Balthazar B lathered himself with a cake of oatmeal soap. A red colour coming back into cheeks. Stare up at this roof. The university silence. When one could now go to sleep. Saved soothed and salvaged. Rest quietly till I see Miss Fitzdare again. Take her up away on the windy heather. Wednesday. Larks fluttering in lighted skies. To want so much to press me deep upon her dark blossom. And blue down there. Is it Miss Fitzdare. As all the wet grass was green. As I lay. Nearly nibbled by a cow. Could have been some fresh breakfast milk. I dreamt we walked through flower gardens, breathing scented air. Down a long aisle of roses and forget me nots, an altar. High and thronged with lilies of the valley. I put my hand in yours. Cannons boomed salute. Flashes of fire, puffs of smoke. And not far away another vision. Continentals in grey thick overcoats clutched each other, holding tight. And I said as the minister pronounced us wed. I said what are you chaps doing. And I shuddered and shivered on that Donnybrook field. They said we are transplanting souls.
Balthazar B stepping from the bath house. Like a private little bank. Deposit your dirt. Emporium of waters. Each bather with his own little vault. The roadway gleaming wet. Past the grey stone. Of this shadowy square they call Botany Bay. Out now to the open spreading elegance. A little tree grows near the doorway of the Modern Language Building. Where one supposes the linguistic garda rush in and out. Mastering tongues. To tempt confessions from foreigners. I go up my steps again. Name still on the wall.
Balthazar pushing through his door. The clanking loose floorboards. To think in horror you'll find the whole world changed. The choking dust. The world's still the same. Horace sticking his head round from the sitting room, battered trilby hat jauntily forward on his head.
"It's only me Horace."
"Ah I wondered sir."
"I'm having breakfast out."
"Very good sir. I'll just get along here now with me cleaning. It's shocking weather."
"Yes. I'm just coming in to change."
"Ah no trouble. I'll be out of your way. Sir I can't help noticing have you been caught out in the weather."
"Just a late night stroll. Ran into some rough country, heh heh."
"Ah you need boots for that sort of thing. A good heavy mac is handy."
"Yes."
"Are you fond of the countryside sir."
"Quite fond."
"Sure meself I'd thought of doing a bit of the farming in me younger days. Me brother has a little farm in Monaghan. But I couldn't stick the country. The moaning sheep and goats were enough for me. Sure it's better to have four pint bottles of milk standing at your door of a morning than having to go through cold and wet to callus your fingers getting it out of an udder."
"Quite right."
"Rumour has it that some Americans are arrived at college sir. Have you heard that. It's been creating some misunderstanding. And there was this one of them in high boots marching across Front Square with a sign Modernise Ireland. They want the water flowing instead of out of pails. Sure you get a cup of water quicker out of a pail than a tap. And you can empty a bowl faster than a sink. I can see you're in a hurry sir, if there's anything now I can do, say the word."
"Thank you Horace."
Balthazar B in Manx checked tweed. Cream silk shirted and dark tied as one's tutor. With the antique links of one diamond set in mother of pearl laid in gold to join cuffs. Hold the socks out against the turf embers. The steam rises. And warmed socks slipped on cold feet. For a moment. No matter what you do the moist chill comes again.
On this college day in a sprawling low ceilinged room. Balthazar B sat at his tutor's table. The walls covered with tomes of law. Tort. Statutes. Contract. Trusts. Linen napkins. Plates of fried egg between pink rashers. Grilled tomatoes. Toast and tea. Servant pouring the dark tinted liquid. Turned pale with milk. Warming and comforting all down one's throat.
Out the window the spidery branches of the trees. Students passing darkly. Those who tarry and turn in laughter. Others cycling at breakarse speed. Professor Elegant leaning back in his quiet book lined life. Rush of air up the chimney after the licking flames.
"I think you had a very close scrape there Mr. B."
"Yes."
"Whole thing has blown over quite nicely though. Have some more marmalade, my wife's, the best in Dublin.' "Thank you. It is awfully good.' "Tell me have you decided on a career.' "No."
"Hobbies."
"I go racing."
"O yes. That's not going to be your career."
"O no. I hadn't much thought what I would do. I would like I suppose to work at a fishing station. Classifying flora and fauna."
"Good show."
"Yes I might rather like it."
"Well Mr. B. We must see more of you. You haven't really entered into college activities. We haven't seen you at college hops, or meetings, or societies."
"I've been taking my racing rather seriously."
"Quite. But we want to see more of you. Get what you can out of your university days. They tend to be very short ones after they are gone. And any little trouble or big trouble for that matter. You come straight to me. I'll take care of it. These can be very worrying years. But thing is stand on two feet, two fisted and give better than you get. There's pomposity here in the college just as anywhere else and it must be diminished when possible. Good to see you. Don't think your detour in Donnybrook did you any harm. But try to keep on public footpaths."
"Yes sir."
"Good. Come see us in the country. We do want to see more of you."
"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.