In a turf smoke scented drizzle of rain, a procession of little groups arriving outside this narrow red brick Georgian building down Duke Street. A brass sign over the letter opening. The MacBuzuranti School of Ballet. Red curtains drawn over the lighted windows. Sound of throbbing music. Climbing up these narrow stairs. The walls ashake and banister trembling. The voice of the Count O’Biottus himself on the top landing receiving.
‘Come, come up my dear nice people. And into my office. One and all. Welcome.’
Into the small sea of old familiar faces. Squeezed tight against each other. The wheaty fragrance of Irish whisky. The musky smell of hemp. Stout bottles upending pouring down the throats. The Count’s portraits of the Popes one remembers from another address near Molesworth Street. And smack between these supreme pontiffs of the holy Roman Catholic Church, Lois’s massive stark raving nude portrait of the Count.
‘Take no notice my dear people of me in the altogether. Even though my body is so beautiful.’
Drunken eyes welcoming one back. My god. There is Lois. Her hair braided in a long blond pigtail. The far end of the room gossiping in her loud Bloomsbury voice. With an even longer cigarette holder. And seeing me. Beckoning to me across the heads. As one’s suddenly hardening prick points the way through the turned backs, bent elbows and indeed one or two open flies and gleaming white stiff pricks exposed.
‘Darling dear boy, how nice to see you again. You’re shaving your face. But you mustn’t. Let a little hair grow which I so adore on pretty young men. Of course you are still a callow youth. While my pubic hair is going rapidly grey. You do, don’t you, I understand, have a very adequate place in the countryside. A very very large house. To which, may I say, I am extremely chagrined not to have been invited. How dare you not invite me. I don’t foxhunt but surely you have room somewhere for me to paint by northern light. I’ve just come down from the Dawson Lounge. Been all by myself the entire evening in a most boring corner. Having to smoke my own cigarettes and buy my own drinks. Don’t people know I am poor. And that I must get on with my etchings. Where tell me, are the serious patrons of the arts. Have they no feelings for the artist. Allowing me to subsist on simply nothing at all. But I don’t want to complain.’
‘Lois do forgive me. But you are, aren’t you, totally full of shit.’
‘I say, how dare you. Damn you. Be so bloody rude. I’ve been suffering. Do you know what it is to truly suffer. How would you know in your big house. That I am freezing to death in my own studio. Not even enough milk to feed my cats. Both of whom have recently thed.’
‘I am sorry to hear that.’
‘And you clearly are a very rich young man. While I haven’t had a holiday by the seaside for years. I can’t afford it. Nor can I afford tubes of paint.’
‘Here please, take this Lois.’
‘What. Take money from you. How dare you attempt to bribe me. I have no intention to compromise myself or my art.’
‘Bloody hell, I’m not bribing or compromising you. I’m just trying to shut you up a moment in your complaining. And you can buy your tubes of paint.’
‘In that case, I shall shut up and take it. But insist I give you an etching. It may not be signed of course. And dear boy even though you have become quite rude, it is quite nice to see you. Come closer. I shall stick my tongue deeply in your ear.’
‘Thank you. I am as a matter of fact more than rather mildly randy.’
‘You poor dear lecherous boy. You may come home with me. But you do realise I can’t promise you anything. In fact you may have to masturbate. Since this is my celibate period. One must be celibate to exact from one’s inner spirit the full use of the self in the creation of one’s work. Without the emotional havoc pricks inside one can cause. It is a contradiction in terms but my celibate period is my most fertile. I’m sure any number of our dear friends here will gladly accommodate you.’
‘O god. I am not a homosexual.’
‘Why o god. So despairingly. Most of my nicest friends are homosexual.’
‘I’d rather go home with you.’
‘That’s nice to know. But as I’ve just told you, there’s to be no hanky panky.’
‘You have you know considerably steamed me up by your tongue.’
‘Well I appreciate your telling me. I should hate to bring you back to my studio and have you then attempt to rape me.’
‘Why are you then arousing me kissing me like this.’
‘I shall immediately stop then.’
‘Please don’t.’
‘Well I shall. You see. You are so utterly indifferent to the requirements of my life. I am not saying I am not quite glad you have given me five pounds. Please don’t misunderstand me. But it is so simple for you to find another outlet for the erection I may have given you. And if you remember I haven’t completed your portrait yet. It’s there in my studio gathering dust. Of course if you can manage another payment on account, I shall prepare another sitting for you and get a bag of coal for my stove.’
More arrivals up the stairs. Gas meter readers. Stars of stage and radio. Deafening noise of voices. All the louder now that Lois’s tongue is no longer plunging deep in one’s ear. At least it did shut up her complaining. My god, what a mob. The floor is quaking with the weight. Whole damn building could fall Georgian faced flat down into the street. The poet smirking across there in the corner. And goodness. How sad. Clara the poetess. With about four macintoshed, battered trilby hatted, criminal looking, doting men in tow. Poor Mr Arland. It was at such a party as this he first met Clarissa. She laughed at his jokes. Now not another inch to stand in this room. Smoke smarting one’s eyes as the grinning face of Rashers comes near. And Lois with a haughty sneer and snake like lick around her lips, turning away. As one recalls Rashers’s remark about her paintings. The insane ravings of an alley cat in heat. Now of course they’ll be the wild deliriums of one in celibacy.
‘My dear Darcy. Please. Just allow me to contemplate you a moment. Just to see you is like music reigning in the bright key of E major. Come spring. Come Ascot. Tea at the Paddock Bar. Gentle goosings up the best arses in the Royal Enclosure. But meanwhile of course, you will, won’t you, join me in my pilgrimage. Back to the sacred evil confines of the catacombs. From whence I have finally escaped. The stench. The gurriers. I hid my best cufflinks in the wall. And must retrieve them. Well dear Darcy, I see Lois has your trousers sticking out. Most women pretend they’re mad. And I think perhaps the only charming thing about Lois, is that she really is mad.’
‘I just heard what you said, you awful man. And you’re not, Darcy Kildare, leaving me for that dreadful fortune hunting philistine person are you. Well go then and don’t you ever speak to me again.’
One did think sadly as one departed with Rashers that a piece of arse in the hand in the Count’s dancing institution might be worth two in the rumoured underground tunnels of where one was going. However, hardly a moment to dwell on such problems as other matters were quickly afoot. Just as one was coming down the last flight of stairs of the MacBuzuranti School of Ballet. An almighty sound of a crash. Screams coming up from the front hallway. Where the poet had just landed showered in plaster and rotted lumps of wood, prick in his hands and peeing right upon the hysterical legs of two of the Count’s refined female ballet patrons who must have been loitering too shy to advance up the stairs into the thick of things.