‘But I think the time has come for you to say something, my good young chap. For a start, what shall I call you. I really must call you something.’
‘Macgillicudy.’
‘Ah. One could never ask for a name more portending in promise of great future fortune hunting than that. Let us drink to it. Macgillicudy. Cheers.’
‘Cheers.’
‘To both our fortunes. To white ties. To our swallow tail coats. To that girl in pink. Just over there. When I was a handsome undergraduate at that university down the street. In my rooms in New Square. I had every morning. Two young ladies call. And she, radiantly beautiful dear girl, from a family of rich fishmongers, was one. Both were members of the school of modern languages. The other girl was the daughter of an eminent surgeon. But one does sometimes prefer the successful mercantile class of Dublin society. Surgeons are such bullies when they get you on the operating table knocked out cold. Slashing you often in the most vulnerably wrong places, in a hurry to play golf. Of course I speak from wretched experience as a failed medical student. Doing my bit of stabbing as well. But my dear chap. These girls were vying to make me breakfast. While I disported bollocks naked in the altogether. One’s frozen testicles giving one’s penis the most marvellous pneumatic bounce as one went to close the shutters to passing prying eyes. Hungering over my rashers. The latter after which of course I am unfortunately named. And women are so marvellous. The way they will utterly tolerate jealousy to snare some poor bugger. June in Trinity week, on the day of the College Races, I rogered both in continuo. As one groaned the other rejoiced. We three, we loved each other. I shall remember that day till I die. Trinity Week Dance at the Gresham Hotel. Both of them. One on each of my arms. So staggeringly beautiful in their gowns. Days my dear chap. Days never to come again. The Lawn Tennis Championships in College Park. God. Too soon does ecstatic beauty and joy pass from one’s life. Too soon. And damn too soon without warning does sadness descend. To pinion in death the most utter beauty of all.’
Tears welling in Rashers’ eyes. As he turns his head away. Lips quivering. The light of his smile faded. The world dark. Heads turn and talk. With hardly a murmur of love. Or whisper of compassion. Or a thought for those sorrowing or hungering. Just horses. Bashes. Hunt balls. Last night’s larks. And champagne.
‘Forgive me my dear chap. That was most uncalled for. What I have just said. I do think I was attempting to impress you. One’s youthful moments of love. I suppose fills one some times with the most terrible longing. To go back. Back on those graceful college squares. But I don’t tell you these things to be a showoff. Rather be it known I am a man of compassion. I say it with all sincerity. Persistent pecuniary impoverishment has driven one to the precipice of the unprincipled. And I have jumped downwards. And one upon occasion has even landed among the gurrier element. Among whom I have, in too numerous an extremity, had to reside at the Iveagh House. That most practical but somewhat humbling premises over on Bride Street. Ah but let me introduce, my friend here.’
A massive man. Lurching like a tottering tower. A pink cravat at his velvet collared throat. Brows frowning, eyes blinking to see in my direction. And attempting to fix somewhere on one’s face. As he bows.
‘This is Macgillicudy, Leo.’
‘I am charmed. Charmed to meet you sir. Have a drink.’
‘Of course Macgillicudy, Leo paints ladies’ portraits with every bit as much artistry as he does when he fucks them.’
‘I object Ronald to your mentioning my two professions as if one depended on the other. However, bartender replace that bottle in Ronald’s cooler if you please. With another of the same brand and vintage. And who is this. Behind me. You madam. Please. Don’t split your infinitives and leave your gerunds dangling so uncomfortably close.’
A woman in black standing behind this giant man’s shoulders. Who pushes forward between the elbows. A black sequined purse clutched in her hand. Her mouth darkened with lip paint.
‘I shall not from you you big bear, take any of your semantic battering in this Buttery.’
‘Ah madam you are in every respect in the ablative absolute. And I beg your forgiveness.’
Feel the champagne less and less as one consumes more and more. Wonder now in the heady delight, was there ever such a thing as loneliness, and despair. Up out on the street darkness overtaking the late afternoon. These voices bubbling. The laughter. Turn one’s ears in any direction. Hear of horses, hernias, holocaust, heroes, harlots, hashish and hell. An abyss widening all round. To jump across. Or be swallowed up. And one is swallowed. As more and more of these euphoric come. To whom I am introduced. As the son of a baronet. Then a baron. Till the present bottle of champagne emptied. And one was a viscount, up to town selling cattle. A moment ago I was an earl, up to town for a new scarlet coat. And now, Rashers Ronald has just conferred upon me the entitlement The Marquis of Delgany and Kilquade up to town for the racing. Said I was the highest ranking peer there. That Major Jones the Mental Marquis was merely titled in the French peerage. And this black engowned lady. Comes swaying close.
‘You darling. You absolurely gorgeous darling. What eyes. Absolurely magic. Absolurely medieval. Good lord. You’re a leprechaun. Out of what celtic ether have you come. I invite you right this very moment absolurely virginal as you are to later take me in your arms.’
‘Well thank you.’
‘Thank me. Don’t dare thank me like that. Even though I have said I shall go willingly I shall fight bitterly but helplessly. I’m to be taken. Conquered. Swept away.’
‘Well I am not quite, I mean I’m rather not, I should say.’
‘What indeed should you say. Have you something to say. Have you.’
‘No. I haven’t.’
‘Ah that is what I love. Silence. Still waters my dear boy run deep. With my body enclosed about your own. You darling absolurely gorgeous creature. Crush you to death like a woodland flower. Squeeze from you your nectar. Who bred you. What vibrant man stallion covered your mother. Stunning creature she must have been. Of course in mourning with my hair dyed black, one does look gloomy, wearing only black gems. Is that why you are wide eyed looking at me. Do you know who I am.’
‘No.’
‘I am one of four scandalous sisters. And better known as the Black Widow. Now only three of us are left. As Ireland’s most beautiful creatures we are totally wasted on this utter desert. What have we to choose from but boorish big handed farmers. All with their favourite hounds peeing round the baseboards of their bedrooms and sharing their fleas with their masters in bed. Wouldn’t you like to put your hand upon my breast. Press your lips to my throat. As I lay.’
‘Well,’
‘I mean figuratively my dear boy. Figuratively. Well. Would you.’
‘Well.’
‘Well bloody what.’
‘Well madam I just don’t know what to say to your overtures.’
‘Overtures. What overtures. I speak my dear boy. Of love. Indeed not Irish love steeped in the greed of money. I mean great love. Love that destroys dynasties. Love that sacrifices thrones.’
‘But could that not be lust you speak of madam.’
‘Do you have the nerve to stand there in this Buttery and use the word lust to me.’
‘Well.’
‘There you go again. You’re totally repetitive. Must I take out your tongue and teach it to speak. Must I.’