Leila
PS. In haste now on my way to the country.
She said. In her cold small little room. When a vixen barked out in the frosty night. She did say. Sitting on the edge of her bed. Her dark stockinged slender legs. Shadows of her exquisite shy face in candlelight. That she would pay me for the broken vase. That has now saved more than my life. Ballast for a sinking soul. Find her. If ever I could. Take her body close to mine. Worship at her shrine. Never let her go. No stupid snobbery. No sin. Ever to stand between us.
‘Good morning. Or is it more properly good afternoon, Darcy Dancer, Gentleman. May I sit down.’
Baptista Consuelo. Traps me. In her flowing tweeds, silk scarves. Twin rows of pearls on the grey cashmere softnesses of her bosom. As she plops down in a flowered sofa chair.
‘Ah I see, not only paid your bill but you cashed my cheque as well. Shades of your ancestors. That was rum of you if I might say. Judging by the amount of money that appears to be in your hand. Of course, if it is a ridiculously large sum I simply shall stop payment on the cheque. Now darling. Here are your orders for the afternoon. Three saddles to be fetched from Callaghan’s down Dame Street. Do take a taxi. They are quite heavy. We shall meet for tea in my rooms at four. Please be packed for the mail boat by nine. We’ll dine on board. En route of course for Paris. Is that all agreeable, my darling boy. Now exactly what amount have you attempted to defraud me of.’
Darcy Dancer taking the creased and folded piece of paper from his pocket. Opening it up and smoothing it out in his hand. Seizing it by a tiny corner the pink slip of paper hanging from two tweezing fingers, and handed across to Baptista.
‘O I see. What’s this.’
‘Your cheque. The truth is I certainly would have cashed it. And become your fancy man. But the fact is, I suddenly had no need to. And so shall not now be, my dear sow, your nancy boy. Perhaps we can have tea and go to Paris another time.’
‘I suppose now you’re going home to play squire lording it over your peasants. And when you do please just remember you walked out of that bedroom this morning with my cheque.’
‘And do I as a result madam, now know how to accommodate your kind of lady.’
‘You are, aren’t you, in fact a rather cruel, mean conceited contemptible little son of a bitch. And believe me, there’s no shortage of your kind of young man.’
‘Do madam please then let me say upon parting, that I think you are quite a bit more marvellous than I ever thought you were previously. Goodbye.’
Darcy Dancer in the Shelbourne lobby. The din of voices swelling from dining room and public lounge. Side step out of any possible sight of any possible ladies from Greystones. And these three prowling figures. The Royal Rat hunched forward in his baggy grey tweeds. Followed by Buster the Beastly and Danno the Damned. Purchase a London newspaper. Hide behind the pillar. Concentrate on the well bred agony of the personal column of The Times. And be no longer myself unpleasantly haunted by my hotel bill. Tip toe in and around the narrow pillar to avoid the more familiar faces in the lobby. In the middle of her insults, Baptista suddenly had tears in her eyes. Black kid skin gloves on her folded hands. Sitting so alone in her chair. My prick suddenly aswell rigid in one’s trousers. Wanting to make love to her. Could be my mistress without too many attachments or ties. Fetch her a bunch of violets from a tinker lady at the door. Take insult. But I suppose one does not, no matter how deserving insult a lady. Following the performanee of a few chores, she was after all, inviting me to stroll with her on easy street. Temporarily allowing respite from having to sell household paintings and objets d’art. Waltz up or is it down the Champs Elysées in Paris. Do what Sexton so many times said I should. Ah now you would broaden the vistas of the brain you would, hobnobbing with the very latest in intellectuals. Baptista can stew a moment in her own highly perfumed juice, blatantly betraying her husband Harold. Seems quite a popular trend these days not to give a tinker’s damn about loyalty. Ah but perhaps that moral question on this noonday is best left back in the bedroom. Especially while my person is insulated with quids. Which one merely unpeels to pay my bill.
‘Mr Kildare.’
‘Yes.’
‘There’s a letter for you. Just arrived sir.’
This envelope, soiled and battered. My god. Monaco. Gracious me, rip it open. A picture postcard of chandeliers ablaze over a roulette table. In a vast empty Salle des Jeux du Casino.
The Cathedral Steps
The Old Town
Monaco
Darcy my dear boy, hope this reaches you still comfortably ensconced in that so pleasantly homespun elevation of mellow red brick on the Green. Having embarrassingly outstayed my welcome here on earth and in the elsewheres, I have decided in my state of nae hope to do the decent thing. By all accounts in the fish museum and aquarium here from which I have just emerged, there are predatory pisces nearby in the waters. By the time you read this I shall have heaved myself off these steep cliffs and down into the thrashing waves of a presently raging Mediterranean Sea. Jockey Club members do enjoy a full two minute silence of remembrance held by other members. And so no need for you to mourn. Although I hope you bloody well will, a tiny little bit. A cheaper final departure cannot be got. But more sad because I had for two nights straight practically won a fortune. And on the third, distracted unduly by an awfully nice and pleasantly rich lady and basking in her flattery my concentration wavered and, as one should have known one would, I lost all. Including the lady who turned out not to be so rich and departed on the train for Paris. I did croon for coins in the Market Place and alas on the steps of the Casino, thereby compromising my only remaining dearly held principle, till the police intervened. They were quite civil about it, but following this social if not spiritual disgrace, only enough coin was collected for a decent meal, bottle of champagne and cigar. I was however, offered a job to butler on a yacht moored in the harbour and to sing after dinner, but can you believe it, I was finally turned down on my handsome looks being too much a temptation to the ladies. I suppose this more than anything convinced me it was time to put an end to it all. Please believe me. When I say. How sorry I am about your silver. Herewith pawn ticket. I am and shall be always your undoubted friend. Ta ta,
Rashers
One’s tear fell plop upon the word sorry. Smearing the letters S and O and R. And he once said. My dear boy. If ever I did the. It would be so nice to have been an admiral. Bared heads would be bowed. My cocked hat unworn. Boots reversed in the stirrups of my riderless charger. A piper’s lament. To the slow throbbing drams. And folding the letter. My eye caught sight of a further scrawl.
ps. Alas dear boy, pride is the energy of survival just as it is the substance of defeat.
Beyond veils dark
Mourn for me
Buried in the deep
25
One walked the dismal empty streets. Saw Sheena, Rashers’s whore from the catacombs, plying for trade under the railway trestle. Called on Mr Arland, no answer, his window dark and I went down the quays. Past ships. One sailing out silent in the swell. Port and starboard lights. Red and green like Christmas. Crossed over the canal lock. Walked by the great coal bunkers and gas works as I had once before on such a night of sorrow.
‘Ah yes. The note will be delivered to await the gentleman’s next arrival in the Common Room.’
At Trinity College’s front gate, I had stopped at the porter’s lodge, a fire aglow in the cosy interior. And suddenly approaching, limping from under the gas lamp, there was Mr Arland. We went to sit for a coffee in the wicker chairs and under palm fronds in the welcome warmth of Jury’s Hotel down Dame Street. He spoke of the American girl, Clara Macventworth, and I could see he was again so sad.