The Beastly Beatitudes of Balthazar B (35 page)

Balthazar B turned, tears left in the dark eyes as he made his way away into the park. The weeping willow bending to the water, ducks steering their way to bread dropped from the railings of the bridge. Emerald gleam of their heads. Warm sun on one's back. Murmur of voices. Click of passing shoes. The late light of long London evenings in the sky. Beefy now in his riches. Told him Millicent threw much Silesian glass of the baroque period which crashed expensively around my ears. Out of which one day soon I'm sure lawyers will walk. Beefy said he and the Infanta would travel quietly to the edge of the Caspian Sea to indulge themselves calmly in fresh caviar, following which he would say Violet, bend over to allow admission of this valid concept. One hears a band playing. A man walking across the park with his shirt off, umbrella, bowler and attache case in his hand. No end to sacrilege. Beefy said far too many folk these days were outfitting themselves without entitlement, parading about in the privacy of their homes as archbishops. Not nice.

Balthazar entered this public house. Down in a mews in Belgravia. Cozy, neat and quiet. Stand at the bar. I am going to lonely celebrate. Drinking bitter beer. Chew over my own dark musty thoughts. Some precious. Where they lurk like saved up little children's treasures. Touch them before they die. And if I die. Leave them to those who live. Like the furniture they auction behind those double calm green gold fringed doors of Sotheby's. Where I go under the gleaming creamy painted arch. And put my fingers across the satin and touch the delft. One is always taught to keep. The old wears better than the new.

Balthazar B goes out now, tipsy. Look up. After a big fat sun sank tonight. London glows against the cloudy sky. An onion man goes by. Pushing his bicycle, two last bunches bubbling over his handle bars. He stops. He blocks one nostril and blasts air through the other, sending his phlegm in the gutter. He smiles. Bonsoir. And salutes handing over his last wares of the day to this pleased gentleman.

Moving along Pont Street, Balthazar B singing O For The Wings Of A Dove, his onions strung fore and aft over both his shoulders. Up the steps of 78 Crescent Curve. To search through pockets for one's keys into this house. Turn and see the binoculars up at the window there. It's so friendly really that someone else cares so much about what happens in one's 36i house. And sir do focus down on me here and watch me bring in my onions. So French and fat and nice.

In the silent hall. Lights out. Go secretly in my study. Put lights on. Unload onions. Dumped on my desk. Beefy is right. It's the rich what gets the peaches, it's the poor what gets the punches. But does he know it's the squiffy as what brings the onions home. When the world's all grey. Settle my beer with a glass of brandy. Everyone gone to bed. And old Boats to Lyme Regis, just when I need him most. He could take one's watch from one's wrist and wind it. Sit my old self safely down. And sigh. Sniff this cask cured distillate of wine. And my God what's this. Papers strewn on the floor. And letters. Fitzdare's picture torn to shreds. O my God give me oblivion. From small small voices of small small men ashout in the world.

"O Monsieur. Monsieur. You are all right."

"Yes. I am all right."

"You have not seen the rest of the house. I have tried to clean it up as best as I am able."

Alphonsine standing in the faint light, her serious brown sad eyes. Her cheeks spotted with red. As she looks across at me. And I do not stand. Which stand I must. To brave against the wave of fear. I see in her eyes and comes crashing over me. With the chime of the clock. It tinkles and rhymes. Makes the little fellow crinkle up his nose and wave his tiny hands.

"What's happened."

"Monsieur. After you left this morning. I don't know what to say. It was bang, boom, bang. There was shouting in here. I came running. To see what the matter was. I find all the paper and picture torn. The drawers out of your desk. Madam said I was not to touch. Mrs. Davis was told to go. And nannie left with Madam and the little boy. I was told to go as well. But I do not have anywhere I can go. I have not enough money to go back to Paris."

Balthazar B sitting back down in his chair. Feel the silence of the house. I can wake in early morning and think again when my brain is pure. Rest now while Knightsbridge is asleep. My little fellow gone. I walked home across the wide open grass. Clouds of starlings in the sky. An urgent chattering thrush shot under the trees. Beefy gone into riches from which he may never return. If you have a waterfall of money crowds rush with buckets, bathtubs and thimbles. Only thing to do is ask them please wait in line, don't climb up each other's backs. Left now with Alphonsine. Who's been down on her hands and knees to clean. When Millicent has walked by. Now she stands there all distressed. Tears in her eyes.

"Monsieur I have made some supper. Please don't disturb. I will bring it."

To lose and lose. What you love. Put all this scattered paper in the fireplace. Let it go up in flames. Hurry up to die. So little reason left to live. Take a ship across the Atlantic, jump down into the cold waves. Should have made a fist. To shake in her face. But instead put some logs on the fire. Ready for another long night.

Alphonsine came in the door with a great black tray. A golden fold of omelet. Salad of tomato and watercress. On the onion pattern Meissen all neatly arranged. The space she clears at my desk. For wine and salt. Pepper and butter. Before even I can get up to help. A nice girl. Who loved the little fellow so. Saw her give him crushing kisses on the cheek. Fuss back his little wisps of hair. To make me wish I were he.

"Alphonsine. Don't go. Stay."

"If you like Monsieur."

"Please don't call me Monsieur."

"But, I must be frank, it is not proper that I should be now in this house."

"I know. Just sit. And have some wine with me. I've drunk too much tonight."

"You have many onions too."

"Yes I have many onions too. I like you Alphonsine."

"Yes I know. And I like you too. But just as we are here now is very much taboo. I must leave. It is very sad for me to 363 go. To see your home like this. Here is your napkin. Is there anything else you would like I can get."

"No. Thank you. Just stay here with me."

Those afternoons when nannie was relieved from two to six. I went out. Past the French Embassy across the bridle path of Rotten Row, to see Alphonsine on the incline of grass. Facing the little pond and rabbits running in the shrubbery. Where we so often sat and had our laughing talks. Of her family and four little brothers. To whom she wrote every day and showed me pictures of. Under the acacia tree with the squawking geese swooping overhead as they flew each evening before sunset from St. James to the Serpentine. The little crowds of pigeons collecting. The black lamp standards, fat globes under an iron crown. The weeping willows and the ash. All surrounded by other nannies. All paid fourpence for our chairs. They whispered when they saw us. In blue and grey, white aprons and green cumberbunds. Frills above the biceps, white collars flowing from the neck. Sitting in their clustered circles. Where nothing was ever a secret. Till they said goodbye and come along Jonathan, Felicity and Nicolas. Alphonsine you look so nice now in your dark green sweater. And no pearls. How much longer does one remain a gentleman. Through those first days when you said you had no taste for tea. And later when I did just once help myself and pinched you on the behind. Just to hear you say, it is taboo Monsieur. I had tipple taken. And you tell me so much about Jacques that I always want to hear more. With the pain of jealousy. Ah Monsieur he has, how do you say, biceps. Stripped to the waist sweating he is debonair. He works hard in his family business. It is a small furniture factory in Paris. He drives fast his big car. He is not afraid to be very gay. He is below my social class but it means nothing to me. Then Alphonsine to my crestfallen face would smile and say, but ah Monsieur, he does not have the distinguished cultivation and handsomeness like you. And to her solemn face now that she always wears when a week is gone without a letter.

"How is Jacques Alphonsine."

"O he is all right I suppose."

"Will you see him if you go back to Paris right away."

"Yes of course."

"What will you do."

"O we will go if it is Sunday perhaps for a picnic. He puts down the cover of his car. We ride with our hair flying to the Pare des Buttes Chaumont. It is there that sometimes people commit suicide off the high bridge. Sadness is always in the happiness. We lie on the grass. We play the radio. We have our apples, sandwiches, cheese and wine. Jacques takes out his pocket knife, to cut what I might want from the apple or cheese. We go then to the Champs Elysees, it is dark, we speed back and forth. We go to the cinema. We have a lot of fun."

Beefy now. Owning perhaps much freehold land soon in Sunningdale. Up to his neck in his wedding night. As Fm up to mine in sorrow. With this girl who loved the little fellow and was so good and gentle to him. With her on the grassy incline of the Dell I was never despondent and miserable. Would lurk round the shop windows. Working up my courage to walk up and say hello. Always to feel a little tortured. When she would say, ah Jacques and I will holiday on the Riviera. I have bought my new swimming costume. Jacques looks so good in his. It is brief just over here. The stomach he has is flat like steel. And soon now she'll be gone. Like cherry blossoms when they were pink. Leaving leaves all green.

"Will he meet you in his motor."

"But of course, if he can."

"It has many cylinders, I suppose."

"But of course."

"How is Jacques' dog. Does he lift his leg on the better poplar trees."

"You make fun."

"Does Jacques kiss you when you meet."

"Monsieur you have drunk far too much beer and wine tonight to ask such questions."

"Does he kiss you."

"Of course. He takes what he wants."

"Does he ask."

"Of course not. I am there for his wishes."

"O dear, Jacques with his beaucoup force. Me with only wishes. I am homesick for Paris. The tiny little lives tucked away in the cement hives. The alleys. Hallways cool in summer and cold in winter. The restaurants full of wine and talk."

"That is nice, how you say that. I think Jacques if he would get to know you. Would like you."

"Has Jacques swum the Channel yet."

"Now now you make a joke of Jacques. He is young but he thinks old. He would not do something so foolish. A man is best with a young body who thinks old."

"He can swim."

"Does he steer with his toes."

"O I will not talk about Jacques with you tonight."

"Please. Do. This is the most delicious omelet."

"I should not sit here."

"Why."

"We could be noticed. That man across the street. Is always watching. You know of course he sent a note."

"No."

"Yes. He said that he could see the shadow of my under-things drying on the little line I put in my room. He asked if I mind awfully removing it. He said it is not elegant for the street. I look out last week and he is dressed as a woman going out his front door. I knew it was him."

An aircraft flying overhead. Means the wind is from the west. Moist air stream over Knightsbridge. Where big and little dogs trot down Sloane Street. Debutantes in their polka dot silk dresses. To rowing and tennis. As I was off to the Dell. Stopping, looking into the window of Cobb the butcher. With his Scotch beef of the finest quality. Cooked one Sunday so splendidly by this girl with her understanding eyes. In love with Jacques. Who said I am not pretty and beautiful like your wife. But Alphonsine you can cook carrots to taste like caviar. Or even carrots. You say you must be discreet in another woman's home. And be faithful to your Jacques. And I wish you weren't.

"Monsieur perhaps it is not the time to say but you do make me laugh. In bed at night I think about what you have said to me in the park. And I laugh to-sleep."

"I like you Alphonsine."

"You know I do like you too. You are very kind. You are too, very beautiful. I should not say that to you."

"Once you put your fingertip on my nose."

"Yes when you pinched me where you shouldn't."

"Tonight I have brought home the onions. Have more wine."

"I have had too much already."

Chimes go on the clock. My little note here, to go to the shoe maker to have my shoe tongues adjusted. These carpets fitted. All over this entire house. A shell. To keep alive with my dreams. Beefy where ere do you be. Just when you said service at your club was getting offhand and slack. Your voice so sad, spare and clear. Across clipped grasses. When England was all so new to me. Hear it still in my heart. On this London evening. Go so often to lone sad sheets. Beefy says worry makes you put on the undergarments backwards. End up standing in the gentlemen's convenience scrabbling and tearing in an unseemly fashion to grasp one's particular. And you take out under the sky one more guilt to wear among all the gay faces prancing by in vanity. Clinging by fingernails to districts, not to drop to social oblivion below. Near sighted nearly tripping so that they don't notice one. Never be without a leek or onion, the smell keeps you out of the whirlpool of dispair. Go into middle age along Pall Mall and up St. James. Downhill gliding through still air. Laugh and keep the gall bladder without grief. Explain how sorry you are that you are not good at mixing with people on all levels. Just the topmost Where bargains bring bliss to an Englishman's eyes. But if you're not booked up the whole world is against you. Loneliness makes you look at other people. And they look away. Even faster. In their own loneliness. And Beefy in his long struggle to marry said the beads of sweat freeze on the brow and drop with a metallic clank to roll into a lonely corner of one's coffin room. Will it ever be autumn again. When the yellow leaves fall curled on the deep green grass. Press my lips to the ground of Fermanagh. She lies there.