No knock
No sound
No pounding feet
Climbing up his stair
17
On the chill wet grimy granite pavements. From this bleak comfortless street behind the station. Look back. The dim yellow glow of his bulb burning from the ceiling of Mr Arland’s room. Walk ahead under the train trestle. Carry a sorrow so close to despair. That makes the days ahead, deep black holes where one must step. This darkness here under the railway. The barred window. A light somewhere far within. Silhouetting the arches fading away into the gloom. Could be the bowels of death. Which so convolute in one’s thoughts. And Leila. That envelope propped on her chimney piece. Secret words speaking from another heart.
‘Hello.’
Making a fist to unleash flying behind him, Darcy Dancer gasping back from the window. This high pitched voice behind his shoulder. And at this face all asmile in the cold evening air, drop one’s arm in relief. A fur collared camel hair polo coat draped upon him. Golden buttons on a golden waistcoat peeking agleam in the lamp light. Tight jodhpur cavalry twill trousers. Yellow shirt. A bright orange tweed tie. An emerald green silk scarf flying from his neck. Long blond locks back over his shoulders. Tiny tufts of auburn beard high on these spanking red cheeks. Of none other than the Count Brutus Blandus MacBuzurand O’Biottus. Who has clearly just detached himself from a waving departing figure, whose rolling gait takes him disappearing around the corner at the end of the street.
‘I must first blow a kiss goodbye to my sailor before I kiss you my dear. Ah but now my dear previous pupil. Who so make me furious to teach you from the tradition of the great days of the Medici to dance that I must tear my hair out in agony. But my pretty, it is so nice to find it is you. I hope you are not spying. Or might you be one of us. And you are letting your hair down. O dear. You blush. But of course you must my dear. And not be like me without a shame in the world. You come from the quays have you.’
‘No indeed. I mean I’m not. I have not. Nor am I letting my hair down.’
‘Ah but you must, you must let your hair down. Let me find for you a nice American sailor whom you would find delicious off the ship which is full of such nice boys as well as ten thousand tons of coal, my dear.’
‘As a matter of fact Count, I’ve just come from visiting. Mr Arland. My tutor.’
‘Ah but my such pretty boy. Regardez moi. I execute le grand jeté pour vous. You need not make excuses to me.’
‘It’s not an excuse.’
‘But now. Let us see you. Do a simple pirouette en pointe. Ah but I embarrass you in the street my pretty. Watch. You see now arabesque penché en pointe.’
‘Count, if you don’t mind I do not like to be referred to in that manner. And I’m afraid I cannot dance.’
‘Ah but of course, of course. I would not dream to offend you. But you must not call me Count. So cold. So unfriendly. Brutus, please. And yes. I do remember so well that dear sad man. And the such terrible sadness of his lady. That such wonderful wonderful Clarissa, so gay, so carefree. Such joy to laugh with her. I always laugh with her. So jolly. But then. We must not dwell on death. We must dwell on the delight of how nice we meet in this neck, how do you say, of the woods. But I tell you now my good news my dear fellow. From Milano Italy comes my inheritance. Of course I still keep my little school. But no longer must I teach. Now I am rich again. So you must come to my party. Only the best people. Of course do not take notice of that sailor. We will have new nicer sailors. I do not mind if they are rough. I am stronger anyway. But I hate when they are too too coarse without the proper manners. And I do not invite him. But since you are not on your way to the gentlemen’s convenience around the corner, we go together to the Buttery. And then you must come with me to my party. And we should not any longer stand here to freeze to death on the street.’
Darcy Dancer keeping abreast of the rapidly striding feet of the Count MacBuzuranti. So lightfootedly gliding over the granite slabs. Executing attitudes allongées nearly en pointe à la Nijinsky off the kerb stones. Passing again the turrets of the Turkish baths. And the closed back gates of Trinity College. The dental hospital. The recent Elizabethan windows of this pub, Lincoln’s Inn. The big brass plate on the door, Mission to Lepers. Turn left up Kildare Street. The Count skipping up to the top step of my father’s club. And diving in a heart stopping attitude croisée to the street again. Thank god the shutters are closed on the windows. Hiding away the big blazing coal fires inside as well as club members’ eyes.
‘But my Darcy, you see it is so simple. And I waste my genius to teach you to dance in the big castle in the country. It is not only good for the body but the mind as well. And now you are so elegant, so tall, and so much more attractive you have become. So many of us, as the time too fast flies, are ugh, so unattractive. You come on Monday. I give you free lessons at my school dear boy.’
Darcy Dancer trotting to keep up. The Count O’Biottus flying through his repertoire. His head snapping back to shout olé over his shoulder, his scarf waving and his coat flapping like wings in the breeze. As he goes en pointe down Molesworth Street. A gang following. Of barefoot newsboys. Their open torn shirts, the worn out seats of their short trousers. Green thick phlegm seeping from their nostrils. As they clap laugh and cheer and chant.
‘Give us a penny mister. Do it again mister. Mister do it again. And give us a penny.’
The urchins’ awed ooos and ahs. The Count leaping from the porch of the Masonic Lodge. So Protestant and respectable. Doing a complete head over heels somersault through the air. Landing miraculously on his feet in front of his openmouthed audience. Thank god the Royal Hibernian Hotel is near ahead.