‘I say. Who is that.’
‘It’s me. Baptista. Open up please.’
‘No. Leave me bloody well alone, will you.’
‘Don’t be such a dismal sport. Well if you don’t open you’re in for a ruckus. I shall kick the door.’
Darcy Dancer opening the door. In ancient albeit silk pyjamas. Frayed to a transparency at the crutch. Worn by one’s mother’s father. And Baptista still in her clothes, a black peasant shawl over her shoulders. Waltzes in my bloody door. And nearly falls over holding her ruddy stomach, laughing. Lurching as if crippled and guffawing around the room. And going into even more paroxysms enjoying the look on my face.
‘O dear. Dear. O forgive me. I can’t, simply can’t help it. That was the funniest thing I have ever heard. Imagine asking if you were hunting on Friday.’
‘You bloody well were listening.’
‘Of course.’
‘Now what do you want.’
‘You of course.’
‘You plotted that deliberately.’
‘You know, Darcy, darling, you do surprise me. You are, as a person, really not as bad as I have always imagined.’
‘I think you really should shut up you know.’
‘Darling there’s absolutely nothing to complain about. You should be cheering that I’m here. O dear. You’re not. I am so sad, that you’re sad.’
‘And I have damn good reason. Everything in my life is collapsing.’
‘O you poor poor darling. Can I do something.’
‘Well you could have for a start, and one is not being in the least niggardly, nor making I assure you, an ungentlemanly issue of it, but you did invite me to dinner.’
‘O dear is that monumental bill weighing upon your conscience.’
‘No, upon my head.’
‘But darling why didn’t you say something. I would have put it on my bill.’
‘Well you didn’t.’
‘Surely you’re not that hard up.’
‘I am. In fact, if you must know, I am now wondering how I am ever going to get out of this hotel.’
‘Well stop wondering. Or you’ll put me to wonder if I’m going to get a chance to commit adultery. Turn out the light. And do tell me. Was our former Master of Foxhounds wearing his five hunt buttons on his pink and white striped pyjamas. You no doubt interrupted him chasing a fox in his sleep. Now watch darling. I’m taking off my clothes, if you don’t mind. Can you see. And darling, the Colonel also once laughed so much at a huntsman who splashed head first into a drink, that he himself toppled like an ancient monument off his horse. Top hat first. And when he regained his feet up to his knees in the black silt, he had the most marvellous long green tresses of watercress hanging like hair over each ear. Hunting does break one’s neck, arm or leg but it does so help uphold one’s sense of humour.’
‘Well madam you’ve certainly thoroughly destroyed mine.’
‘O dear. I hope you’re not that upset. Or shy. Not to look this way. And you will won’t you, since I’m quite without clothes, let me get in that awfully narrow bed. And not let me freeze. It’s a frosty night out. I am a little, if perhaps, more than a trifle strongly made in my quarters. But even in this light, doesn’t what you see cheer you up. And put your mind to more pleasurable things. Now my dear darling shove over.’
Nice to get horse piss out of the nostrils. And feel warm flesh and sniff marvellous perfume. Rid of the fear of a sabre up the rear. One was beginning to feel like the Mental Marquis’ father, the Duke. As well as being some kind of Count MacBuzuranti paederast creeping around hotel bedrooms. This arse upon which I now clutch my sinking fingers seems nearly to have been the bane of my entire life. And may, by its firm if over generous rotundity disturb the balance of my mind for all time. Her hands run up and down my back. Her open mouth she puts on mine. Tongue wagging and digging against my tongue all the way to my back teeth. Nearly down my throat. Grabs me tight by the cock. And god. Ouch. Squeezes, twisting my balls. Won’t be able to tell one from the other now. She bites. Married to someone in trade. So considerably below my rank in life. And here in our mutual loneliness we are joined in this present increasingly sweaty endeavour. Crack open one lid. Look up. Can’t believe my eye. When carriages came to Andromeda Park. Cook would look up. And out from between the basement window bars and would draw attention to anyone whose higher station in life was not befitted by their conveyance. And she took no notice whatever of those whose lower station was embellished by their grander vehicle. And Baptista. Throwing the covers back. Lowering ample quarters right down over my pole. Wastes not a second to sit on top. In the shadows. Perched pretty. Like a swallow tucked up under a barn rafter. Ready to fly in the first light of dawn. To snap from the sky insects like me. And be as ominous as any shark in the sea. Comes swiftly devouring. Wagging her breasts. Cantering. Bed springs squealing. Galloping. Slapping me stingingly on the thighs. Giddyyap boyo. She has her nerve. Giddyyap boyo. And no modesty. And thank god, no whip. Or I’d be lashed senseless. Hear swan wings. Great groaning strokes they make on the wind. Wolfhound howls. Who doth it be who hoots. Beyond. Where’s Leila. She is somewhere under some space of sky. Whose hair dark as night goes agleam shining through my mind. Were only these your noises of love. Hear Rashers’ voice. Degradation. That’s what I want to be saved from, dear boy. Sound of a heavy footfall in hall. I hear. In the middle of her groaning gyrations. A pounding heavy thump shaking mahogany door. O my god. What on earth now. Is this new most awful event. The Manager. Could be in force. All the page boys. Waiters. Bartenders. And the Society of Dublin Laity for the Stamping Out of Adultery.
‘Damn it, you in there, Kildare.’
That voice. Out there. Of which blissfully groaning Baptista is so utterly oblivious, belongs to the Colonel, Master of Foxhounds.
‘Sir do you hear me in there.’
O my god. Now what have I done to bring him charging down hotel hallways in search of me with his sabre. His head streaming tresses of watercress. Happily, by the sound of Baptista, he’ll already think I’m in throes of death. And no further bloody cuts and thrusts are needed. Good heavens, the lady from Greystones might be commandeering him. To ensure I’ve had the very last private orgasm of my life.
‘I say in there, what’s all that commotion. Sir. I demand an answer.’
‘Please go away.’
‘I shall be glad to. As soon as you sir return my property.’
‘What property.’
‘You sir, have gone off in my socks and damn shoes and I am sir returning yours.’
As I did my shoe and sock transaction between a crack in the door with the Colonel, she laughed her head off into the pillow. Bloody damn girl is easily amused. In the morning a seagull perched crying on the windowsill. Dreamt my ancient man trap was clamped firmly on Baptista’s arse. But wakened by her snores, my fingers were gripped there instead. A soft fuzz at the back of her neck. Long blonde tresses aflow over her shoulder. Roar of trams. Cars honk down on the street. Sun through the curtains. Now the mortification to face Baptista awake, naked and sober, a skin’s breadth away. And here I am already prodding her with an erection as she lolls like a log. One felt the pleasure one might get out of her in bed, that her sort would soon see how the bloody hell she could make you pay for it. And dearly. And miserably. And if anyone in Ireland gets wind of this night, such news will go twitching lace curtain to lace curtain around Thormondstown out the relishing lips of the butcher’s, chemist’s not to mention the ironmonger’s wife. Women in terms of guile and cunning can and do, I suppose, make mincemeat out of men. And now at stroke of twelve noon the phone is ringing. Just as one attempts some sodomy.
‘Sorry to disturb you Mr Kildare, this is the Manager. I have left several notes to ask you to step into my office. Might you be available before lunch this morning. It is in fact a rather large sum concerned.’
Baptista rolling over. Her ample breasts with two dark tipped hardened nipples. Slight alarm on her face, as s
he slowly wakes and pulls up the blankets. The bottle of brandy. Manager seeing that appear listed under wines, spirits, beers and mineral waters and brought forward on my account, must think I’ve decided so long as I’m going to leave an unpaid bill, I may as well ensure it is whoppingly astronomical. By now room service will instructed to be stopped. Better rush to have one’s last bath. Before they cut off the hot water as well. Perhaps they wouldn’t dare. And one might order a morsel or two of breakfast. Before being published with banner headlines in Stubbs’ Gazette. And every creditor in the country. Including Smyth’s of the Green closes in. Suggest to the Manager I work off my indebtedness washing dishes in the kitchen. Or butlering for the cavalry Colonel. I suppose it’s always worse to worry about something. Better to just face it head on. Hide Baptista under the bed as they wheel in my tea, toast, sausages and eggs. The sun’s beaming. A beautiful day out. And god, with the erection I’ve got. One may as well have one last insertion and exertion. Wrapped now, in a towel propped out like a nomad’s tent. Pitched in a damn big desert. And she’s so nonchalantly yawning at the back of her hand. Must say her face looks more than slightly older than it did last night. And her arse much younger.
‘What’s the matter, my dear boy. You’ve got such a look of concern on your pretty face.’
‘Just a matter I must attend to.’
‘Is there anything I can do. You seem quite upset.’
‘That was the Manager on the telephone. He wants me to pay my bill. Right now. It appears.’
‘O dear. But you mustn’t get upset over such a trifling matter. Why not just pay it.’
‘Because I’m bloody well broke, that’s why.’
‘Well you need only need get my chequebook.’
‘What do you mean.’
‘I’ll pay it for you. Or are you too proud for that perhaps.’
‘If you must know, I am, as a matter of fact.’
‘Dear me this does make it such a nice little predicament for you doesn’t it. Your prick itching for years and now you’ve at last made love to me. Do please don’t stop your grooming. Or had I not to use that romantic word love. Reminds me of a story of my childhood. Just in case dear boy you’d like to know of my growing up among the gentry as a little innocent girl. Of course this is before foxhunting became finally my entrée, if one can call it that, into the fringes of county society. And you were hardly then out of your layette. It was on a beautiful warm sunny summer’s day that your sisters were holding a dansant at Andromeda Park. A tea dance of course but so described in French on one of the engraved invitations which I was not sent. Of course my mother insisted it was an oversight. That I had every right to present myself to the Darcy Thormond Kildares. And so, unbidden, having come all the way out from town, in my best frilly party dress and party shoes and pushed by our handyman up your front steps, and quite trembling in terror already, your sister Christabel saw me, and imperiously levelling her arm and pointing her finger in my direction, said, in about the loudest voice I shall ever hear for the rest of my life. I did not invite her. Of course someone did come after me. But I had already run in hysterics. Right out across your front lawn. I even had a present to present. I ended up being found in the bog unconscious with exhaustion. My gift still clutched to my breast. And which I still carry with me. Wherever I go in this world. You will find it there. In my toiletry purse. And next to my chequebook.’
A scribble
Upon which
Can buy
You now
24
The pair of Americans descending in the lift. My god, one can’t possibly conceive of an entire nation just like them. Preparing for an excursion to Glendalough. From which by the uncertain tone of their voices they think they might never return. Little do they know of course that they are highly unlikely to ever get there in the first place. As the bus due to leave has, by my reckoning, already left from outside the gentlemen’s convenience in Stephen’s Green.
Rashers in a trice would have counselled me in this moment of spiritual dread. I’ve been bought. Dear boy but of course you have. Take her money as a temporary emolument enabling you to keep both your head and prick up while you regain your financial feet. Baptista sitting up in bed signed the cheque on the desk blotter. Her breasts hovering over the pink tinged slip of paper like the most formidable mountain range. I suggested that perhaps it was time she decamped to her own apartments, before we became the subject of gossip.
‘Pity it worries you. But I don’t give a damn what anyone thinks and certainly not nosy little skivvies running around an hotel. And of course you are coming to Paris with me.’
‘Am I.’
‘Yes. You are. I’m having some riding boots and some dresses made.’
‘And if I don’t.’
‘Well, shall I tear this up.’
Severe lobby traffic for lunch. Count MacBuzuranti not even noticing me, sweeping by in his flowing scarf and polo coat. Champagne corks already popping. Parties preparing to depart for the races. And whoops. The cavalry Colonel. Growling at tourists in his way. Monocle glinting. As I disappear. To come rapping at this Manager’s door. Without even a cup of coffee to cheer up an empty stomach. Carrying Baptista’s massive revenge. A tiny piece of paper in my pocket. Her childhood gift a small silver spoon. Come in. Compelled to enter in here. As if facing a headmaster. Or worse, like a common travelling salesman. Desperately in need of chiropody.
‘So sorry to have had to ask you to call in Mr Kildare.’
The Manager still smiling. Perhaps I should be sporting a red polka dot bow tie. And a tight shiny suit. Befitting my new station of kept man. He is even getting up from behind his desk. My god it almost seems as if, were I to reach out, he would shake my hand. Suppose when one’s bill is big enough, it requires of him to exhibit a certain pretence of happy calm. My previous planned story was to simply tell him I was soon selling prime cattle mooing already on their way in on the train. Now must in the most casual tones present this blatant cheque, which risks painting me as a professional male paid fornicator, and even unmitigated cad. Not to mention gigolo, fancy man and other rankings much lower than gent. Explain the cheque as the signatory’s part payment on the price of a horse. Ha ha, rather convenient to pay my bill with it, you understand. My god he does have a monstrously fat envelope to hand me. Obviously detailing everything but ladies’ hairdressing and including all Rashers’ enormous breakfasts and pre lunch champagnes, cigars and lunch and god knows what else.
‘O. No need yet, ha ha Mr Kildare to settle your account. Ha ha. Plenty of time enough now for that. But as you see, I dare not entrust this to you in any other way. As given me, it was attached together with a rubber band. Hope you don’t mind that we’ve enclosed it in this envelope. But it is a rather large sum of money.’
‘I see.’
Of course I didn’t actually see or know what on earth he was talking about. However as one does at such moments, I tried to show as much of my nervous teeth as possible. Reached to take the heavy envelope and did with the left hand quietly lower Baptista’s cheque previously tendered, stuffing it deeply into one’s pocket. While listening avidly.
‘It was delivered some considerable days ago with this letter by a young lady who left no name. If I may perhaps take the liberty to say, an extremely beautiful and charming young lady. Would you mind just signing this receipt for me please, Mr Kildare.’
‘Yes of course.’
‘Do hope that in spite of last night’s incident in the hall, you are enjoying your stay here with us. And that you are entirely comfortable.’
‘Yes I am thank you.’
‘As ridiculous as it sounds I believe the lady in the lobby was simply agitated by some phenomenon she said she’d seen. At a chiropodist’s of all places. Can you imagine anything so daft. Suppose it’s what we must expect these days.’
‘Yes quite.’
‘We could if you like, still keep that in our safe but I thought you might want to get it to
the bank.’
‘Yes, I may in fact pop it in there.’
Darcy Dancer hurrying away. Out the hall. After the nods and smiles. Back into the lobby. Stop. Take a deep breath. Dear me. This place is a rogues’ gallery. My former sneaky agent just in the door. Plus Major Bottom, the hunt secretary heading into the dining room. And the damn sanitary supplier who assaulted me in my own front hall. Even the poet is skulking around. Whom I should have had arrested. Turn quick left. Left again. Secrete myself in the privacy of the residents’ lounge. Good god. This is a stack of bloody fivers. Some tens. Even fifties. And this letter. Here in my hand trembling. Such a lifetime ago that I first saw this neat fine penmanship so carefully propped up on my dressing table. Open it.
My dearest friend,
I wanted so much to talk to you before I did what I’ve done. And it was not to rob a bank, but I did win at the races. I thought I saw you there but when I finally pushed my way through the crowd towards you, you had gone. I looked around town and even went into pubs and places. Till I heard, too late, you were here. And I am leaving this as partial payment for the vase. Please never let us not be friends. I will always love you as I always have. And will always be there should you ever need me.
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.