The Beastly Beatitudes of Balthazar B (16 page)

"Thank you and thanks awfully much for breakfast sir. It really has made me feel very able again. And splendidly refreshed."

"Good."

Professor Elegant smiled a firm goodbye at his door. From these cozy comfortable rooms. His wavy greying hair. He has seven children. Scurrying about a country house. His wife all dressed in tweeds. Blue eyed and radiant. Kids on ponies. Cantering through meadows in sunny lives. Sitting evenings at fires overlooking their busy days. From Howth to Kiliney, and out across Kildare with all their fluffy haired children romping over the grass and outcrops of granite.

Balthazar B weak of stomach went back and lay on his bed in his room. Pulling back the washstand from the window and closing over the tall great shutters. Hold out the wild hair of the trees. To wake again in gloomy darkness. One's mind areel with pounding horses. Hooves flicking clods up against the sky. What will ever happen in my future life. When I step out and say to the world I'm here. Foreskin saved. They'll say you're just like the others yesterday. What is that pounding and pounding. Dark outside. And late. After sleeping. And still so often I chase her. Bella. And each time I stop. Bend my head and feel tears fall down on my folded fists. And turn back for wherever is home. When now at this grey ancient university. I can't bear to put any knowledge in my brain. That I'll never use again. Still hear pounding. It's my door.

Balthazar B pulling back the heavy blue wool blanket and stumbling to switch on the light. Shuffling in slippers across his sitting room and into the hall. The door shaking on its hinges. Open up. Some mayhem all over again. Or arrest.

Draw the bolt. It's Beefy.

"My God Balthazar."

"What's the matter."

"This."

"O no."

"O yes. Headlines. All over Dublin."

ISLAM PERIL

STUDENT LOST IN LAURELS

At five A.M. this morning in the exclusive district of Donnybrook, the demesne of many prominent business people, an unusual confrontation resulting in misunderstanding took place in the grounds of a Dublin assurance executive's home. Garda were called and a squad car, the first of its kind to be used to stamp out crime, was dispatched from Dublin. The lady of the misunderstanding, who has been sleeping lightly recently because of current newspaper reports regarding the spread of Islam across the earth, heard a noise in her garden, where there are many rare roses of which she is a fancier. Having jumped to a certain conclusion at the further aggressive sounds, she roused her husband who immediately challenged the dark complexioned people thought to be aswarm in the garden and who had already pulled off half the stucco plaster the east side of the house, the damage being effected by a yank on the clothes line. As he rushed forward attired lightly in pyjamas to grapple with the Moslem mob thought to be reforming ranks beneath the window he shouted "Up the Republic" and told his wife to raise the tricolor immediately on the roof, that Irishmen everywhere would give a good account of themselves this night and once again put the invader to flight. His wife however thinking he would stand no chance against an emotional dusky skinned horde, telephoned the garda and gave thanks along the way to Blessed Oliver Plunket that the communication lines had not already been cut.

Her husband meanwhile with no regard for his own safety and armed only with a hurling stick ran out into the night against the protests of his wife. Although finding nothing he concluded the adversary would be adept at blending with the darkness. Upon his return from this reconnoitre the lady of the house screamed at the sight of blood pouring from her husband's head who in his rush down the stairs had hit it on the ceiling. He said that the first wave had obviously passed and that the Islamites must have debarked from boats on the Dodder River and taken Donnybrook by surprise. And that they should lay low till the next wave and await army reinforcement.

The scene changed abruptly however upon the arrival of the garda who swiftly took control of the situation and upon issuing a challenge to a movement in the shrubbery came upon an elegant gentleman sheltering under an Aliantus i63 Grandulosa tree, identified by the garda in charge who is an amateur biologist and linguist.

The gentleman however remained unidentified as it appeared he knew no tongue spoken by the garda, who went painstakingly through his entire repertoire. Garda unraveled him from the householder's laundry line. And upon closer scrutiny the garda could see that the gentleman was hopelessly lost and suffering shock from exposure. The entire misunderstanding came to a most happy conclusion when the garda assured the lady of the house that wherever it might be that Islam was on the march there was no trace of the said group that night in Donnybrook. The garda and the lost elegant gentleman, who later proved to be Mr. Balthazar B, a student of the natural sciences at Trinity College, were invited to clean up after the havoc and a hot cup of tea was served to all.

Upon further interview from this reporter, the lady of the misunderstanding said it was heinous to contemplate being at the mercy of Islam. She hoped that her husband, although in his early forties, would be an example to other Irishmen who sometimes left their wives in the lurch when violence was afoot. She attributed her husband's youthful agility to good toilet habits and grooming. But both of them had long been accustomed to doing eight deep knee bends at an open window each morning. She was especially glad that what had started as a hideous mystery could now be looked back upon as another incident where Irishmen, when oppression threatened, would rise up to take the cudgel or as in this case, hurling stick, to drive back the intruder. Her solicitors were looking into the question of damages.

Blackness gleaming on the large panes of glass. Soft lamplight below in the square and through the trees, the lighted windows in the Rubric. Balthazar sat slumped in his chair. Eyes closed. A strange terror seeping through one's veins. Defamed. Disgraced across the drawing rooms of Rathgar. Up and down the mahogany sideboards and in all the silver salvers. Balthazar B on my calling card. Caught in trespass lurking in the bushes. Who would ever believe I was but travelling north back to my abode. To see again this face of Beefy. Only friend I know.

"Dear boy. Dear boy. Don't take it like that. You're upset. Buck up. You crafty article. You got off with Miss Fitzdare. Good ankle. Ample about the chest. Slow to keep up with fashion. Bit of a blue stocking. But she has formidable connections with the Church of Ireland. Deep in with the ecclesiastics.' "I'm cast in a very poor light."

"It casts you in light dear boy that's all that matters."

"After such as this I'm not good enough for her."

"I am of course, Mr. B, not taking you seriously. Rash remark. If you look into it, you will always find, if not in the evening newspaper, something rather shoddy and shabby back in everyone's pedigree. Crafty frauds perpetrated upon poor old widows. Miss Fitzdare will have her little shabbinesses." "Don't please speak ill of her."

Balthazar leaning forward to his table. Elbows up on the worn top and hands at his temples. Beefy sad and quiet and reaching across a hand to put on Balthazar's shoulder. Evening bells tolling six. Newsboy shouts on the streets not so far away. And Beefy's voice.

"I'm sorry, I had no idea. I do retract my rather hasty and uncalled for remarks. Certainly you must not listen to me. Miss Fitzdare's a fine girl. You're quite right to feel the way you do."

Balthazar B said yes with a nodding head. Beefy stepped backwards to the door. The evening paper spread on the table. All its black and white print. A day begins prostrate on a field of grass. With some joys held in a hazy head. The kind blue warmth of you Fitzdare. Your magic and strength as you patted your horse. I wanted so much for you to lead me out to graze. Hold my reins. Give me laughing lumps of sugar.

Sweeten the sour look of me on this page. Where a world i65 wags a finger. And if I run they will bite at my heels. And if I don't.

They'll

Want

To sink

My soul.

17

That late winter the snow lay for weeks across Ireland. Sheep buried in drifts. Roads and railways blocked and racing cancelled at the courses. The giant brown pyramids of wet turf stacked in Phoenix Park. And when the snows left, the rains came.

Balthazar B lay late abed. In sweaters, shirts and socks. Cold winds shaking the great window frames. And when shadows settled over college. He went discreetly across the squares. To take half pints of creamy topped porter from the marble bar of the Wicklow Hotel. To soak up the warmth from the gleaming mahogany panelling. And at the latening hour to devour sea food and steak. Tucked down this narrowing street.

The Landship, of the monstrous rumbling motor, after these months motionless, was sold to Beefy. He came in motoring cap and leather coat to take it through its paces. Fourteen members of the rugby team pushed to start it out the back gate and along Lincoln Place. In Merrion Square the motor faltered and failed when the transmission fell out on the road. A team of horses came to haul it away to a mews garage. Balthazar offered Beefy his money back. And he gallantly refused.

"A bargain my dear chap is a bargain although one of us may not be amused."

Miss Fitzdare sometimes passed in a little motor all of her own. With just room for two and a package on the back seat. Of all the embarrassed days. Unable to face her carefree smile. When once even she waved at me. And I could not lift my hand or grin but fled. Till this April afternoon. The days were softening now. There came a rap on my door.

Horace had put a pitcher of beef tea at my side. I lay back on my chaise longue in a pose of indisposition. Which I often took. Through these days. Wearing purple ecclesiastic silk at my throat and a blue smoking jacket. To hold firmly the spine of a tome. The Morphology of Vertebrates. And Horace nipped his head in the door.

''Sir, there is a young lady calling upon you. A Miss Fitz-dare. Shall I show her in."

"My God."

"Ah you're not receiving."

"O no no. Show her in please."

"Very good sir."

The sound of feet in the hall. Horace's voice may I take your coat miss. And a voice melodic. Like a thrush sitting first and fat in spring. Here in my chambers. In all the dust. Something I can't believe. She would call on me. Horace so anxious I should be happy. And not lie entrenched and enclosed all these weeks. Writing letters back and forth to my trustees.

Who like to make me feel I am improvident.

The Temple.

London, E.G. 4

Dear Mr. B,

Your letter of the fourth instant to hand. We have acted upon your instruction to transfer the additional sum you request to your account with the Bank of Ireland. However, it is our duty to inform you, having regard for the magnitude of the additional monies, that we would be pleased if you would advise us of any not usual contingency which may have arisen unforeseen and with which perhaps we could assist in extending our advice. Do not hesitate to call upon us to be of any help. Meanwhile we continue to conduct settlement terms regarding the damage claimed with reference to your trespass and will keep you informed.

Yours faithfully,

Bother, Writson, Horn,

Pleader & Hoot

As my big black door opens. I stand to receive. Horace stiffly as he does coming to attention. She wears the black coat she wore that detouring night. Light silk on her legs and her shoes low heeled and gleaming with two flat little bows.

"Miss Fitzdare, sir.' "Hello."

"Miss Fitzdare. Do please, come in."

"Thank you."

"Would you bring another cup please Horace."

"Right you are sir."

"I do apologise for barging in like this. Walking along I couldn't help but see your light. You've not been at classes. You haven't been ill."

"No."

"O."

"Please, sit here Miss Fitzdare. I fear I've been rather flamboyant with this chaise longue. But during long afternoons it affords a simple calm comfort."

"O you mustn't move. Please don't. I'm fine right here. On the end. I don't really feel very, I don't know how to say it, but I shouldn't call on you like this, I know."

"I'm so glad you did. Really I am."

"I felt that perhaps there was something I did or said without realising and that I may have offended you."

"O no. You must never feel that. Here. Thank you Horace. Have some of Horace's beef tea. And could we have some more toast, Horace."

"Very good sir."

"You'll have some toast. And beef tea. And try this honey. Then we'll have china tea."

"I'd love to."

"Good. It's for me I suppose the most important wonderful part of my day. I have to hold myself back in the early afternoon. When four approaches I blurt out to Horace. Beef tea. I know it's awfully indulgent but then I have china tea and lemon to follow. Languorously sipping all the way to six o'clock."

"You're swotting too."

"O. The Morphology of Vertebrates. Not really. I think it's to do with these drawings. When one looks at the dorsal side of things. All so neatly laid out on the page. And absolutely nothing to do with the horrors of life. These dormant pisces and aves."

"You've been asked after. Professor said where has our elegant friend got to."

"O Lord not that night again.' "He didn't mean to pry. I'm sure. But you know the account in the paper did rather put you on the map. I felt awfully responsible. That's why I thought you were avoiding me. It was so much my fault. To let you just wander off in the night that way. And the least I could do was to come and put things right."

"Is that the only reason you came."

"No. I did want to see you again."

"I'm glad. You see I felt perhaps. Well as you say, it did rather put me on the map. But the ladder, the shrubbery. I thought people would think I was trying to look in their bedroom. And I suppose I just couldn't get myself to walk into class again."

"O but it was so little a matter."

"My lawyers haven't found so. I've been sued for enormous damages."

"O no."

"Yes. It doesn't matter. But it makes you feel people can be extremely unfriendly."

"O but that's awful. I had no idea."

"My tutor handled things marvellously and I suppose all would have blown over. But they heard rumours of my enormous car and riches. Totally unfounded, the riches that is. And that was that. Ah toast. You will have some."

"Love to."

"I put just this little extra touch of marmite on. Would you like extras too on yours."

"Yes thank you."

"Will there be anything else sir."

"No thank you Horace."

"I'll be pushing off then sir. Goodbye miss."

"Goodbye."

"Shall I shout you up in the morning sir. Eleven as usual."

"Eight please."

"Ah. Forgive me for commenting sir, but I'm glad to hear it. I think it's the effects of your call miss. And I hope you don't think I'm cheeky when I say we hope to see you again."

Late afternoon settling greyly. Somewhere west peeks a sinking sun. Fanning pink across the clouds. The stark chimneys of the Rubric and the tip top tower of the Campanile. When a spring stillness comes to the soft air. The world stops. And suddenly it goes on forever. Turning slowly round in its own tiny time. Click of the cricket bat and pop of tennis ball. The air comes down and breathes on you. When all the flowers know and rush to grow. Their fattest flowing leaves sent up. Their white bulbs secret and pleased in the moist black ground.

And Miss Fitzdare sits. One knee further up than another. The green plate on her grey wool skirt. I swallow my breath to look down and see her swell of thigh. Frightened of the world I'll always be. Never to stand up and shout. That that woman is mine. Sit instead to bow my head. And quake with loneliness when at last she's forever gone.

"That was an awfully nice thing for your servant to say. And I want to ask you something. You did say that time ago if you remember. That your Sundays were. O dear. What I'm asking is if you wouldn't like to come and lunch with us Sunday if you can. It's with my uncle where I stay. He's a nice old dear."

"I'd like to very much."

"And I think you do like horses. Don't you."

"Yes but I fear recently I've been visiting turf accountants.

And haven't been out at the courses."

"Well I thought that if you had nothing better to do, you might like to come and visit where I live. But that can wait."

"O no don't let it wait."

"I thought before Trinity lectures began."

"Do please have more tea."

"And if you like the countryside.' "Yes I do."

"Do you shoot.' "Yes I do.' "Do you ride.' "Yes I do."

"O dear I feel I'm making you say yes unfairly to all these things."

"O no. Not at all."

A slow smile on the lips of Miss Fitzdare. Dare not look at the contours on her purple soft sweater. She wears two. A twin set I think they're called. Buttons mother of pearl. One turn back of the long sleeves and her small round gold watch and black band shows.

"O I am. I know I am."

"Well yes perhaps. I'm not really a crack shot. I mean I do try to get the bird. O Lord, Miss Fitzdare. I miss badly if the truth were to be known. Frankly I can't shoot at all. I'm mortally terrified of horses too. But I do love the countryside. I mean would that be enough."

"O goodness yes. I love everything to do with the country and I sometimes, I know, am unbearably enthusiastic. You mustn't feel you've got to shoot or ride. Honestly. I only asked because if you did shoot, we have a shoot. And if you rode we could ride. Or weekends, hunt. And O Lord, really, if only you would like to go for walks that would be awfully nice."

"That's what I would like to do. More tea."

"I must be going. I had only meant to pass a moment. It's been such a beautiful afternoon. Balmy and calm. And I'm so pleased you'll come for lunch Sunday. I did often think of you and your Sunday appointment in Rathgar. You mustn't mind uncle, he blusters a bit about the Empire. He is sweet. Horticulture and astronomy are his passions."

"That's interesting."

"O you know he potters about but he has the largest private telescope in Ireland. I'd better warn you. You'll get a conducted tour."

"I'm awfully interested in the stars."

"Well then we have a date. I am glad I perked up my nerve. I thought you might be awfully busy or something and Fd be shooed away."

"O Lord Miss Fitzdare. What a thing to think."

"Fve not ever been in rooms in this part of college before."

"Perhaps I could show you, I mean you wouldn't mind, would you, it's only my bedroom."

"Well yes, do. Show me."

"Well. Certainly. It's rather barren I fear. But there we are. Obviously that's my bed. Giving me permanent curvature of the spine. I rigged up that little lamp there. I'm not much of an electrician. I'm sure to be electrocuted."

"O you must be careful."

At the open door Balthazar B turning to Miss Fitzdare. She smiles. And turns away back into the drawing room. Glancing over the books in the case on the wall.

"Goodness. Etruscan pottery. O do you go to the London auctions."

"Yes."

"You have all their catalogues."

"A way of spending a not unpleasant afternoon. Tarrying around the galleries."

"I'm sure you're one of those people who stick to Meissen onion pattern."

"That's extraordinary. How did you know Miss Fitzdare."

"O I knew."

"Would you like to see my scullery."

"I'd adore to. O mustn't say that word you took me to task over once before."

"O no, do please adore. I mean I'm quite happy you said that word. I'm afraid things are rather a muddle in here. That's the larder. Where I keep my marmite and cornflakes."

"What's that."

"O it's my peanut butter. I have it sent from Boston."

"Is it nice."

"It's scrumptious with strawberry preserve and butter in a sandwich. And in here. My two burner stove with grill.' "That's rather elegant."

"Left by a rich American I believe. Who couldn't stand the bitter cold and fled back to New Orleans. He used to lie in that room I understand, covered in coats and blankets, surrounded by hot water bottles and an electric fire shining on him through the night and he'd wake frozen."

"O the poor man."

"Horace arranged to get most of these things he left. Horace has been awfully kind to me. That's my pail of water. That's my turf bin. Beefy has one with a false bottom. You can hide underneath, through a little secret door. But that's very hush hush."

"How is your friend Beefy. One hears so many stories and rumours about him. I don't know quite what to believe. He seems such a kindly person."

"He is."

"It's horrid that people don't mind their own business."

"What do you hear."

"Nothing. Not anything worth repeating. And what's in here."

"Well I made a little effort to use this room as an antechamber. It's where the American driven out by the bitter cold made his last stand. I use it for nothing in particular at all. That's a little print I bought."

"It's nice."

"And those are early editions of zoology texts."

"O aren't they lovely. How wonderful. Wherever did you get them."

"On the Quays."

"You are a strange one Mr. B. One never knows about people. I never would have thought you collected books. I don't mean that in any way derogatory. But when one saw you in your enormous car, I thought you were the complete sporting gent. And not bookish at all."

"Well, Miss Fitzdare, I fear you really still don't know me. Now. You see over here. Notice, all locked up out of sight. But there you are."

"Goodness, magazines."

"Movie magazines. That's really what I read."

"I won't believe it. O I think you're having me on."

"It's absolute gospel. That's how I while away my days."

"O you don't."

"I do."

"You're reading morphology."

"It's just one of my guilty days. I settled down to some morphology. Usually I'm engrossed with film stars. I like the reckless abandon with which they live."