‘Well, Mr Kildare no, but I am wondering if you perhaps are encountering any.’
‘None at all. I’m extremely comfortable thank you.’
‘Well as a matter of fact Mr Kildare we were concerned if perhaps some mistake had been made on your bill. You see we usually require some kind of prearrangement for the longer settlement of accounts.’
‘Ah. But of course. My bankers are organizing a draft. But you know how we Darcy Thormond Kildares hate to be rushed.’
‘There’s no rush. Certainly sir. Seeing as your mother’s family have been our valued customers over the years. And I think for the moment an exception can be made.’
‘I am indeed most appreciative. Funds held up. A death in the family you know.’
‘O I’m sorry to hear that sir.’
Then at Leopardstown races. The worst happened. Wiped out. And walked all the way back to Dublin. And not trusting to a future encounter with the Shelbourne’s overseers being so successful I piece by piece discreetly removed each item of my newly acquired wardrobe down and around the corner to the Royal Hibernian. To there ensconce in a back snug blue carpeted room. With now an irate Shelbourne management concerned over my whereabouts and not a sou in my pocket with which to even place a bet at the Turf Accountant’s in Duke Street. Indeed in such impoverishment one desperately depended upon an hotel’s kitchen’s hospitality. Even to having the Hibernian’s chef daily knock up a sandwich lunch picnic for me to eat in a lonely deckchair in Stephen’s Green. However although one had nothing else to complain about in the Hibernian, they could not as I had hoped they might, agree to an arrangement whereby my bill was rendered half yearly. Nor could one insist in view of my still insubstantial amount of luggage. Mostly carried in loose over my arm. But one would now have to distinctly avoid walking in, through or indeed past the Shelbourne or any other of the more horsey environs these days. And not only in case of marauding Masters of Foxhounds.
‘Good day sir. Breakfast well.’
‘Yes thank you.’
‘Have today’s Sporting Herald.’
‘Yes I will, thank you.’
‘Put it on the tab sir.’
‘Yes, please do.’
With these words exchanged each morning with the hotel porter one did feel as if it were one’s own front hall. But instead of out to pastures, one stepped under the glass awning and down steps to the boulevard. Where with motor cars more prevalent one enjoyed the rather pleasant acrid fume. Wonder hourly what to do. Begging was a thought. Stirred each time I walked by the same blond and staring organ grinder on the bridge. Or sauntered constantly daily on the favoured and more socially acceptable streets. Paying special attention to that of Grafton. The delight never waning of walking up one side and down the other. Past the jewellers. Medical instrument suppliers. Cafés. Coffee shops. Then back and forth through Duke and Anne Streets. Up and down Dawson. Somewhere somehow I’m bound to meet Miss von B. Or surely find a party raging. Where one could meet and talk with someone. Or even find a lawyer perhaps. To sue my father.
I did however get myself a cane. From my faithful ever willing to please horse haberdasher in Dame Street. Which instantly cheered me up in my loneliness. And goodness sauntering with it this sunny Wednesday mid afternoon I disported in the peace of College Park to watch the girls play hockey and the gentlemen rugger. Then while contemplating rogering nearly every lady of any reasonable appearance, I nearly ran smack into Lois. Right in the roasting coffee aromas in front of Bewley’s Oriental Café on Grafton Street. Just after I had opened an account there and sent off a pound of their best chocolate fudge to Kelly with a quarter pound each of marzipan fondants and oriental jellies. Stood there thinking. For at least one and a half seconds. Before following her. My trouser sticking out like a tent. And Lois in a long knitted white wool coat. A green wool knitted hat popped atop her grey blonde hair. Striding in long mannish strides. Feel just like one of her hoard of sexually frustrated people she said trailed her. Avert my eyes from the many eyes in the passing faces that become more and more familiar each day. In the lobbies. The coffee houses. Everywhere on the street. Now need to run after her. With her walking speed. Down the street. Into Switzer’s. Lurked a moment feeling such a pervert in the ladies’ corsetry area. My penis throbbing. And Lois discussing with an unfriendly saleslady some undergarment she finally declines to buy.
Then through back streets. Kept swallowing my saliva. Thinking of her bosoms. As she bought vegetables in an old market. And every time I turn a corner. One is ready to meet one’s father. Or jump aside out of the arms of the waiting Master of Foxhounds. But my most lowest of low moments followed the last race at Leopardstown. Leaving me ever since so absolutely god awful broke. Winning the first two races. Losing the rest. Then without train fare removing myself so unglamorously all the way back to Dublin on my two feet. Had an intervening glass of water from a reluctant publican in Stillorgan. Who whispered to another customer that it was safer to serve the insane what they wanted. And reaching the lobby of the Hibernian as exhausted as I was stony broke. Not even able to dispense my usual shilling tips to the boot boy or the most solicitous doorman. And now. Like a sex starved maniac I am. Following this Bohemian home. Back by the Hospital. Whoops. Nip into a doorway. As she suddenly turns around. Nip out again. Keep creeping onwards. Wait. Let her go up her alley. And peruse for half an hour in a shaft of warm sunlight this cobbler’s window. With a statue of the Blessed Virgin surveying at her feet, a bunch of old warped shoes.
Darcy Dancer rapping on the door. Up between these shadowy walls. Strewn newspapers and patches of grease on the cobbles. The big doors of the warehouse. Heart thumping to knock on this pale green plank marked number four. O my god if the gunman answers. Bang. Bang. Be at least the end of the agony of wondering what’s going to happen to me. Feet coming down the stairs.
‘Identify yourself please.’
‘It’s me.’
‘I am most certainly not going to open up my door to that remark.’
‘Well I was here once before.’
‘Nor am I opening it to that remark.’
‘Well I’m the imperialist member of the squirearchy.’
‘Nor does that remark interest me since I am a fervent socialist.’
‘I’ve come to buy your pictures.’
‘Now that is more like it.’
Door opening. Lois stepping back. One hopes bloody hell, not over the milk bottles again.
‘It’s you. Good god.’
‘Yes.’
‘I thought I might have seen you. In Grafton Street. Well don’t just stand there. Come in. My god have you grown. Or have I shrunk since I last saw you. And when you nearly committed murder.’
‘I have been wanting for so long to apologize to you.’
‘Don’t apologize to me. People are poleaxing people in my bed all the time.’
‘Well it was discourteous striking someone from behind like that.’
‘Well no matter dear boy. At least you escaped certain death at the hands of a ruthless gunman. And as a matter of fact. It was hardly your fault. Well sit down. Will you have tea.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And you needn’t worry. He’s not about at the moment. And if he were. You’d hear it from his own lips. Quite amazing. When he woke up. He was simply ecstatic. He had according to him, when you bashed him, the greatest orgasm of his entire life. While I of course was having my greatest fright. Anyway how nice of you wanting to buy my pictures.’
The big studio. The full length portrait of the Count with his arm and lower leg now all in one piece. A ring of strawberry leaves round his head. The strong smell of turpentine in the warmer spring balmy weather. A north light bathing the stacked canvases. The stove door stuffed open with biscuit wrappings. Dishes crammed in the sink. Penises and balls everywhere. And my own dying to be exercised by that hand now putting a kettle on to boil.
‘Well this is a surprise. You of all people. An imperialist.
Liking my pictures. And just in time. I’m simply so bored by my impecuniousness. It’s so tiresome. Well my dear boy, I don’t want to rush you but I have a collector coming, and I would like you to have first choice. Which of my paintings would you like to see.’
Darcy Dancer casually crossing his tweedy legs over his erection. Such a marvellous activity to spend these moments as a connoisseur of art. Sound of a fresh breeze blowing over the skylight. As one stares glued to her bosoms and swelling orbs of her bottom as she bends over revealing her canvases one by one. Then putting out her chest standing at a new swatch by the wall. To unveil art when I’d rather she unveiled her nipples. Her belly. Her crotch.
‘No. Can’t show you these. They’re not worthy. And my integrity would not allow me to sign them. But this dear boy is out of my green fertility period. Note how the penis here is pregnant with movement. And the testicle showing its marvellous spheroid line. It’s what one tries for. Tension in total and complete repose. Do you think I’ve caught it.’
‘Yes I do rather.’
I bought six paintings. One for every inch of my erection. And all for the awful staggering total of ninety-six pounds. One of course would have to hang them in a locked room away from prying eyes. Lois seemed not in the least troubled by my not having my cheque book with me. But otherwise she was all business. Showing me her most recent washes of the male nude. And not once even suggesting the removal of my clothes. Or giving even the remotest sign indicating she would welcome my stiff prick loosed into her presence. With its throbbing tension in total and complete repose.
A knock down at the front door. O my god. The gunman. Just when one was on the verge of simply taking out one’s penis. Encouraged or not. And Lois jumping up. A hand up to put back her wisp of hair. Loosed each time she bent over. And I planned to make a grab for her. And now instead make an immediate move towards the drapes to hide.
‘You needn’t worry dear boy. I’m sure it’s my collectors. For tea.’
A most baggy suited tweedy couple. One would almost expect wrens to fly out of their sleeves. She with bobbed straight grey hair hanging down around her head. He with a red carnation in his buttonhole. And a bright orange tweed tie. They mounted the stairs spouting a fountain of superlatives. How utterly quaint. How divine. All the way to the door. Through which they come to pause in stony silence at the sight As I stand for introduction. Nicely embarrassed by my face I just spot in a drawing in which my form is adorned by a rather limp but large erection.
‘Ah let me introduce you to a young connoisseur who has just happily bought several of my pictures. Ah now, please, do sit down.’
The couple hardly looking up. Or around. Never mind sitting down. The Professor clearing his throat.
‘Are these. These, your pictures.’
‘Yes.’
‘Well. I think there has been some misunderstanding.’
‘O.’
‘Well. I think, and I am abundantly sure my wife will agree with me, that this is not what we expected. I mean take that there for example. Indeed that too. They are I regret to say, pornographic. And in the most blatant meaning of that word. If this is a sample of your work. I’m afraid we simply are not interested.’
‘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.