"Baby snatcher."
"What's a matter, jealous. Fritzy boy.''
"Some Romeo."
Harry's hands closing on the back of Christian's chair. White and iron and curved in lacy weave. Where I sat all that nearly a lifetime ago. Wishing a future. Through days that go by trampling all my dreams. Fanny Sourpuss had a steady boyfriend when she was a girl. He was rich from the other side of the tracks. And when his senior prom came he took someone else. And broke her heart.
"The chair. Sorry I've got to take this. Honey you're making this the saddest day of my life. I feel it."
Harry lifting the blue pillowed seat away. As; Fritz comes. Hawk wings spreading shadows. Descending upon this huddling fragile person. Whose small hand printed the first sign of love in my life. Make her safe, please. From anyone stepping on her soul.
Footfalls of Fritz and Harry. Across the maple floor. Emptying the pots of waving grass. Even the flowers out of their holders high on the wall. And on the edge of her chair. She sits in all her plaintive grace. They come now. A signal. To take each a side and lift the table away. Her elbows up. Clenched fists pressed on her tears. A rose against her cheek.
In the dimming light. Two dark emperors return. In their kingdom of loneliness. Under this ceiling. The thuds of feet. Stop behind her. And the hands reach. Touch and wait.
"Sorry miss, we can't help it, we 've got to take your chair.''
"Sorry kid."
Stillness of this autumn night. A sapling woman. Cut down. Kneeling on the floor. Her white dress aflood. Head deeply bent. Silently she weeps.
Fritz and Harry at the pantry door. Slowly turning to look back. The chair pulled between their fists. And they glare at each other in the face.
"You lousy rat."
Charlotte Graves. Pale stem of a flower. Broken to make grief. Tip toed through woods with me by a frozen brook. One sleigh riding snowy winter. Long before a city chilled a heart. When I was first in grown up love. She turned to me. Tan hopes glistening in all the gay blue green beauty of her eyes. She said. Do you think when it's all so cold and ice like this. That summer will ever come again. Down over the hard trees. While we were gabbing on the grass. Backs against the bark. Tasting life. And feeling swell.
When the maple leaves
Were falling
And the polly noses
Fell
30
An Admiral on my bridge. I stand. At the top of these gentle green steps. Grey topper, tails, white tie and ivory handled ebony cane. To wait now. And look down. Into the bright light of pillars, palms and canopies. As Harry peers out his pantry door. To take a gander at this scene. And the whole bunch of gems sparkling across my toes.
"Holy mackerel."
And Fritz rushing up. Mouth opening. His arm pushing out at Harry. As all lids rise a little higher than usual over their eyes.
"What's this, somebody arrived. Wow. A personage.''
Harry slapping his own face. And I do believe even buckling his knees.
"I should live so long.''
"Shut up, maybe you won't. Get out the table.''
Fritz striding forward, arms aplomb. Lips asmile. To receive this glistening guest. Who drove furiously sweating right down the hills into Yonkers town. Through back ancient streets by the river's industrial shore. To get a habeas corpus haberdasher out of bed. And slapped down the last of my little wad of dollars into his fist. To hire my raiment. And this hosierhatter said. As I was dressed for leaving. What are you. Some kind of nut mister. And I said no. I'm a miracle.
Cornelius Christian's hair gleaming in the light. A pale yellow rose in his buttonhole. Where the hell did he get that. Don't ask. Just watch Fritz taking his silken hat. And shiny cane. Waves an arm and bends a bow of welcome.
"Sir."
As Christian stands pausing to give a general perusement to his toggery. Flex a muscle under my silken shirt. Wiggle the large tricksy jewels on the present barefooted footsies. Say o fudge to the frills and furbelows. Forget the awful athlete's foot I had in high school. Use my slow majestic funeral step. Good as any frisky hoofing anytime. Put the frozen smile of the potentate across my appearance. Move down the stairs. Into the flooding lights of lime. Blazing in the midst of this preposterous eatery. And hi there you, Charlotte Graves out on the bobbing waves. I 'm a ship come to safely take you back to shore.
She sees me. Her head lifting. Eyes alight with tears. Who sweetened my heart so many years ago. As I stood skinny in the big terrible eyes of the world. She rises. So still she glides. Across the knots of maple grain. To lay her head against my breast.
The table lifted back. Harry unfurling its white cloth. Smoothing out the wrinkles to place a vase and rose. Fritz, chin high, surveys. And turns urgently whispering.
''Harry, the condiments and cutlery, you fool, fast.''
"O yeah."
The laying out of the eating instruments. Plates flashing in the light, with a final polish of Harry's sleeve. Fritz marching forward, heels tapping on the floor, large menus pinched under an arm. To silently seat these two guests. And hand each the palate tinkling parchments of delight.
''Good evening madam, good evening sir."
"Good evening."
Christian dancing an eye down the gilded nourishing words. Fritz with his pad held high and pencil poised. To await this greaseless gentleman's desire. Whose cheeks twinkle as he enquires.
"What's choice."
"Sir, may I be so bold as to suggest the consomme en gelee."
"Ah. Charlotte, for you."
Charlotte Graves. Her smile a dawn rising. A radiance of teeth between lips. The tender back of her hand brushing aside a lock of her hair. And finger tips touch away the moisture under her eyes. As Fritz leans deeply to suggest.
''Might madam like some kind of fish to follow.''
"Shrimps. Please."
"Crustaceans for madam. And for sir.'' 1 s Smoked salmon.''
"Saumon fume for sir. And to follow, sir. For madam."
A shy faced Charlotte. She looks up and across at me. As her lips ask.
"Steak."
And Fritz inclines the head.
"Mignon."
And Charlotte raises her brows.
"I guess so."
Fritz flourishing his yellow pencil and pauses on his pad.
"Rare, madain."
"Yes."
"Garlic, madam."
Graves looking out across this dazzling expanse, Over all the white. Over all the silver. All the way to Christian's champion face.
"Should I."
"Feel free."
"O k garlic then."
"Very good madam. Vegetables. For madam.''
"Asparagus."
"Excellent. Asperges for two. Potatoes. For madam."
"Boiled please."
"And for sir."
"Fried."
Christian reaching his pale white delicate fingers in under his shimmering black lapel. To take a thin platinum case from his pocket. Snapping it open to offer Charlotte Graves a cigarette. She lifts one out and puts it between her lips. Fritz strikes a match. A flame to light love.
"Allow me madam.''
And madam blows out her smoke. A billowy white. Fritz retreating backwards from the presence. His head nodding towards Christian this present potentate. As Harry hurries with a crystal pitcher of water, pincers and lemon peel. And stoops smiling.
''Good evening madam, sir."
"Hello."
Harry pouring his aqua into two tall glasses. As he leans deeper to ask.
"Will madam have some peel."
"Please."
"And for sir."
"Ah. I think so."
Harry steps back a step, sweeping low.
''I hope the water will be to your satisfaction."
Fritz standing at Harry's elbow. A footstool in his hands. As he bends forward to Cornelius Christian.
"Sir. May I. For your feet, sir.''
"Ah."
''Make sir more com
fortable.''
Cornelius raising and crossing his heels on the crimson satin cushion of this ebony stool. A flashing glint of rainbow light across his toes.
"Thank you."
"A pleasure, sir. And now perhaps sir would like something to drink. A white wine to start perhaps. With the poisson and madam's crustaceans. I can recommend this one.''
"Cordial."
"Very good sir."
Fritz withdrawing. A rearward step and a genuflected head. All the humming voices. And her eyes look at me. To see her sweet skinned hand reach across the table. Placed over mine. Her smile and hushed melodious voice.
"I'm sorry."
Cornelius Christian. Forgiver of all minor sins. That sea traveller. Who tells the world. That's all right. And raises his foot. Held table high. Gems gleaming. On all my toes.
You see
The color
Of this too
Is peach
31
Ten o'clock this chill October. Look down the morning street. Bags packed. Ready to go. See if the way is clear. Of all the ghosts still trying to get me.
Out the front door. A last letter waiting. Offering life insurance with disability provisions. Protect against permanent amputations. And a post card from Minnesota. Picture of a long shady street. And where it says correspondence. It says nothing but goodbye.
Cornelius Christian lugging his portmanteaux along the pavement. Step over the dog shit. Look in each doorway as I pass. Behind each parked car someone might be crouched like Hephzibah's jet black mother with a razor to cut off my balls. And me with only a pair of tender fists left against all the knives and guns.
Taxi pulls stopped at the corner. The end of the block. My breath steamy in the air. Heave two lonely bags in the back. Hear a voice say up front.
"Where to bud."
"Pier Fifty Seven."
Flood of traffic comes down the avenue. Just as we go across. Saw fat cheeks huddled in an overcoat slumped on the stoop of a building. Might have said so long on his sign. Sky red, raw and autumn. Read the Almanac this morning inside the newspaper's front page. The time of high water at Hell Gate, the temperature in Elkins, Roanoke and Detroit. Fifty degrees in Denver. Gentle to moderate southeast to south winds becoming northerly. Tomorrow fair with seasonable temperatures. Under the shadows of black trestles and girders. Pass whirring by the windows. See the red stacks of the ships. And the green cap on this driver's head.
"Hey pardon me bud. But haven't I seen your face somewhere before. I mean excuse me, are you a celebrity I should know.''
"No."
"Gee but I swear I know your face."
Christian slumping in his seat. Change my expression to one of total disfigurement that not even Hephzibah's mother would recognise. With all the photographs she's got. Of me in the altogether. As we go up this ramp and head downtown. And when I returned with my evening wear to Yonkers by the river. The haberdasher said I'd ruined the clothes and wouldn't give me my money back. Said white faced it was the best outfit in his selection and it was rags already.
"Hey wait. I know. I knew it. Sure, all I had to do was slap myself in the head. You was a fare nearly a year ago. I'm useful to the police. Never forget a face. I let you off at momma Grotz's before she got shot. You didn 't have nowhere to go. Well what do you know. Isn't this a coincidence.''
"Yes."
"Hey where are you going. On a cruise or something. You must have made it big. Sure, I thought to myself, when I first picked you up, there goes a guy ought to get a nice respectable job making good money. None of my business. But I mean it could be history."
In this flood of cars. Passing by the ships waiting on this shore. Out there across the Hudson, the palisades. I saw from Doctor Pedro's office window. Which is up there on the skyline to the left. Where he's playing his violin, and maybe scrubbing his floor. Looking down on this morning's jackasses. Of whom there is just one less left.
"Sure I know you. Told you all about the pet shop I had. Because I didn't want to hurt people. Is that bad I don't want to hurt people. I say phooey to anybody who wants to destroy people. Three months ago I nearly died. I had an exploded intestine. Because I get so worried. Sure I'm human. I don't want everyone never to hear of me again. When all the other thoughts they got push me out. I mean I'll tell you, you meet guys in this town pretending to be high society. Guys who'll stand around being nobody for an hour so they can be somebody for a minute and maybe bore ten years' patience out of a big shot's life who don't want to listen. But then you get the other kind. The acquaintances. Who really want to let you know they're close friends by drinking all your drink and eating all your food. So I ask sincerely, who needs them.''
Slam the door shut of this yellow black checkered cab. Outside this big grey stone arched entrance. Hardly anyone here. Under the glass and steel. My footfalls down this wooden pier. Push my passport into a man sitting in a chilly kiosk. Climb the gangway. With an ink stamp on a green page. Date and month of departure. And after those waiters crowded around me. Gasping at my palate. While I was basking in Charlotte's smiles. Smashing back the vintages, the brandies and crepe suzettes. Until in all my raiment. And smoking a Mott manufactured cigar. I gladly raised my arms. Stretched out and satisfied. Said shoot me. I can't pay the bill.
And ask
God please
Why do I get
Grief on a platter
And pleasure on
A spoon
Ship pulling out mid stream. Seagulls perched high in the rigging. Pennants wagging and the waves goodbye from the shore. Taxi driver said who knows we might meet again. And said no when I offered him a tip. Walk now along the deck under the lifeboats. Greased and ready for lowering. Ship's whistle. Blast quivers my spine. As tugs cast off. You're leaving nowhere when the whole place belongs to someone else. And there sitting in the second class lounge. As I jumped out of my skin through this two class ship. Marigold I met in the Sixth Avenue Delicatessan. A mirror held up, looking at herself and powrdering her nose. Travelling east with me out of this city of gloomy coincidence.
The ship gathering speed. The sun a red round globe. Hangs staring. Behind the city's veils. A day darkening like the dying. A hundred thousand windows stacked up. Canyons pass. Of crosstown streets. Avenues sinking between the blazing buildings. Go downtown on the tide. Fingers touching these scrubbed wood rails. On the stern of this ship. Breeze on my face. First scent of an ocean. That lies out there. Ebbing through the Narrows and past Sandy Hook. That flash of light. A rooftop glints a gold goodbye.
His head leaning down to rest on his hands. Harbour's waters tumbling up grey. Washing white like thighs along the steep black side of the ship. A bell rings. And why are you standing. With your hope and sorrows old. Silent and still. Listening. A shout. They'll never hear me. Across the lowlands of Brooklyn. And up through the catacomb hills of the Bronx. When I was a little boy. Left in a brand new foster home. I went out playing the afternoon around the block. Got lost, so busy telling all the other kids a fairy tale of New York. That my real father was a tycoon and my mother a princess. And it was just like a pale light of autumn. Where Fanny walked holding my hand that day. Not far from Mount Kisco. She tugged me close. Near a stone grey wall. Cows were crushing old apples. Under the lowly hanging leaves. And the sweet juice was running out their jaws.
Her spit
Was white
And
Beautiful
J. P. Donleavy, A Fairy Tale of New York
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends