The Beastly Beatitudes of Balthazar B

"Ah Rebecca, Rome is finished as a power. The pope is in voluntary liquidation and is making for Zurich but I thirst for a glance of your naked person, your fleshy realizable assets."

  "You'll roast for centuries."

  "But tonight let us not be squeamish. Blessed is the man who puts his pole into the ungodly and spits mighty spurts. O God I'm so painfully horny. Step lightly forward now in a rhythmic manner my dear. Off with your garments. Let us have some balletic expertise."

  "I will in a tinker's tit, in front of everyone."

  "Ah no vile language here, girl. British territorial prerogatives prevail within these Trinity walls. Be not base low mean and shabby. Strip off." "Will you listen to him. Strip off he says."

  "Ah Rebecca can't you see I'm agog for your nude form. Breathlessly impatient for visiting vile humiliations upon you. Blessed are they who lay down their garments one by one in a manner of teasing dalliance for they will have a pole of plenty eight miles up them. In due ruddy course. Of course."

  "You're a Presbyterian."

  "Ah you've uttered the one thing that provokes me Rebecca and calls for, of course, rape. I must rape you. Don't try to struggle it will be useless."

  "Sure I can scream the bricks down of this building."

  "We must employ the gags. Can't have outcry when Beefy is scintillating through his magic mire of shame. Just here inside this cabinet, here we are, the gags, the silk pyjama cords. For trussing up. For the vile proddings."

  Balthazar hands joined entwined, his back pressing against a series of volumes in the book case, A Theological Introduction and Texts to Religious Experience and Divine Diverticula. Breda looking from face to face. Beefy dropping his trousers. Rebecca pulling off her dress. Not to know what was funny or what was sad. Or what was rape and what was mad.

  But only to tremble in terror. Visions of porters and authorities marching eighty abreast across Front Square. Crowbars held high. For breaking and entering. Hangman's nooses for stretching throats. And to dangle, one's university career at a dismal end.

  Beefy raging with considerable nudity holding up his silk pyjama cords. Breda covering her eyes with well spaced fingers. Rebecca in a wild peal of laughter seizing this unforgettable instrument asway upon Beefy's chunky person. As I good heavens, feel constrained to look out the window. And Breda gasps.

  "Ah God I've never seen the likes of a thing like that before. It's as big as a donkey's. Sure your man is a mule."

  "Good God your toenails Rebecca, need cutting, I'll report you to the Society of Chiropodists. Ah but otherwise, isn't she my Rebecca, the most splendid creature. Pirouette my dear. Ah that raised some fine points. Of divinity if not law. But we're losing the sense of rape here. Cringe back a little my dear. If the Provost could only see us. Keeping up the fine traditions of the college. Numini et patriae asto. And now. For rape."

  Beefy charging across the floor. Hands raised in a pose horrid and menacing. Pyjama cords draped in a priestly manner about his neck. Seizing Rebecca by the wrists, her legs buckling beneath her as a smile broke across her face and laughter trembled her knees.

  "Rebecca you're ruining this deadly serious act. I am about to rape you. This won't do."

  Rebecca doubling up with her hands held across her belly. Beefy bent pulling them apart. Shaking her into resistant action. As she went limp on the floor. Breda wide eyed and pushing back her sweater sleeves.

  "You're getting awfully dusty Rebecca. It's not fair of you to behave this way. Resist. For God's sake. O dear what can I do, my charm melts all hearts, and everyone, men women and children open their legs to me. Into the bedroom, Rebecca. I will lash you to the bed. And in my best secular manner I will have at you like a beast bounding straight out of the bible. Numini et patriae asto. And don't spare the jujubes."

  Balthazar swallowing constant lumps of air. Wiping his brow with handkerchief. The crumpled giggling figure of Rebecca carried into the bedroom. Jubilant jouncing coming out the half open door. To reach and pass the bowl of raisins across to Breda. To select of these dried grapes.

  "What was that he was saying in that funny language."

  "I stand on the side of God and my country."

  "Sure in the condition he's in what God or country would have him."

  "Would you have tea if I can find the kettle and leaves."

  "Aren't you about to try anything with me."

  "No."

  "I'll have a cup then if you're making one. Can you tell me if your friend is completely round the bend."

  "He's the most brilliant brain of the university."

  "Is that a fact. Well if you ever knew what was on another person's mind you wouldn't know what to put on your own at all. He's one for devilment."

  The door crashing open. Beefy, trousers down around his ankles, shuffling and hobbling in his socks. His private signal tied with a bow of pyjama cord waving in circumcised salute, poking out beyond the floating tails of his shirt. Breda shrinking back from this bullish grinning ruddy face.

  "Balthazar. Where are you. See for yourself. Rebecca trussed up. Ready to give treats. My dear girl show some shame, how dare you stare at my instrument in that manner. We shall rape Rebecca. Then it shall be your turn. While you rape Rebecca Balthazar I shall truss this truculent lass to the other bed. And by God we'll rape you."

  "I'm making tea for us, Beefy."

  "O my gawd. You'd let such opportunities as I've prepared slip. For the sake of Empire dear man. For Monarch. We must on with the felony. You lass you're next, make no mistake about that."

  "I'm not with you I'm with your friend here who's a well behaved gentleman."

  "Stop. Do I sense here the shirty and utterly shabby nuance of criminal impertinence. And take your eyes off my instrument this instant."

  "Sure it's not my fault if it's there put in front of me eyes."

  "You are a saucy lass. I'm putting you down in my notebook. Needy of corrective measures."

  "You fancy yourself. Standing around like that You should be ashamed of yourself."

  Beefy, eyes so brown ablaze with merry evil, moving forward towards Breda. As she rose from her chair and slowly stepped backwards around the room. Past the shotguns, past foils stuck in an umbrella stand. Till she fell on the brass studded gleaming leather couch. Beefy's great instrument pressing at Breda's face as she waved it away. Balthazar scratching his head in the scullery doorway. This can't be college. An evening such as this. A hidden world never seen before. Until you think that this is the way it must really be. The carefree frolics of undergraduate years. That we grow up to live in steadier and sterner ways. Look back and say I was a naughty fellow in my younger days.

  "Come my dear girl, it's as hard as a baby avocado, don't push it away, it likes you. Give the boy a treat."

  "I will in me witless ways. Go on before I give you a bite of your balls and they'll be through bouncing anymore I can tell you."

  "Blessed my dear are the non violent girls who blow. A sound from this horn delivereth me up to the heights of ecstasy. With such elevation I could spit on Mars. The explosive grandeur of tickling your tonsils would make this poor boy so happy. And also clear your complexion of any blotches.

  "You'll get away with that thing or I'll stain you with the back of me hand. You're out of your mind."

  As Beefy disappears to the bedroom. A sound. A sharp crack. Balthazar turning to look back in the scullery. The steaming spout of the kettle aimed against the window. The parted white and blue checked curtains. A busted pane of glass. Misted and streaked. To touch where it split and look out into the thickets of the new leaves. Something strange up in the tree. Strain one's eyes to see. A shadow entwined about a bough. And down there. O my God. Passing by the shed of cycles and motor bikes. A lantern swinging. Spreading light across the hard grey ground. Three figures approaching this way. One in dressing gown and slippers between two porters. They stop. They look up at this window.

  "Beefy Beefy."

  "I'm lingering. In the most spooky p
leasuring."

  "The Proctor. Coming."

  "Nearly.' "O God. I mean it Beefy."

  "Nonsense. Fm in elemental ecstasy."

  "Please Beefy."

  "Dear boy how can you, how can you, call, o rny goodness, at such a time, o Lord that's nice, awfully nice. Tell my trustees of your trouble. They deal with all my debts and tribulations. So that I may pursue without hinder. Divinity, first ranking of the professions. Followed sadly by law, medicine and literature. The rear taken up by science and music. First you get baptised, grow up and get sued. Life goes on till they saw off your leg. If you survive you can read a good book. My advice in life is to proceed in a blaze of contradictory remarks, and send one's trustees each year a valentine. Rome is finished as a power. The ecclesiastical torn torn says so. Church of Ireland is taking over everywhere. We are winning souls left right and evil. Right down the coast to Greystones. And doing awfully well in Dalkey. We must kick the indulgences and plastic relics out of this isle. Give them a nine first Fridays of my Lutheran horn up the hole instead. Tear back the camouflage of emerald purity. Thou art Beefy and upon your arse I shall build my bank. No one gives a damn about the organic unity of Christ. Or the ecclesiastical jurisdiction. Rebecca, darling, the cardboard crucifixion is crumbling."

  "You're mental."

  Balthazar at the open crack of the door. As the gospel according to Beefy drones on. One's two hands held tightly together. If not altogether wringing. Certainly drained of blood. To tip toe into someone else's intimacy.

  "Beefy, I think this is urgent, can you hear me."

  "Single handedly I shall bring down Rome. Rebecca. Severe ideas are called for. Ukase. Deliver up delinquent attitudes. Papists will cower. Liberty loving protestants will march elbowing harlots out of the way, on to Belfast. Very militant. The Divine Founder will scream out the Coptic Rite and screw the eastern schisms."

  "You're mental."

  "Beefy they're coming. The porters."

  "Really Balthazar. Can't you hear I'm in the middle of my outloud meditation. Kicking evil little bugs out of the conscience. After one has defiled numerous orphans, widows and motor mechanics. My God what did you say."

  "I said the porters are coming."

  "Pull that sash cord. That's the general alarm. Quickly Rebecca up. Keep all mouths closed and fast come with me. Gather up your garments. Into the scullery. No time for moderation. One grasps at a moral morsel and sinks promptly in a vast sea of human betrayal. And new rattings from every side. One sings loudly protestant praises. And porters get it into their heads to do their duty. No panic, quite safe. This way through the dust. Old Beefy knows how to disport. And retreat with a gusto unknown to modern man. Just when I was going to ask you to take down your trousers, Balthazar, and present your particulars to the pleasurings. God I'm going to soon show my age beyond my years. I'm such a young vital chappie. This way. Girls obey now to the letter. Not a murmur. Just do as you are told. And the whole misunderstanding will pass shortly. Been a slight breach of security. Soon patch it up. Keep an eye out Balthazar."

  Beefy pulling on underwear with one hand, leading his two female guests with the other. Into the scullery. A scrabbling and scuffling. A banging. On the door. Beefy putting his finger to his lips for silence, as he tip toes back into the drawing room. And across to his bedroom. Emerging again in dressing gown. Locking the bedroom door. Dropping his key into the pocket of a long flowing black silk robe. Satiny slippers embellished with gold threaded crossed cues on his feet. And he looks down upon his person and smiles at the ashen faced Balthazar.

  "Believe in me. Trust in me. I'll do all the talking. Make believe you are merely playing bezique at your London club. And the world lies around you sublime. See, I'm in my billiard slippers, means we are quite safe. You mustn't shake like that Balthazar. I've been through this before. Just a very ordinary nightmare. Shush. Now. Wait. They are at the door. Listening. O very crafty. But what they hear is silence. We are engrossed in a tutorial."

  Three loud knocks on the door. Balthazar taking one deep breath after another. Beefy lighting up a large cigar. His eyes blinking in the smoke, slowly taking tomes from his shelves and opening them out on the table. All seems somehow to have happened before. Three more bangs on the door. And Beefy was on top of that girl. As her legs wagged in the air. A bare arse pumping up and down during his academic career. Of devious divinity. One must turn a blind eye to sacrilege.

  Uncle Edouard said it was always wise to kick up a disturbing row if one were tapped unwarningly upon the shoulder. Three more loud bangs. A voice of authority.

  "Open up this door.' Beefy tip toeing around in a circle, raising his eyebrows up and down with each step. His elegant nerve. When I should be content somewhere in Siberia now. Or strolling the afternoon by ice age morains in the countryside. Tracing fossil ferns with a light thrilling finger. And the warm voice of Fitzdare. O Lord.

  "Open up. I know you have women in there. I am not going to stand out here in the cold all night. If this door is not opened presently, I shall have the clerk of works summoned to knock it down.' Beefy advancing close to the door. Listening. Taking a great long puff on his cigar. Shaking his head slowly up and down. Two squash rackets leaning against the wall. Beefy taking one in hand and sweeping it in a strong forehand volley. As three more knocks land. "Now please, be sensible in there and don't make this occasion more unpleasant than it already is."

  Beefy smiling. Feinting deeply with a flexed right knee. A blurring back handed cross court three sided killing shot administered with a swish of breeze. And a gracefully slow follow through. While I tremble. With no way out. Save a window plummeting down three floors. With two broken legs one could not run. But better to stand by the window. Just in case. To look down. And see if it gets any nearer. Seemed so certain we were undetected through the front gate. My reputation of the rape of Donnybrook following after me. My God what is that out there in the tree.

  "Beefy, come, look."

  Beefy peering out into the night. The branches of the nearby tree. The tangled snaky boughs. Beefy taking his cigar out of his mouth. His eyes cold.

  "That wretch. Out there spying in the tree. Betraying us.

  Thinks he's going to delight in our apprehension. The jealous Greek scholar, the bogman Muggins. He's laughing. By God wait till I get my hands on him."

  "Beefy open the door please. They're beginning to use force."

  "An innocent man is never in a hurry Balthazar."

  "But we're not innocent."

  "In spirit and heart, yes. We are. That's why I wear this look of permanent bewilderment. Whoops, yes, that was rather a loud bang. Thought they might give up."

  "I know you have women in there. I will not ask again that this door be opened. I am not going to stand out here all night."

  Beefy advancing to the door. Drawing back the bolts. One high one low. Lifting his eyebrows as he turned the lock and pulled open the big black door. The Proctor in a brown ankle length bathrobe. Designed perhaps for such evening missions. Pair of red skiing socks and scuffed pair of leather slippers. A sky blue scarf wrapped high up round his throat and flowing over a shoulder. Rowed stroke or bow or something for Cambridge. A year when Oxford sank with all hands in the river. These two small porters look from under their blue bulging hard hats. Peering out from the college secrets piled up over the years. And one steps forward to put his lantern atop the turf cupboard.

  "All right Beefy, where are the women."

  "Sir, women."

  "Yes, the women. Don't play games with me. Where are the women. I want this over without delay. You may as well come clean. Where are they."

  "Sir, you do know Fm reading divinity."

  "I should not attempt, if I were you, to start clouding the issue. Which is quite grave."

  "Sir I'm afraid I don't have the faintest idea what you're talking about. With all respect, really sir. I do not."

  "Don't try my patience."

  "Honestly, Balthazar
B here. Why we came back this evening to college, having missed vespers and taken a walk about Stephen's Green, and we set about slogging. Quite above board. Books there on the table. Mr. B's Littlego exam. Latin is giving him a good bit of trouble. Thought it would polish him up nicely if I took him through some of—"

  "That's quite enough. I'm not going to stand here all night listening to your explanations. Either you admit now to the women or I shall go into that room and expose them myself. As distasteful as that may be. But you've only yourself to blame if this cannot be dealt with in a civil manner. I have not got all night. Come on. Don't trifle with me longer. I see. Very well. Let us have that door there opened."

  A nod from the Proctor. A pointing finger raised. To these dark uniformed porters in their peaked hunting hats. Who step forward. Across this ornamentaled tapestried room. They turn the knob and push shoulders against the locked door.

  "All right, Beefy, the key. Let us have the key."

  "Sir, what key."

  "The key Beefy."

  "Sir as you know."

  "I know nothing except this is most tiresome. Give me that key."

  "Upon my word, sir, one has desperately been pursuing the doctrine of atonement, Christian ethics."

  "You are really bringing me to the end of my endurance. I can see this little evening has all the appearances of a tutorial."

  "Fructu non foliis arborem aestima, sir."

  ''Do not Latin me. There's quite sufficient fruit to be seen and judged here"

  "Sir I think you should look out the window in the tree outside."

  This tall handsome man, waves of quietly greying hair across his head. One hand tightly holding the wrist of the other. Stealing a frowning glance at the green ecclesiastic tomes. As he steps forward. Porter coughing into the hollow of his fist. A satin sash with bright red tassels round the Proctor's robe. To wake up again in one's own life. Delirious in this suicidal dilemma. Just as the golden moments are gone. Fading lighthearted elegances of a Sunday afternoon. As raindrops begin to hit the window panes.