees. By big iron gates to a country house. Lost on these flat lands. Shadow of hedgerows rearing. Sound of mystery across the night. The two transients drain the residue of bottles. Waiting these hours till another car dawns down the highway. Full of gentlemen and ladies. Roaring from a wedding. They said.

  Bloodmourn and Clementine invited sitting in the back, a lady each on the lap. The remaining gents in the front dishing out female comfort and hospitality. Of giggling and wiggling crinoline couched arses. Necks entwined with baubles. Sweet perfumes in under the hair. Jostled and bounced. Engine whining. A hand on my hand. To take it up and press across her tit. Thrilled by proximity. Fanned by the sparks. Of laughter, lipstick and smouldering farts. It wasn’t me. It was Bloodmourn. Or one of them. Stinking us out.

  Windows opened. The ladies clean cut as they were simple. Both with minds like a bank. Asking if we were rich between the kisses. Till the driver’s voice was heard.

  ‘That has gone far enough back there.’

  The motorist turning to see how far was enough. His friend grabbing the wheel. A bump. A swerve. A flash of light. Branches of trees scratching past the window. The whole caboodle turning up on its side. Wheels spinning and horn honking. Clinging women screaming. My face softly sunk between two breasts. Feel a squeeze on the balls and a muddy ooze creeping over my arm.

  Bloodmourn taking command. Ordering the occupants to sit tight. Dishevelled in their garb. He would get help. While they waited. Arse deep in bog. And led me back on the road. To vault a field gate on the other side. Said let’s get out of here. At speed. Shoelace deep in cow flop. Across the endless darkness. Through the brambles beyond. To cover our tracks centuries deep in the hinterland.

  Bloodmourn digging out a hole in a cock of hay. Both of us crawling in to lie there. Listening. To a cry called out again and again in the distant night.

  Are you suited

  Elsewhere yet

  Speak to me Maggie

  Are you suited

  Elsewhere yet

  Till cawing crows brought dawn. And we crept out to daylight on the side of a hill. Surrounded everywhere by fields. A mist across low lands. A sun shining above. A touch of warmth on face and hands. Clothes crusty and stale with stout. Hunger rumbling in the stomach. The feet wet and cold.

  ‘Good morning Clementine. I spy a cottage with a spiral of bacon smoke sneaking into the sky. Breakfast will be soon. Don’t you like this countryside. This peace. To pop. Off. If you like. Into top hole.’

  Bloodmourn ordering me ahead up the pebbled path under a bower of roses to knock on the door. Peeling white-washed walls holding up an overhanging thatch. A curtain twitching. All silent inside. Bloodmourn approaching. Rapping once. Raising his voice.

  ‘Hello there. We’re weary travellers. Come great distances. It is but the merest slaking of our thirst we seek.’

  The wry countenance of Bloodmourn. Brows knitting above the eyes. Knocking once more. Waiting. A chicken scurrying round the corner of the cottage. The honk of a pig. Followed by a shout from Bloodmourn as he unleashed a frenzy of kicks against the door.

  ‘Bring water to us weary travellers out here this instant or I’ll break and possibly enter your primitive premises.’

  The upper half door opening. An old wizened face shrouded by a head of grey hair. A black shawled woman narrowing eyes to see in the bright light. The two waiting figures. The top half of the door closing. Bloodmourn advancing forward. Drawing back a foot for a kick. As the lower half of the door opens. To pour out three snarling tiny dogs. Sailing open mouthed for the ankles of Bloodmourn and Clementine. As they turn heel. To sprint down the pebbled path and leap one after another the white wooden gate under the bower of roses. To the safety of the road.

  ‘Damn mutt tore a piece out of my grey flannels. Unsporting little old witch.’

  ‘You were kicking her door down.’

  ‘I was merely demonstrating one’s urgent thirst.’

  Along the smooth surfaced road. Softened by a noon day sun. Bloodmourn taking up a rapid lead. Across the flat sour lands of bog, heather and gorse. The distant white of a cottage over scraggly fields. A heron flapping greyly. A stone bridge and little stream. Where Bloodmourn sits dangling legs. And trout gently weave as they lurk in the shadows.

  ‘Bloodmourn I’m hungry and tired. I wish you wouldn’t walk so fast.’

  ‘See. Fish. Right there. A most reliable source of food. Make a hook from a pin. Few threads from a cloth attached to a piece of willow. And bob will be your rudd.’

  Sun sinking far faster than yesterday. Bloodmourn dangling his long line of shirt tail threads over the water. One lost cow walked past mooing on the road. Bloodmourn interrupting fishing to stalk her. Attempting to grab a teat between her flashing hooves. For a mouthful of milk.

  ‘Bloodmourn can’t we just reach a town and get a meal.’

  ‘We’re broke. But the will to live still burns brightly. Just a little spot of colour on this hook. And it will soon be yummies for tummies. Fish are uncontrollably inquisitive you know.’

  Light fading. Bloodmourn with a last cast of his willow branch. A
s one leans dazed on cold elbows. First whiff of evening chill on a breeze. Bracken rustling. The blood curdling call of a donkey. With a dram of distillate could raise a fever to run raping and plundering the countryside. Start off with this war cry just uttered from Bloodmourn’s lips.

  ‘Ahhhhhhhhhh.’

  A splash. Bloodmourn chest deep in the water. Wading towards shore. Climbing out over mossy boulders. Silently dripping. As he drags after him his bent wire hook. Up through the dock weed, stinging nettles and tall needle pointed grass. To stand shoeless in mud slathered socks.

  At a fork in the road a weary Clementine and a soaked Bloodmourn bore left. To confound the gods. After a long elbow deep oozing dig to find the shoes. And later stand stunned as a series of automobiles passed each driven by a woman smoking a cigarettte. The moment of mirages has set in. Do not ask Bloodmourn did you see that too. In case he has. Then both of us are finished. And need to pray. Please dear god stop us from being incurable. Just wrap us up in warmth and friendship. Make us more remembered than forgotten.

  ‘Clementine. I’ve read my naval survival book from one end to the other. This terrain is easy. It’s the mangrove and coral reef you’ve got to watch. The tundra and the desert. Here food surrounds us. But first a fire.’

  Bloodmourn running a stick back and forth in a groove. Many blisters later smoke rising in the tinder. Leaves and twigs gathered. Flames ascending. As night settles. Over this grove of trees just in off the road. And Bloodmourn goes in search of food. As I wait by the orange glow. The strange whirrings. Cyclists steam by. Cloaked in darkness.

  Bloodmourn stumbling back to the camp fire with an armful of turnips. Brusrdng off the caked soil and sinking teeth into the dense spicy fibre. Waiting for the cold substance to bump down the throat and lay coldly curled in the stomach. To the sound of a whistle blown out across the fields. With a strange distant music and glow on the horizon.

  ‘Clementine. That light must be a metropolis. Full of sausages, bacon, tomatoes, arse and eggs. I shall make for it. You wait here.’