The Beastly Beatitudes of Balthazar B

by J. P. Donleavy

  The motor came, and changed and packed we piled in. The waving heads from the window. A last picture taken against a drain and bars of a fence. Beefy said Balthazar she is really beautiful but don't give her too much all at once. Wait till she likes it and then by God you can feed it to her like honey. She'll eat it and love it. He said the Violet Infanta was playing hard to get. But he was rogering items in between. He blew a kiss and said give my saucy regards to Dublin. And lastly yelling in the window as we pulled away. I won't be wiped out by the phenomenon of natural selection but shall triumph as the fittest with the fattest inheritance.

  The train was delayed pulling out of Euston. A derailment, and widespread fog covering the Midlands. With smash and grab burglars emptying shop windows over the same area. Beefy said there is no criminal class as ready as the English to swing into action when the weather is ripe. Millicent wanted to know what was in the parcel Beefy gave me with such a smile. I said the first thing that came into my head, chewing gum. And when I looked and reflected on the two hundred and eighty eight condoms I was rather flattered. But a little mystified by the two dozen black ones found enclosed.

  The night full of flashing light, twisted grey pipes of fac-326 tories. By biscuit makers and piggeries and the shimmer of the canal. We pulled into Liverpool utterly late. Between the black sweating sooty walls. And missed the boat to Dublin. I felt everyone must know I carry all the French letters I do. Millicent looking up from her magazine in our first class compartment. As I looked at my watch. And she turned without a smile and said, you clot.

  The grim bleak black station. The train emptying. Carts stacked high with mail. The smoking sighing locomotives and sulphurous smells. Liverpool covered in mist. A soft droplet rain staining footpaths with black sooty prints. Millicent in her all pale blue and pink. The great wide shady hat on her head. Sitting with teeth clenched on our stack of luggage. I phoned the Adelphi Hotel, sorry sir, all booked up. I phoned and phoned and the answer always the same. The strong midget professorial porter finally said he knew of a place. And a propos of nothing at all Millicent said that the announcement of the wedding in the paper had brought an avalanche of filthy literature and contraceptive advice. With my religious and gentlemanly feelings I was desperate to please. I said Fd get a taxi.

  Up the dark grim cobble stone street. A wasteland of blackened rooftops and crazy chimney pots. In the shadows a dying plant in its flowerpot on a square foot of front garden before this house with a green door. Bed and breakfast, clean and select. In view of my wedding night I was glad it was both of these things. At the end of this long narrow hall a balding man eyes me rather suspiciously. Forge on, chilled hungry and begrimed, it hardly matters. Yes I have a double room for two. I said would he mind I would just go back and ask my wife. Just outside the door.

  "I'm not going in there."

  "Millicent everywhere is booked."

  "You're such a clot, my God."

  "Please it's just for tonight."

  "Do you think I'm going to go into that place."

  After much tugging. Embroidery and sheer fatigue. She moved. Up the steps, one by one. Standing tall, her elegant legs silhouetted against the wet glimmering street. The man standing ahead of me in this barren green walled hall. His grey cardigan buttoned. A blueish cloth knotted at his throat. Raising his hand and putting his head to the side as he peered at Millicent. Her heels clicking on the floor, her head rearing with disdain. Outside the taxi pulled away. The landlord leaning forward, putting his hands on his hips.

  "Ere ere now, there'll be none of that now. None of that in this ere house. I keeps a respectable premises and there'll be none of that ere."

  "I beg your pardon."

  "Don't you beg my pardon. There'll be none of that kind of goings on in my hotel. Plenty of them kind of places down on the docks the bottom of the hill for that kind of caper."

  "I beg your pardon."

  "O yeah, sure you do. You'll beg my pardon too when I lose my licence for keeping a disorderly house."

  "This lady here is my wife."

  "I've heard that one before."

  "And I have a marriage licence to prove it. Furthermore I would have thought you'd take more care than to risk slandering callers at your guesthouse."

  This grey skinned man retreating silently for a key. I couldn't believe my own ears at my forceful say. Just as one wanted to run. Millicent's eyes wide with fascination, when one would have thought it might have been umbrage. We climb up two flights of stairs. Into a square green walled room, two electric converted gas mantles on the wall. Yellow and blue triangles across the linoleum floor. To shut the door and put a chair up against the knob. Millicent standing in the middle of the room absolutely still. I say things to her and she refuses to speak. My bag with the two gross of French letters left behind checked in the station. I thought all the way up on the train that I might try one of those coloured black. Just for size.

  The lights left burning. All the night. Millicent after two hours leaning against the wall condescended to sit on a chair, hat on, wrapped in her coat. I sat fully clothed, elbows resting on my knees and my head in my hands in the center of the bed. To finally lie backwards and fall asleep. To dream of the brown envelopes on the floor of Crescent Curve when first I came back there from Paris. And pink envelopes started to fall and cascade down the stairs. Building up around me as I stood. I had Fitzdare's photograph in my hands. Which shook as I said Elizabeth. To see her small smile across her lips and the soft waves flowing back from her hair. The beads of light in her eyes shining like the beads of her pearls. When the clouds were grey and blue. Across the morning breezy sky of Fermanagh. Stood there. Seeing. Racing along the green edge of the sparkling lough. In that morning crystal air, the earthly God forbidden splendour of Elizabeth Fitzdare. And the words I hear.

  'Take me out of here."

  Millicent in the same position on her chair. One long leg folded over the other squeezing out a curving mound of flesh. A long hacking coughing and upheaving coming through the wall of the next room. Sound of water draining and a toilet flushing. The lids droop on Millicent's eyes and she snaps awake again. I must go and take an urgent and desperate pee.

  "Did you hear what I said. I said take me out of here."

  "Yes. I will. Just excuse me. I must go to the water closet. I'm sorry."

  Down this hall past a door. Inside the springs of a bed rustily squealing. Pushing the latch on this broken water closet I cut my finger. And held it coagulating between the open crack of window. The morning light and foggy air. Back ends of houses and garbage strewn yards. A window lit. A girl stands spreading something on a piece of bread with a knife. She is pretty and sharp bosomed in a moss green sweater. Takes up a kettle in her hand. My pee comes out. Lean further towards the crack to see. And she's seen me. Makes a rude gesture with her fingers. Pulls a tattered curtain across the window. Send her an apology on my calling card. Tell her about the whole horrid mess because of derailment and fog. You girl, buttering your bread. I was only standing peeing. The morning after my wedding night. My soul strewn with a simple little hope to please my wife. My prick in my hand. From which I shake the last drops. And they go, with my tears down my cheeks. Into the toilet bowl.

  Among these breakfasting figures I pushed a tray along a self service rail. Had coffee, two sausages, bacon and egg. Gritty around my collar. Greasy round the egg. Face feeling stiff with sleeplessness and grime. Millicent sat across the table and refused to eat. And after silence through the morning she spoke as we sat amid hotel palms for tea,

  "Who is Fitzdare."

  "Fitzdare."

  "Yes. You were shouting it out in your sleep. And you writhed. It was quite horrid to watch."

  As the ship cut through the water. And at dawn Dublin loomed in the west. I never said who Fitzdare was. Ten o'clock last night rung high up on the Royal Liver Building shaking the great birds atop held against the wind. The dark heaving pier. I had two bottles of stout in the bar
before I went to bed. Millicent in the top bunk. The ship hitting a bit of rough sea. I undressed falling about the cabin. I was trying to find the ladder up to her bunk. My pole so hard I thought it would break. Feeling exposed and awkward when it waves about. Apologise and explain that it did it when least I knew why and often when I was only counting money. To now take it with me wagging up step by step to kiss her on the cheek.

  "Get your drunken hands off me."

  She reached out and shoved me on the shoulder. I fell from the ladder with a crash. And lay in silent naked agony. A terrifying pain across my shoulder and down my arm. Waking in a cold sweat in the dawn of this lower berth. The path of death so well worn by the many gone before. The brown plastic ventilator in the ceiling. Lifebelts in racks over the top bunk. A brass vomit bowl and a white chamber pot. Catching my breath with pain. Struggling to look out the porthole. The sea calm. A dredger, grey and still. Dublin lies flat and ahead, hills rising out around her. The Sugarloaf beyond Dalkey. The sky all faint blues. A squat row of the little houses as the ship turns round. Down those alleys went Beefy in all his degrees of devilment. See a pair of great iron hooks and the cables winching in the bows. Ships. The Manta. Netta from Rotterdam. The Glenbridge from Dublin.

  An ambulance was called to the ship. I was lifted out on a stretcher staring at the sky. Millicent said she was red faced with embarrassment and all the French letters were confiscated. At the red brick hospital over the Grand Canal bridge. They said I had a broken collar bone.

  But one

  Day

  Soon

  I would

  Be well

  Again.

  26

  Crescent Curve was awake festooned from attic to basement aflow with flowers. Carpets laid, cupboards and shelves fitted. Sideboards and suites of bedroom furniture. All lavender waxed and ordered by Millicent's mother and the bill sent to me. To await the arrival after the honeymoon. As one listened being taken on a tour of one's own house.

  "In our way of life Balthazar a wife always has her own bed and dressing room. Then there's a time and place for everything."

  My shoulder was just but out of its cast. After a few weeks of married life. Three weeks in Dublin. Where there had been the French and Irish Rugby match during our stay. I tried to smile winningly over my injury. As the French players swarmed about one's wife. Saying in their language to her as she smiled back. My God what a glorious cunt she is, how can we get rid of the husband who looks like a crippled English peer. And as I whitened and tightened my lips they licked theirs at the sight of Millicent. And shook their heads at the sight of me.

  A Friday lunch I saw Beefy. Up in the top of Fortnum's. I walked in. Having strolled from Knightsbridge. To find him seated there. Resplendent in his lift operator's uniform, with a general's lapels. The world so balmy. The sun slashing through trees and streets. And he could tell that I carried a tale.

  "My God Balthazar, you're thinnish. You must eat more. Dog food, that's where all the nourishment is these days in England. The selected meats, liver, vitamins and minerals. Honest nourishment at an honest price. Choice lean beef finely chopped with proteins. I take a tin a day. But my God Balthazar, what's the matter."

  "Beefy. I don't quite know how to put this. Millicent and I have not yet cohabited."

  "Good grief. Let's order lunch."

  "My collar bone broke at the first try. Been in a cast ever since. But now I'm out. She doesn't seem to want me."

  "Mandamus her. To commit the act"

  "I couldn't do that."

  "Then annul for God's sake. Annul."

  "Do you think so."

  "Get your trustees on to it. If you don't annul now you condone, you could be trapped celibate for the rest of your life."

  "But I don't want to annul. That's a legal step and I somehow feel her mother would shout awfully loudly in court."

  "Has she seen it."

  "Seen what."

  "Your tool, your private member. I mean does she hold it in horror or disbelief. Is she distressed at the sight of it."

  "I don't know."

  "Did she scream when she saw it."

  "No. I think I may have when I fell. Is this usual in a marriage."

  "But of course, I mean there are some who haven't laid hand to each other in all their years. Often makes for permanent unions. You mustn't worry. First thing is to get you some dirty literature and have it around the house. Few of these filthy books. You know the sort of thing, Lola stood there as the bishop or butler advanced his sheath upon the shaft well drawn back from the rosy knob of his stiff passion. Older members of the club who don't want to be bothered stimulating the wife often just throw her one of these tomes in the dressing room. Twenty minutes before dinner is served is thought to be a ripeish time. Millicent might just pick it up and get carnal minded."

  "Isn't that a little distasteful."

  "It's abominable but you must. I know a shop. Good chaps. Specialists. Answer your needs in a hurry. A portfolio of the male nude may be your man. In the usual erected poses. Hate to bring up nationalities but you know how you French chaps wear white gloves so not to leave fingerprints on your pricks. Well, such photos throw English women into uncontrolled fits of passion. Buck up Balthazar. Fm now tying the last little strings on the Violet Infanta. We've decided to live at the Ritz. When I shall like any other civilised human being be able to spend my afternoons at the usual auctions. Chippendale's cheap at the moment. My trustees are delighted by my prospects. But you know I miss work on the building site. Good chaps to a man. There was a Padrick from Tipperary. Wore a chefs cap while on the job. He employed his culinary deftness he said in mixing the cement into which I always took a pee. He could fart in unison with the pneumatic drill. And goose one with the mechanical digger. I mean he could make it dance, there he was in the glass operator's cubicle playing the sticks and levers like a prodigy. He'd dig a hole into anything. Down into gas mains, electric cables, nearly every day there'd be an explosion, like open warfare. Ah but you Balthazar, you will overcome."

  And parting at Piccadilly on that sunny afternoon, Bal-thazar B sped to Knightsbridge by tube. To attend a fortnightly visit to the chiropodist with nail trimming and foot massage. Later leaving the male nudes and one volume of dirty literature carelessly in Millicent's pink walled dressing room. On the afternoon of the Palace Garden Party five days later, she asked me before leaving with her mother, a propos of nothing at all, did I ever do anything sexual with other boys at school. In a black chiffon dress and an enormous black straw hat against her silken tan, she said do come and pick me up.

  One was mystified by the faintly scheming way she looked. I walked the afternoon slowly down through Green Park. The rows of cars all lined up. A loudspeaker calling them one by one. I stood by the Palace gates. The crowds of commoners standing aside to let through the chauffeured cars. The splendour and elegance passing by. Top hats, monocles, ebony canes and fluttering tails. Silks and hues and flowing veils. And many many pearls. And finally Millicent grim with fury. Where was the car to come in and pick her up. What did I mean by leaving her to this disgrace. And I suddenly said shut up.

  There was silence on this warm evening as we walked towards home. Up Constitution Hill, the Palace tinted crowds thinning through Belgravia. Their high heels, wide hats and powdered noses. Puffs of low white clouds. A westerly wind blowing a smell of new mown grass across the fresh green of the park. Along Grosvenor Crescent, the pillared porches, the high walls painted cream. Across Belgrave Square and through an empty echoing West Halkin Street. And one took comfort from the calm mellow brick of Knightsbridge where the moss lies quietly between the paving stones.

  In my little study off the drawing room I went to check through my cellar book and enter newly arrived wine. And as usual to stack up and count the bills. Pouring in from Fortnum's and Harrods. From dress and shoe shops up and down Bond Street. And Millicent came in. Walked over as I sat with my pencil and paper weights. She gave me a litt
le push and I drew back.

  "How's the shoulder."

  "I think it's fine."

  "Come upstairs."

  "What for."

  "Don't ask me questions. Just come upstairs."

  I climbed up the stairs following Millicent into her pink and blue bedroom. Reviewing in my mind the legal interpretation of the presentation of one's member. Private and erect. To the spouse present and duly open eyed. In this so silent house. There were couples sunning on the grass in the park. Others wrapped in arms. Millicent's wide black garden party hat on her dressing table. Two foot stack of magazines by the bed. And she in her stockinged feet. The big blue diary next her telephone. Booked every day for lunch and tea and all the fashion shows. She pulls the curtains across on the window. Complained of the man across the street spying with binoculars. She could see the lens gleaming behind leaves of a plant he grew for camouflage. And I had walked in upon her once having a bath, to get a piece of her Paris soap. And she clutched her arms across her breasts and said get out of here. I made believe as I paused in the mirror that I was examining my eyebrows for dandruff. I had spent that day watching the men from Harrods come and go. With the latest samples in materials. Her mother brought friends to see our curtains and view the bathrooms, all four, and our big fat towels. Milli-cent's glass shelves covered in bottles of scent, her wardrobe full of shoes, handbags and scarves. And I sat staring at my laundry frayed cuffs, my missing buttons and holes in my socks. A man came to do her hair. And meals arrived from a restaurant. When one evening more than anything else in the world I wanted chicken kedgeree and rhubarb crumble. I asked her to make it. She just looked at me and said how dare you be so thoughtless and cruel. Now she looks at me, and is taking off her clothes.

  "Balthazar we'll go into your bedroom so we don't upset my bed."