‘I don’t mind in the least that you’re not. My singularity of purpose can’t please everyone. But please do sit and have tea.’
Professor and wife sitting. But one could sense their legs would quick be running. Just as soon as their numbed limbs recovered feeling. Lois pouring water from her kettle into a tea pot. Professor again clearing his throat. A speechless croak came out. Then silence. Then licking his lips, he exploded.
‘Artistically they fail, if I may be so blunt as to say so.’
Lois putting down her kettle, wiping her hands. Seemed very slow in her movements. Walking over to the paintings in question. Picking up the offending canvases. Turning with one in each hand hanging down at her sides. Crossing to where the two collectors sat adjoining on their chairs. Lois standing in front of them. And suddenly raising both canvases in an arc outward from her hips. Up over her head. To crash them down on both of theirs. Perforating the canvases and the paintings encircling their necks. As they both now sat with their stunned visages poking up out of the painted pudenda. And not a muscle moving as if they were acquiescing to a time honoured chastisement meted out in Dublin Bohemian circles.
‘Forgive me Professor but both you and your wife are philistines.’
I did think perhaps one should depart. As one was already sick with unrequited laughter. And turned to bow back to the victims. Who nodded to my courtesy. Sitting otherwise unmoved and mummified in their shock. But still in the throes of my most appalling randiness and out of eye sight of my stunned fellow collectors I kissed Lois at the top of the stairs. Even put a hand to her bosom. But she was so utterly indifferent that one pretended one was being merely ebulliently theatrical in parting.
‘Goodbye Lois.’
‘Dear boy. So nice to have a new patron like you. So eclectic in your appreciation. I will have your pictures packed and wrapped ready for your collection. And you must also come back and pose you really must.’
Proceed through the street. Back along in front of the Gaiety Theatre. Pause to go down Grafton. Walk instead straight. Along the Green. After one more fraudulent pretence. In one’s descent downwards. A collector of art. Where do all these other people get their money. And me with only a British three penny bit in one’s pocket. And the bars on one side of this many sided coin look like those of a debtors’ prison. But at least one had an exchange of words with other human beings. And witnessed in action an artistic temperament. Plus had a chocolate coated biscuit. To assist one return in randy madness to one’s lonely hotel room. Once more await dinner. Once more lie on one’s bed listening to the wireless. Counting the tiny fissures in the ceiling and dreaming of the lovely limbs of Miss von B.
Darcy Dancer walking briskly. Traffic thickening in the streets. The giant guards coming out to take up their evening traffic positions. Their patches of white on the arms of their tunics held up to motor cars piloted by the swarms of bicycles. God, people really do rush when it’s time to go home. And now go back up these steps. Into the welcome elegance of the Hibernian. Where I can still eat and run up the bill.
Darcy Dancer collecting his sporting papers from the porter. Tuck them up under an arm. Climb these marble steps. One two. Three four. Routines so essential. Never let the mind begin thinking. Just rekindles one’s lust. Take a long leisurely bath. It can so cheer one up. Brush and groom one’s hair. Snatch out even one more grey one. Put a white spotted blue hanky in my breast pocket. Instead of my spotted maroon one. Tie my tie knot neatly up into the softness of my silk collar. Wipe shoe tips on the back of my trouser leg.
Darcy Dancer, the satin lining of his tweeds cool against the knees. Chin up and spine straight. Out now down the deeply carpeted hall. Past the brass numbers on the doors of these rooms. To the top of the marble staircase. Descend. Ah. Some people bustling into the lounge do turn to watch. My command performance. Take a sherry before dinner. Ferried to me by the waiter between the little group of chairs. Occupied by so many all so happy in each other’s company. Cosseted in the soft pleasing solitude of this sanctum. God. How soon will one be chucked back out into the uncaring world. A vagabond. The thought is so greviously upsetting that I had better step down into the dining room. Sit in my usual little corner the head waiter likes to reserve for me. Not yet knowing I cannot pay my bill. Have trout and spinach tonight. And Chablis. Top off with trifle and vintage port. Ensure all the health giving vitamins. In case one has to make a run for it. With irate managements waving hotel bills in my wake.
Darcy Dancer in his seat. Smiling up to hand back the menu. Settle down now to study the weekly fixtures in one’s sporting paper. Show jumping, horse trials, fairs and sales. Look up. People making an awfully loud entrance. One never knows these days when the wrong sort will appear in the right places. And standards just plummet. But over there. In the opposite corner of the room. Clearly some fellow elegants. A man with flowing grey hair sweeping back from an aristocratic countenance. And a woman. She must be stunning. By what one can see of her back. Her arm. Or her gown. Which my god. Miss von B wore in the ballroom the night she lonely sang. And wears now. Sitting there. My heart pumps and pounds. Breath catching agony. Up from the soles of my feet. Right where I look. As she leans forward. Across from this man. Adoring him. Reaching with her hand. Putting hers on top of his as it lifts. And he bends to kiss that skin. Upon which my own mouth has pressed. And my tears have fallen. Until I can’t watch. Her running. High up some hill. Further and further away. Get up to go. While her body stays. Taking away her soul. Which laughed so. Out of her eyes. Lay between her thighs. Up in her silken softness. Till now. I reach. Hoping and hungering. For her.
Darcy Dancer leaving the dining room. Chin down. Spine bent. Step back up these few carpeted steps. Treading on the wool woven roses. Go out. Not know where I’m going. Nor care. Why she adored. Walk. On these night time streets. Away through one’s crashing dreams. Under lamplight. On the grey speckled blocks of granite. Leave the fence of Trinity. A pub Lincoln’s Inn. Big closed back gates of the college. Light in the porter’s lodge. Turkish turrets across the street. Down Westland Row. Stone pillars of a church. Iron pillars of a bridge. Train chugging over. Every part of her comes haunting. The slap she gave me in the face. The album of her castles. The ballrooms. The waltzing ladies and gentlemen. Charging at me on her rearing horse. All the way to the moored looming shadowy ships on this black river flowing through this black city.
Darcy Dancer stepping over a chain strung along the quayside. Coal grit blowing over the cobbles. Lonely lights in port holes. Sailors singing. Arms over each others’ shoulders weaving out of that pub. And have no friend. And have no love. Turn back. Walk by these vast gloomy walls. Inside through bars in a window. A man shovelling coal. Far down in the dark cavernous interior. A red glow of flames. Footsteps behind me. An arm grabs mine. A voice asking. Grinning in my face with her rotted teeth.
‘Do you want a short time for ten bob.’
Shake away from her clutching fingers. Her wide staring eyes. Pale hollow cheeked face. Run. Pound the pavements. Fly back. Reach my own familiar streets. Up Kildare. Silently slowly along Molesworth. So safe in all its Protestant virtue. On each lamp post these escutcheons. Three castles, a sword and a crown. The Royal Hibernian ahead. She sat inside those drape darkened windows. Chic soignée and so beautiful. Like frost sparkling in moonlight. On the miles of road I walked. And the worst of all. She saw me. And turned away. When her back was bent in sorrow I comforted her. Put my hand on her hair. While her tears were falling. And tonight. Along the quays. Mine fell. In anger bleeding.