'Thank you sir."
"They have to cut the clothes off. Put a sling around them and with a derrick they dip them in a vat. Sometimes the shock's too much. These old creatures get so frightened they die on the spot. Nothing as bad as it was in India but still pretty bad. Prostitutes in off the streets, when they get a cure they stay on as nurses to pay off their debt. You know about Elizabeth's work."
"No sir, I'm afraid I don't."
"O. Perhaps I've breached a confidence. Hope not. Strange girl our Elizabeth. Very rare girl."
"Yes she is sir."
"Looks like her mother. Mother died you know. Burned up in a fire. Quite awful. Elizabeth was only twelve. Poor little creature cried for weeks. We had her here. Beautiful woman her mother. Great horsewoman. Cost her her life. Saving horses in a burning stable. Brave woman. Elizabeth's the same. Well come now, that's been enough of this chitter chatter. Shall we join the ladies. Then we'll take you up. Might spot Mars on the horizon. Give it another hour or so."
The General rising. Neatly folding and rolling his napkin, pushing it in its silver ring. So strangely reminiscent of Beefy. There seems no end of Miss Fitzdare. And all explained, those times when I was rather bitter lipped. Hoping I would have nerve enough to ask her come for tea. Or join me at the Shelbourne Rooms for drinks. Thought there was some other man. Those afternoons she disappears. Like the one who gave her cakes in Mitchell's. And like another who stared at her during zoology practical. Rushing to give her sharpened pencils, to lend a scalpel or hold the door for her. Smiling eagerly and remarking of the weather. And once as I was leaving he came pushing behind me, punching a fist into my back. I turned and he gave an unpleasant sneer and smirk. I suddenly wished I had muscles. Big fists to smite him one upon the intelligence. Instead I raised my eyebrow, and stood aside to let him pass if he pleased. And angered more he stood on the gravel, eyes smouldering. Then one Sunday Beefy said he had seen this ruffian in a cinema in O'Connell Street waiting with Miss Fitzdare.
Now I walk with her. And touch her hand. As we go about in the district. After lunch and harpsicord. Along Sydney Parade Avenue. To the strand of Dublin Bay. The tide out across the strange grey flatlands and scattering sea birds. We step down the granite steps to the sand. Make footprints there. A grey whiteness across the water to Howth. Night comes east. I want to say marry me.
And returning to the big house. To go up a spiral stair to a great room. Gleaming brass knobs and telescope. Copper domed roof. A shutter opened at the sky. The General twirling handles. Miss Fitzdare laughing at my surprise. At the craters in the moon and the orange sparkling light of Mars. At seven at the door. Her white slender fingers and gleaming nails. Leaning against the cut stone, Miss Fitzdare said goodbye.
"I hope it wasn't all too dull for you."
"I enjoyed every moment. Thank you so much for having me.' "Be careful how you go now."
"Heh heh. I shall keep to the tram tracks. See you tomorrow. At lectures. I'm feeling academic again. Do thank your uncle for showing me his stars. And I should be delighted if you would come and have tea at my rooms."
"I'd love to."
Waving from the gate. This high iron fence set in the stone. Goodbye grey house back in the shadows somewhere. Up there on the first floor will be your bedroom, Fitzdare. At night do you stand and look out over the gardens. And see dreams in the branches of the trees. Dying old men to whom you give your pale hand. Listen to their tales of life. Of wives long dead. Of scattering many children. And they see your splendid blue white beauty with a last gratefulness in their dim eyes. Wrap up their scrawny bones from bed. Pack them away in the ground.
Balthazar B this night rode the roaring tram back to Dublin. In mild darkness and an eastern breeze from sea. Along the Merrion Road. To go lighted and merry on this iron wheeled vehicle. And at the bridge to alight down the steps from the greeny upholstered seats. As the father of one child.
Balthazar strolled along the Grand Canal Dock. By dark pouring waters and shimmering light. Past the bridge into Rings End and Irishtown. It says Shelbourne on that pub. The pleasure of being all alone with the air gently on the face. Her mother burned to death in fire. Across that waste ground, ships setting sail for sea. Lighted portholes. Never know which is red for port or green for starboard. Just see the blue eyes and black hair of you Fitzdare. Sparkle of your teeth. All your grace. Now I walk back again. To look at these great walls of blackened bricks. The gas works. Sooty grime and fire in there through these bars. Dark shadows. Men moving with their lighted ends of cigarettes. Fitzdare. Will ever we wed. All flowing veils. Trumpets blow out across England to our country house in Somerset. Away in the soft green peace Fitzdare. You will touch the stems of flowers every day. On hall stands through the house. Bring your horses with you. We'll fox them all at Ascot.
Misery Hill. A name down these black streets. And a walk along here by the water on a narrow edge of granite by this plank wall of a coal bunker. And suddenly a shadow is looming up above my head. A figure with an arm raised and in a hand a lump of coal. Good God. Someone to kill me. Knock me on the head. That I would fall to this granite, to take my money and roll me into the greasy water.
Balthazar raised up a shielding arm. And the figure high in the bunker teetered and fell from sight. An old grey bewhiskered face. Staring and mad. And all I can do is run. Away from here. To the Liffey. By all the long rusting sides of ships. And rats nipping over the wet gleaming cobble stones.
Balthazar B chased along the Quay, chest choked with a beating heart. Detouring from walls, shadowy cranes and dark doorways. Heading west for the life and lights of the city. Past gangways up to merchant ships. White shirted figures in the portholes. Others leaning with lighted cigarettes looking down from the ship's railings. A warehouse ahead. Keep out on the clear road. Away from harm.
At the corner of the shed Balthazar B gasped as he bumped into and confronted a figure. Of strange lighted eyes. And a round suddenly smiling face, so unsurprised.
"Beefy."
"Balthazar."
"Beefy what are you doing here, you frightened the life out of me, I was nearly murdered a few minutes ago."
"I am looking for sin."
Balthazar staring at these two unflickering globes. Jacket askew on his shoulders. Tie loosened from his collar. All the strange rumours. About this man. Who reads divinity. That Fitzdare would never say. To find him here. As he finds me.
"I was nearly hit on the head with a lump of coal."
"Dear boy. There are no rules down here on the Quay. No rules. Do you understand. I have come for sin. I know where to find it. Come with me."
"Beefy what do you mean."
"Deepest most sordid sin. I have been to the latrines. But I am randy again. I have other places too. Come. The deepest and most sordid sin purifies. I bugger old men. I lay old ladies. Some of them are dying when I do it."
Balthazar looking into these burning eyes. A tremor of fear takes a fluttering hold of the heart. The lips smile. A ship hoots.
"My God Beefy, I don't know what to say."
"My pleasures are utterly beautiful Balthazar. Sacred. I mingle my elegance with their wretchedness. This city is a sewer flowing with rancor and decomposed flesh, rotting through all these streets. Disease eats out these hearts. Bodies full of poison. I come with my beauty. I bugger them. And do appalling things. And I invite you to come too.' "I was rather planning an early evening."
"I shock you."
"You terrify me out of my wits, Beefy."