Balthazar crossed his leg and uncrossed it at the sign of a drooping sock. Shaking his head up and down for a momentary yes to all the questions that did not come. Facing these two on the sofa. My mother's shadowy eyes under her shady hat. A slanting wisp of grey hair in the blond stretched gleamingly brushed over a tip top ear. Little webs of wrinkles around her eyes. Just now as she lifts her chin. Light suit of magnolia cavalry twill. Freckles big on her soft delicate hands. Two great gems one red one green on a right and left finger. And a flat slack bracelet of many many diamonds.
"Please will you have one."
A gold case of cigarettes offered to Balthazar. Who smiles a brief nod no. To Georgie sitting back to light the tobacco cylinder held at the distant tips of fingers. He wears a watch chain across his waistcoat. A stiff collar and small knotted polka dot tie. His tailor made his suit a trifle too tight. And his barber takes too much care with his black curly hair.
"How is university Balthazar. Do you like it."
"Yes."
"Are you comfortable."
"Yes. Some conditions are a little primitive. But otherwise quite satisfactory."
"This most curious country. I've never been in such a city as this before. Everyone is mumbling, scowling or smiling. And they say yes certainly in a minute to everything, and it takes an hour. They send you left if the way is right. One is shown to one's rooms and there is already someone there. You say but there is someone in this room and they giggle as if one were crazy. But I suppose you have come to manage here. Are you eating enough.'
"Yes."
White coated waiter lowering three sherry glasses to the table. One looks down at Georgie's rather too pointed shoes.
He smiles too much. He looks for the ashtray. To tap his ash away. He blows the smoke too hard. Holds his hands resting and tired rummaging in my mother's fortune. The telegram came in its brown envelope. During a desperate moment of the afternoon. Fighting to read The Embryology of Rana. And Horace brought it when he brought tea. And saw the blood fall from my face and said ah sir I hope that that was not bad news.
"Balthazar had you liked you could have brought a friend."
"I do not know many people in Dublin to invite."
The silences get longer. The cigarette case of Georgie comes out again. Gleams with a monogram. He tap taps the tobacco down. Tilts his head. Puts it between his lips. The chain bracelet on his wrist shakes. My mother waves away a handful of his smoke.
"Georgie teaches skiing in the winter and swimming in the summer."
"O that's nice."
Georgie with an open handed slow flick of his wrist raising his chin carefully as he shows teeth to speak.
"Ah for me it is a little boring. I like to travel. To go places."
Balthazar's mother pulling a long pin and taking off her hat. She stands to beckon a waiter to take it to her room. And turns her long slender elegance to put one hand touching flesh at her throat.
"Well shall we go in to dinner."
Balthazar's mother led the way across the mirrored lounge and down steps to the long white dining room. Georgie bowing and ushering Balthazar ahead. Dark coated waiters sweeping back and forth. Hard red faced landowners from the country. Seated by slit eyed wives with lemony smiles for waiters and silence for husbands.Georgie before coffee. Got up to bow and said I am sorry I have a headache I would like to go out in the air. Balthazar placed and replaced his spoon and fork. Peche Melba was soon to come. And trolleys wheeled by to flash flame for crepe suzette.
''Well Balthazar. Here we are. After so many years.' "Yes."
"You are not very talkative.' "No. I'm sorry.' "Do not apologise. I understand. A little of what you must think and feel. I have my own life. I must live it. You will when older understand. However I do not want to cause embarrassment between us."
"You do not have to explain."
"No. I do not. Georgie insisted to come. But one should keep matters in good taste. There are times when I do not. I am returning to live in Paris. I have taken a flat in Avenue Foch. And you will always be welcome. But there is another reason why I am here and why I have come. It is to tell you something. That I should not like you to hear from other lips. Something which is perhaps very sad. Very tragic. And I think in fairness I must tell you. It is about that girl. Miss Hortense, you remember. She had a little boy. You were his father. He was adopted after his birth. Where he is and who he is we do not know. And will never know. It was part of the arrangement that that should be. Will you have some brandy with your coffee."
Balthazar B took leave of his mother in the lobby where she stood with her bedroom key. He bowed stiffly and she kissed him on the cheek. And watched him going out the door and down the steps. A soft fine silver rain fell through yellow lamplight in Duke Street. Crowds of pushing figures emptying out of the pubs. Bartenders ushering from the doors. Now come on gentlemen it's well after time please, now gentlemen please. Arms cradled high with grey bags of stout. Shouts and pointing the way by ringleaders to cars. Mid singing and laughters and jeers to gestures indecent. These throbbing jungle streets. The slamming and locking of pub doors. And to suddenly hear one's name called. And hurry one's steps away. Past this map seller, down the shadows of Grafton Street. Past the locked gated entrance of Mitchell's cafe. Up there once on the second floor I saw Miss Fitzdare having coffee. I watched her looking out the window arid she smiled when a chap in glasses came. He selected cakes for her from the tray. I didn't know her then. But felt all the sad alarm of her beauty lost and living in someone else's life.
The bell in the grey high looming Campanile. Tolls as I go by. To get back to my bed. My feet walking beneath me. I held her hand all those years ago. And I know. The seed I planted then. Came out of all the love I knew. Down deep and spinning in a pool. With a little tail. Like a line thrown ashore. To anchor there. All round and red and blazing. For Bella was my bride. We had a son. And all these years a father. When only still a son. He goes somewhere out in the world. Awake in some city. Climbing up some steps. A little fellow now. Who might run frightened and afeared. And you walk along in darkness by these familiar chains. Across the cobbled square. Ahead my windows. In there I sleep. While nothing now stands still. To throw your arms around and say stay. Or a little boy who could pass his hand to me in summertimes. Something born nudges you gently to go and die. It all could be a flower you lifted once. Looked at. Held the stem. And then you turned your head away.
To
Weep
The night
Till
Day.
18
Sunday this mild mellow week. Buds crashing out sappy green on the trees. Crocuses exploding yellow across suburban gardens. Balthazar B went through Ballsbridge on the Dalkey tram. To tug the bell chain hanging against the cold cut stone.
Miss Fitzdare stood smiling half way in the gleaming hall. Of this house rising greyly and ivy clad from great rhododendrons and sweeping lawns. A hushed raven haired maid in her fresh black frock and white lace collar to take my coat with her trembling hand. This massive hall of this big house. A fire flaming flanked by pink marble praying angels. Gilt framed mirrors. Two steely figures of armour, haunted slits for eyes. And Miss Fitzdare wears her purple twin set again. The thick tweed grey skirt and her string of pearls. Tall chiming clock rings one.
"You are awfully prompt. Do come this way. And meet uncle and aunt."
Brass knobbed heavy mahogany door ajar. Polished and glistening faintly red. Held open by the raven haired maid. Tints of blues and whites in this sprawling drawing room. Cabinets of porcelain. A harpsicord in a white arched alcove. This thin grey haired lady. Slowly twisting her lips between her smiles. Offering her long blue veined hand. A short round gentleman in thick rust tweeds. Purple silk hanky and gorse coloured tie.