The Beastly Beatitudes of Balthazar B (30 page)

"Beefy. Here."

"Balthazar. I don't really feel I ought to take this."

"You must. Because it's my wedding present."

"You are a brick you know. But if the wedding should never take place."

A silence. And their both eyes look down. Upon the packed sheets of money. The dowager clears her throat. A waddling American goes by through the cocktail murmur of voices on this splendidly tremulous afternoon.

"Thank you unforgettably Balthazar. With the world gone dotty with greed you alone stand uncorrupted."

Beefy with a gentle gesture touched Balthazar. And put the wad of notes with all their curlicued embellishments in under his tweed. Giving them a reassuring little pat. He turned to his dowager friend and smiled. She smiled. One can weep with joy. To be at home again in London. Beefy's eyes as they always look for something in the middle distance. Never too close nor too far. He will hit yet the world a stunning blow. Crumple it in the mid section. And bring it back to life again with a dram of his poppy juice.

"Balthazar may I introduce you. Lady Bicuspid. I've just been telling her about great grand uncle. Who contracted fever tracing the source of the Nile. He was the first to find the source of the Shannon for the Irish. It foxed the Erse for years. Poor devils. They were delighted when great grand uncle with a sample given him by my great grand father identified the water as being from a particular lake in China, called Shah Nun. For millennia it had leaked right through the earth. To trickle out in Ireland. That's how Shannon came to be its name. They gave uncle an immortal potato. The very original one they kept buried in a box at Tara. From which came all the others. Poor uncle. After his success in Ireland he thought he'd solve the Nile. Got knighted for his religious work among the savages. Who later, God rest his soul, knighted him with a spear where one does not want such a thing. They offered him up as a sacrifice in honour of the God uncle had revealed to them. They ate him. Without salt. It was awful. And dear lady. It appalls me still. The utter lack of gratitude and charity. Must rush now, but so pleasant meeting you like this."

"So interesting. I've enjoyed every moment so much, thank you. Young people don't talk to their seniors these days."

"Yes. I know. Not nice. But please God may we have this happenstance again. Been much rewarding to see the wealth of colour sparkling in eyes such as yours. An autumn splendour which only comes with the riper years."

"You are a dear boy."

"Goodbye, madam."

"Goodbye."

Beefy led Balthazar to the cigar department. There to purchase several packets to bulge out his pockets. On this lucid afternoon. He said he was going to distribute them to his mates on the building site. Where he would finish out the week. But alas he would still have to stay employed. Gainfully and continually or else forfeit the last remaining hope of granny's distant riches.

They parted with a wave at the entrance to the sweet department. Balthazar B went past the cheese and candles, by petunias and into the health juice bar. There amid a sudden throng of busty twice married heiresses he quaffed a mixture of blackberry juice and milk. And up through the various departments. To order furniture, enough for one. To sit and sleep upon.

The day of delivery in the door of 78 Crescent Curve. The men in pleasant green coats came. Set up the bed, table, sofa, chair, lamp and rug in the dining room. They thought me rather a little strange but I said it saves running around the house. I climbed up the stairs and stood there on the landing. Looking out back and into a small garden opposite. And saw lying back carelessly in a chair. A nearly naked girl. A towel just over her lap. Moving her head back and forth in the sunshine. A gleam on her small sharp pointed breasts. I was enchanted and somewhat saucily steamed. How gay and carefree and goodness, how London has changed. An older lady, looks her mother, comes out. Polishes her all over with an embrocation. As she now leans forward. Her pair seem to gain much in size. One wonders what other windows are alive with binoculars or unassisted eyes. Good Lord they look up. I step back. And wait. To peek again. From the landing next floor up. Ah the scene remains unchanged. I could run around and present my card. Placed neatly sticking up. I beg your pardon.

Out of

Beefy's

Wheelbarrow

Of ice cold

Sand.

24

The morning came when the parish magazine was pushed through the letter box. With a welcoming open letter to come and worship from the local vicar. And a week when I met the Angelica Violet Infanta, as well as her tall curvacious friend. We dined a foursome under the tinted cherubs painted on the ceiling of the Ritz. And danced around a champagne laden table hidden beyond the midnight curtains of Mayfair. The Infanta's laugh was deep throated and frequent. Her friend's was lighthearted and rare. And her name was Mil-licent.

Life easeful, moist and summery. In this most polite and courteous of cities. Grit and paper scraps tumbling in the gutter and people said sorry upon contact of an elbow. Smiles here now when needed. And words from the lips of Beefy. I kept appointments down in dark vaults near a candle to taste wine. Taxi engines trembled me a tranquil passenger, out to Mayfair and down to St. James. And sometimes I rode top the double decked red buses swaying roaring from stop to stop. Neighbours departed countrywards as weekends went by in Knightsbridge with unfussed burglaries on thick town house carpets.

I joined Beefy to play bezique at his club and dined off pheasant, claret and cheese. An afternoon on his day off he took me with a hamper of eel fillets, Scotch haggis from Perth, and boned and stuffed chicken in aspic and we sat with our wine surveying saucy antics in a private emporium of striptease. Beefy was climbing the road back up again. He said ah the Infanta, such is she as a girl and I as a chap that together we make a miracle.

I had a cook and Uncle Edouard's old butler, Boats, come one evening to give my first dinner at Crescent Curve. Magnums of champagne with slabs of tender steak and platters of garlic bread. Boats, retired a few years, was slightly enfeebled and very hard of hearing. And the crystal bowl of fruit salad he carried was dropped with one resounding pineapple splash. But there on that Thursday evening we drank a toast to the Violet Infanta and Beefy who announced their wedding. And I was asked to be best man.

I played tennis with Millicent. Who arrived smiling with tan legs in white socks and her racket and little box of balls. To volley, lob and smash me to smithereens all over the quiet and peaceful garden court. I stood so sweatily, spindly and white. And chasing her shots back and forth. Secretly I practised in an empty upstairs room against the wall. Breaking three rackets against the ceiling and knocking out four panes of glass. I met her parents. Both of them smiled. And leaned against their mantel piece. A marble little altar of propped up white invitation cards.

Millicent had long strong tan arms and splendidly muscled thighs. She stood straight and brown haired in flat shoes an inch taller than I. She moved wilfully forward her teeth flashing everywhere. Her serve was like a rifle shot and her back hand sizzled by. And each afternoon collecting up the tennis balls, I would watch her drying away her beads of sweat the other side of the court. Where she stood quite handsome. Elegantly serene. And pleasantly untouchable.

An evening we went to Soho for dinner. Each time I invited her I never thought she would say yes. She wore a close fitting orangy dress low cut over her breasts. And she listened and listened out of her lackadaisical brown eyes. With dark waiters crowding around. I stole looks down at her legs. Watched her buttocks wagging as she walked to powder her nose. And when she leaned forward I stared there too. A waiter doing so impertinently as well. I was so angered I lavishly overtipped him. Then we left for a nightclub. I finally moved to her close as she took my arm. She said out of the smoke and noise of the evening. Why Balthazar, it would not be impossible for us to go to an hotel. One weekend along the river.

From Crescent Curve I made lathered enquiries of river hotels from Greenwich to Maidenhead. And she said yes when I told her. We were booked. My gladstone bag packed with my most favoured linen. A change of ties, four shirts and socks. An old volume on vertebrate morphology stuffed between. I would set forth in grey pin stripe. Change later to more casual wear. And there. She waited packed on that sunless north west corner of Harrods. As I came cruising in a hired chauffeured car along Brompton Road.

It had been an early afternoon of much sprinkling of the toilet water in all possible places. The combing and brushing of that awkward bit of hair. That jumps up from my crown. Sitting serene in this motor now. Distinctly headed west through Barnes across Putney bridge. Turn left to smile. And she puts out her hand and a finger striped gold with a wedding band. I had three times on lonely nights crossed through the park. Strolled the Bayswater Road.. To hope to purely by accident meet Breda. But I never did. As the odd ladies went past whispering good evening dearie.

Reports coming in daily from Beefy were good. Back happily in his club. Employed as lift operator in one of the taller buildings. An improvement he said on the days crossing the stock exchange with slow gait so as not to expose his bare ankles devoid of socks. Awful dear boy when one can't sit down or walk too fast without fear of hiking up the cuff. But these days now living at his club crossing the lobby or marching down to breakfast in his elevator operator's uniform.

Under the suspicious scrutiny of the members. But Balthazar, I tell you, George my old whipper, dear chap, spread the word among them that indeed I was of the foreign military, rank of major general in the Zanzibar marines.

Proceeding west through the middle afternoon. An hour or two before the rest of London will charge out to the countryside. We turn down a winding narrow road and go through this postern onto a gravel apron before a mullioned windowed door. With its little sign above saying so and so licenced to serve alcoholic beverages and tobacco on the premises. One feels a need of both right now. The hotel large and empty. Across the lobby and through a smoking room where windows overlook the river cool and grey. The chauffeur carrying in our bags. One follows behind wondering what to do. I gave him a little something extra for himself. And tried to raise my eyebrows when I thought he seemed to wink at me.

At the polished oak reception desk I tinkled the little bell. A woman came. Busty in a rather over colourful flowered dress. Millicent standing with her everlasting smile playing across her lips as she looked down and bowed to sniff a vase of shrubs and flowers. I moistened my lips. Cleared my throat. And leaned forward imperceptibly.

"I have booked.' "Name please."

"BalthazarB.' "What's that.' "Balthazar. B is for B."

"O. Is it just one."

"O no it was for two."

"A double eh."

"Yes, I think so, please, with bath."

This big white book open. Where this lady points to say sign the register. And one does not know what to sign. Is it binding. To put down one great big B. Preceded by the tiniest written Mr. and Mrs. so that one can say I didn't mean it really. Evidence down through the years. Of deliberate saucy aforethought to indulge in shameless physical familiarities. Vile, low, shabby and inglorious. As I put the pen to this paper and tremble uncontrollably. Writing out across the page Mr. and Mrs. Balthazar B. So much larger than I ever meant it to be. And change my number from 78 to 94 Crescent Curve, and make it Mayfair instead of Knights-bridge.

A little man in a large grey suit took our bags to the room. Up a back staircase and down a long hall. Beefy said one should have as many rehearsals as possible for the honeymoon and he'd already played a solo on the Infanta's violin and she quivered and groaned on the high notes. As he shoved his stake as many times as he could into his claim. Flinging her down into seven leafed pink and purple clematis and rogering her right sharpish in the camelias where they both rolled ardently. My dear boy, of course one unzips the white dazzler and gets it into her before she can hear a sparrow fart. One merely whispers first, may I slip madam a gradual glissando. And here and now one walks hands atremble, heart beating far too fast. Into this room, bow fronted on the river. Big red flowered curtains, black narrow beams in white ceiling, pink and blue towels, and a crimson shade with tassels on the bedside lamp.

Millicent stands in front of the mirror combing back her neck length brown hair. Beneath the window a cherry tree. And beyond across the river a corner of a little field, great fat pink pigs lying in the grass. The door closed behind the porter. Our two bags side by side on the luggage rack the foot of the bed. And Beefy said whenever he looked with appealing honesty and purity of passion at some lady she would turn eastwards if any soft southerly attempt was made at her intimate acquaintance. Therefore it was frequently better to approach first with a gentle pastoral goose, oblique but deep enough to ruffle the female feathers. This led often to immediate and delightful bare arsed infamies without any prolonged further ado.

Balthazar B crossing the floor to stand close behind Milli-cent. And reach down, and my God I don't know quite how to give a goose. But must do something while I'm so near. Just put my hand I guess on her buttock and hope for the best as she slowly smiles in the mirror. And opens her brown eyes wide to look at me. My God how does one behave. Retreat now to give her time to pack. I mean unpack. Or wash her hands. Or rinse a pair of stockings as ladies often do. What a most awkward time of day. To stand here so close, my pole prepared as much as I am unprepared for anything. Still there is always that splendid solution to soothe and cairn.

"Millicent, would you like to have tea."

"That would be nice."

We went down into the smoking room. Another couple of older years in the corner. Who raised their voices. To make conversation about the invention of the electric light bulk The wife eagerly listening to what could only be her husband as tea is brought. Behaving as if they had never met before. In their twenty years of marriage and I don't suppose they have. Just like the moments when I touch Millicent and she answers by opening up that great big smile. What on earth will we ever talk about. Out now in the open over tea. She'll know at least that one is not beset with uncontrolled desperate passion. Or that the words I tried to get up out of my throat in the bedroom would have come out stammering. Not to have brought our tennis rackets. By which our relationship has volleyed back and forth and Fve lost every game. Sealed with back hand top spin cross court passing shots. She sits so nonchalant, carelessly and beautiful and takes three lumps of sugar in her tea.

Again one starts back up the stairs. After a brief stroll along the river low on the banks with the lack of rain. Watching the muscles on her calves as she climbed. In her flat laced up walking shoes. Swallowing my breath, I followed along the hall. And I put in the key to open the door. Pushing it wide aside for her to go in. And remove the brown tweed jacket of her suit. She stands there in cream silk blouse and her string of pearls. Those little beads of refinement. I have come across so many times before. One feels now so absolutely full of Friday. Because if I didn't, no day of the week would mean anything to me at all. She waits again at the mirror. While I'm over now at the window. Making believe I'm watching the skiffs on the river. And a rather tattered little yacht going presumptuously by. Could be the very moment to change into casual wear. And she into hers and then I could suggest we lounge about devil may care before dinner. Or God damn it, go over and grab her now. Which I've never done to a girl before. Since they were always grabbing me. Time for a change. And here goes.

Balthazar B came across the red lilac carpeted floor. Wishing he were drunk in command of his person. To reach out and take Millicent's arms from behind in both hands. In the mirror again comes that smile. I've got to slowly turn her around. Force the issue from the front. And hear through one's memories one of Beefy's solemn cries. When you strike a blow in defence, dear boy, of carnal knowledge make it resounding. To see now Millicent's incredibly developed eye teeth, their sparkling points as she widens her smile. For me who, without a God to pray to, can never beg to be sent a sweet surprise. And I feel if ever her lips spoke I would hear them say, do not tax your energies unduly on my account. Her eyes look down over her shoulder where grasps my hand. But it was she who said. What about a weekend along the river. That night after she sat wiping her mouth in the restaurant where the waiter flexed his arm in emphasis when suggesting spinach. And the bill came and had me counting off pound notes for hours. Must break through her cool reserve. As Beefy did bust and break when he was a little boy. Living in his granny's big house. He had a carpet cannon with a gleaming brass barrel on its black iron carriage wheels. He brought it into position on the hall balcony and blasted down the huge crystal chandelier. He said choose a day dear boy when one has all one's nerve. Do it now. Regret later. For next after that is never. And dear boy remember it is simply not done to ever let your prick hang in a girlish manner. Don't wait for the moon to go green before grabbing her. With my voice quavering and breaking during these moments. Hearing a whispering Beefy. Outside an evening thrush is chirping. Bestir my bravery. But remember Beefy could beat her at tennis for a start. Spitting on his racket handle before serving like a spring snapping a trap shut. And then quietly and persistently reducing her to a sprawling lunging wreck. I thought it a wee bit ungentlemanly to serve that way to a lady. But changing court, adjusting his white cap and drying off with a pink towel, one heard him whispering quietly, my God the brute fleshy pliability of that girl. I put my lips on her neck under her hair at last. In the perfume smell. On a soft silky skin. A 3i6 little roughness of a spiked eardrop against my cheek. Turn her around and push backwards towards the bed. God forbid she should ever resist. Without even the nerve to ask her now to turn down the bed and undress. Just as I am when someone squeezes on a bench. I always get up and walk away. And goodness our arms are awkwardly engripped. Her lipstick close up rather bright. Reach my hand to go back of her head beneath her hair. Push a little more past these baubles caught between my fingers. My God what was that. Her pearls. Snapped. As she sits up. And they go bouncing. And make a sound as they reach the edge of carpet and roll on the floor.