The Beastly Beatitudes of Balthazar B (10 page)

"Your envelope Miss Hortense has been put under your door. Do not forget it."

"You're evil."

"You are wrong but also how sad you are my dear. How sad. Some thoughts are best unsaid. I don't suppose you will be foolish enough to try any tricks. I leave in half an hour.

And you may stay till it is time for your train."

Miss Hortense pulled open the salon door as Balthazar stepped quietly back against the wall. He followed her along the hall to her room. She said you mustn't come in. And he went to the bath, and came back and came in. Her case packed and open on her bed.

"Balthazar you shouldn't have listened. That was a mean thing to do."

"Bella you said you wanted to marry me.' "Yes. But it wasn't for you to hear."

"Why.' "Because we could never marry. O God I'm going out of my mind."

"I have a cold cloth here for your eyes."

"You're sweet. I don't mean to be angry at you. But your mother thinks I've corrupted you. That I want to get you in my clutches. Get your money and get your life. That's what she thinks. Maybe it's true. But I love you too."

"Bella, don't be sad and cry."

"I want to leave and go right away now."

"Please wait till it's time for your train."

"No."

"Then I shall get dressed and go with you."

"No."

"Yes. I should be at your side. And please do not wear your hat and cover up your hair."

Miss Hortense stood, her knees against the blue linen counterpane. Her hands hang down and the veins are long and swollen blue. Her lips are open and her eyelids hang gently down. Where under lurk her eyes with just their touch of laughter left in their gallant green. And she takes off her hat.

"God what have you done to me Balthazar. What have you done to me."

At Gare St. Lazare. Out on the train quay at nearly six o'clock. They went that afternoon up to Sacre Coeur, climbing all the steps. And sat in the church while a procession moved around the aisles. Sacristans with crosses held high in their dark blue and red robes. Followed by women with empty married eyes. Their white pasty skins that held in their fat. And as they left the Palais Royal, his mother stood in the foyer and waved her wrists and sniffed and shook her head slowly back and forth.

The train doors slamming. Heads sticking farewell from windows. A whistle blowing. A green flag waving. A chug of steam. And the tall green carriage begins to move. I look up.

The last thing we did together was to sit each with a sandwich jambon in a cafe across the street. To say little and then nothing at all. We were two lonely persons. Like we had never been before. And she put her hand across the table to me and bent her head. And the tears poured from her eyes.

And I knew it was time just to touch her. And not say we will meet again or write. Because she would never walk out of my mind. While there was a glowing light. I knew because I could see her sitting there. Just crossing her knees. Where my lamp was lit and other lamps were out. And up in this window now. Her teeth over her lip. Her hand touching the blue ribbon she put in her hair. Choo choo choo. I cannot move or run. I stand. The train is gathering speed. Taking with it so many years. Dragging them away. Faces staring out the big glass windows. Wheels turning. Hard white steel on steel. Goodbye Miss Hortense, goodbye.

And when

The Channel

Comes

And you slip out

On the

Grey and greeny

White

Whisper to it

And say

God love you

Tonight.

12

In that last Paris summer Balthazar B stood in the evening Tuilleries gardens near the big pond with his solitary love held in empty hands.

Alone in September he headed to his new school across the Channel and a short train ride from London. With autumn came the war rumbling east spitting cannon across the plains, rivers and valleys all the way between St. Petersburgh and Bucharest. And one afternoon on a hillside overlooking London he wept when France fell. The summers, autumns and winters turned all Latin and Greek, all grey and drab and Miss Hortense neither came nor wrote.

His mother fled across Spain and by tramp steamer to Argentina. She settled grandly in a suburb of Buenos Aires. And went horse riding every day. Uncle Edouard joined the Free French and in Easter holiday Balthazar came to visit. At a tiny London house where Uncle Edouard nearly filled each room with his big chest and stretched out legs. And then he was gone. His housekeeper whispered at the beginning of summer holiday that the Baron had been parachuted into France. And eight months later in February came news. The Baron had been shot against a white stone wall in the sixteenth district.

And through Uncle Edouard Balthazar B had appointed new lawyers, Bother, Writson, Horn, Pleader and Hoot in the Temple, and a firm of accountants up a dark stairway and street in the City of London. In May he was called to hear something to his advantage. Uncle Edouard bequeathed to him the big stuffed bear in Paris and his town house in London with all chattels. And Mrs. Bottle was given a three year contract to remain as housekeeper.

Quarterly Balthazar B was invited to lunch by these elderly legal gentlemen. Until his school was evacuated north to Yorkshire near the Ilkley Moor. And there often he wandered through the wintry heathers and spoke to the lonely posted men of the home guard with cups of tea nestled in their hands. And one weekend the first month of spring he went to Huddersfield. Climbed a gentle hill. Between the sooty broken buildings across the town. And came to a low wall around a large stone house set in a lawn cold and grey. A woman in an apron answered the door and said politely Miss Hortense was in the military and lived here no more.

Standing at the stove in the small basement kitchen of the little house in Brompton between the quiet reaches of Hyde Park and Knightsbridge, Balthazar B cooked a kipper. When one month ago were said all the fond farewells from school. The wireless announced that the war was over. And there was dancing cheering and kissing through all the streets. One night huddled alone in bed I had a dream. That all were dead in France. And Uncle Edouard's big stuffed bear was standing against a sun rising high in the sky on a mild moist windblown day. The bear held great open arms out to where there were hills that were green. And brooks that flowed silver. There was a wide wide street and a great big park. And awake the next morning Balthazar B sat at the little oak desk facing out on the narrow back yards and wrote to Trinity College Dublin.

An end of September came when he took two trunks and an evening taxi across the bridge of the Serpentine through Tyburnia and along Marylebone Road to Euston. With a quickened heart and life lightly on the fingertips. The great granite pillars of the station. And then this moment. Amid the uniforms brown and blue. I saw a face hurrying by. Only an arm away. A woman who looked small. Perhaps because Fve grown so tall. Her hair swept up under her cap, her legs in black stockings. I held two newspapers in my hand. And a voice called after me that I'd left my change. I shouted Bella. Under the great arching blackened roof. And the figure began to run. And I ran. Shouting Bella Bella Bella. And stopped. It could not be. And I hoped so much that it wasn't. If she would flee. Across the grey concrete platforms all grit and dust and wrappings. Where she went. Towards the train to Liverpool.

In the darkening night the clicking clacking wheels sped across England through Crew and Chester and into Wales. And out across the lonely land to Holyhead. On this breezy Saturday clear night I sailed to Dublin. With a heart hollow with so little hope. To read a letter again and again. And each time it was true. The words said we look forward to seeing you here. And in the upper left hand corner was a seal and a shield with a lion, harp, and book over a castle, and a gate and two turrets flying flags. In the saloon high amidships at a smooth brown table a waiter poured out a dark liquid which foamed and swallowed bitter sweet down the throat. The way now so grey. Miss Hortense said once that when she was glad she felt like a drop of dew on a blade of grass and when she was sad she rolled down and got sucked up in the ground. And ahead on a black shore were the flickering coastal lights of Ireland.

Tuesday, on the first day of October, Balthazar B removed in a handsome cab from the Shelbourne Hotel to go prancing down Kildare Street towards the wall and fence and trees of Trinity College. To smile suddenly at this city. The red faces of the men and white faces of the women. The missing door handles of the cab kept closed by string. And the unsmiling scattering begging bare footed little children. Last night to peer out a window across the top of trees in St. Stephen's Green. Other windows set in granite and blue grey rooftops wet with rain. Purple little mountains rising in the distance, set gently beyond the wispy fragrant smoke. And to walk the city as I did, down the dim lit streets and by the great walls and green railings behind which I would go to live. In one street past a cinema I walked. A girl on the other side of the road.

She stared at me and I stared back at her. And both of us walked into obstructions. Me into a wall and she into a post. I laughed, she laughed. I bowed and she ran. And now this windy morning. Low sky of tumbling clouds. The curving fence of Trinity. The horse cab crossing College Green and down Dame Street to come back again and head straight at the grey stone front. A clock, hands at ten, the row of top square windows, the arched gate, and pillars. All this strange cold nobility. A toy green tram squealing by. And floods of bicycles. The tall red faced policeman stopping traffic and giving the horseman a violent wave forward across this open apron of street and in between the iron gates to stop before this great wooden door.

Two dark blue peak hatted porters, pulling back the great doors. They looked in the horse cab window. And I said with nothing else to say that I am Balthazar. They saluted and said very good sir. And I thought I had done terribly well. Clip clopping we went across this cobbled square. Groups of students in dark gowns standing at the open doorways and dotted on the paths between the velvet grass.

Down by a grey grand building and into a large square. Gnarled ancient trees fading yellow. A man in a battered brown hat stood on the granite steps. His hands on his hips, bicycle clips on his trouser legs. And as the horse cab stopped, he looked and frowned. Balthazar alighted. The man looked at the entrance wall upon a newly painted name.

"Begging your pardon sir. But are you the gentleman as is expected at number seventy six.' "Yes."

"The name is Balthazar is it sir."

"Yes."

"Fm Horace sir, your servant. Will I be giving you a little help now with your luggage sir."

The two big cases lifted from the cab. Horace giving little commands to the horseman. As they backed away into the dark hall. Stand here now on this step. The grass so greeny green beyond the iron fluted pointed posts holding a suspended chain. The air fresh and fragrant. A boot scraper here on the step. Take off my hat and let it blow my hair.

Along a shadowy stone paved hall. Up steps to a landing and up more stairs to another. And behind a thick big black door. There was a crash. Balthazar B stepping quickly forward. Into a large high ceilinged sitting room. Where one trunk lay on the floor on top of the pieces of a chair.

"Ah sir that chair was long in need of repair. Weak in the knees. Tired of being sat on. Well send it straight to purgatory right there in the fire. Sure it will never see the sight of God."

Outside the clip clop of the horse cab went under the window and faded away. A pale glass shade over a weighted pulley light hung from the ceiling. A brown table and three more chairs. A light tan tiled fireplace. A turf fire glowing.

"With a little turf left over from the gentleman leaving I thought Fd air out a bit hearing as you were coming. Now sir, my duties are to keep the rooms well dusted out. Do the washing up. Get in the water. Lay a fire and will you be wanting breakfast sir of a morning.' "Please."

"Very good sir. And will you be requiring any of the fundamentals of living sir. Such as a mattress."

"Yes please."

"Very good sir. I can see to that very thing for you. Ah we've been having some shocking weather. Shocking. Well have it right here sir in short order. And you'll be needing the odd blanket. I'm suggesting now that Henry Street is your man. Quality for the price, wool for the warmth. Is nine your time of rising sir, of a morning."

"That will do fine."

"There'll be a good big pitcher of hot water for you on the washstand there. Should I knock to wake you sir. Some of the professors are ones for the waking. Have to tear the covers back from the bed before they stir at all."

"Just a knock will do."

"Very good sir. Now I wouldn't be not minding my own business sir but sometimes it's handy to know. May I enquire what you are reading sir."

"Natural science."

"That's a dandy subject. I have meself many unnatural matters on my mind, ah we'll have plenty of time to discuss that, eh, heh heh sir. The last gentleman here sir was an engineer. Ah he was a one for cylinders and motor bike parts all over the place. A devil to keep tidy. Didn't I see him once having his breakfast out of a hubcap. Well now we'll be getting on a bit. A good sweeping out while you settle in. Ah I had to laugh sir, as you came down the square in the cab. I says to meself who's this gentleman now, he has the notion to do it right. The only sure way to travel. Why the streets are blocked outside there with these yokes gasping for the petrol. Sure a horse you throw a fork full a hay to in the night and while you're sleeping isn't he being refuelled. Ah you wouldn't know what the world was coming to and that's a fact. Before you know it they'll be trying to put wings on a donkey and him only trying to graze."

Opening tall cupboard doors in the bedroom. Laying out on these empty shelves shirts, socks and the last remnants of Uncle Edouard's silk underwear. The yellowing thick masonry walls. The iron bedstead arid naked springs. Tall cream shutters folded back at the sides of the windows. Look out across these trees and falling leaves. A solitary lamp post at the corner of the square. The lip of lawn and cobble stone gutter. Tiny flashes of dark blue in the sky. And a wind rattles the big window.

Balthazar B opened his bedroom door into the sitting room and fell back again and closed it shut.

"Is there something amiss sir."

"No."

Balthazar B bracing himself and taking in a great lungful of air. Opening the door again and setting forth across the roomr Horace vaguely outlined crouched behind his broom plunging it forward as it curled rolling volumes of dust up against the ceiling. Horace paused and held a shielding hand above his eyes.

"Ah you're on your way out sir."

"Yes."

"Ah we'll have it spic and span on your return sir. And Fll be knocking you up at nine sharp sir."

"Splendid. Thank you."

Across the cobbles between these scatterings of eager faces. Through the mild and soft air. To go in under the portico and past the porter's little cozy room. Hung with keys, piled with parcels. A fire blazing in the grate. And out now into the bustling city. A phalanx of bicycles released by the tall policeman's white gloved hand as he urgently beckoned them on. And last night asleep. High up over St. Stephen's Green. The early morning coming down with its blue white light from the hills beyond the city. And revelries far below. Went to my window to look down. Saw figures in long flowing dresses and men in evening clothes. A casual gladness in the voices and their laughing shouts. And one voice which nearly seemed a voice I knew. Singing out above the others. On the distant hills the sun was rising. Full of an orange tickling and the last of an autumn's warmth. To go spreading redly down over this stone built city.

Through an aroma of roasted coffee and a glass mahogany swing door. By light eyed ladies with packages and gloves and sparkling eyes. In grey flannel suits and silken voices who let the breeze of passing people blow their cigarette smoke away. Everywhere, faces. And ahead past counters of cakes and breads and sweet smelling loaves, a great high ceilinged room of glass topped tables.

Balthazar B sat down on a crimson seat beneath a stained glass window and perused this oriental menu. The black dressed waitress brought a large cup of coffee and plate of glistening brown topped currant buns. A dish of gold balls of butter. A woman with a priest Two red coated girls with refined small fingers sticking out from their cups of tea. Little clanks of cutlery on the glass. Heaped pots of sugar pieces.

Warm fragrant coffee in the mouth. To open an evening newspaper and read that a cow escaped onto a road and gave the garda a wild chase into a village where the beast entered a public house and set the occupants to holding their pints high over their heads so as not to have them spilled. A wondrous simple peace. Without years of lonely grey. And upturned rafters in brick debris. With bombs and cannons chattering up against the night and searchlights waving over a terror torn sky.