A Singular Man

11

SEVEN fifteen in the evening countryside. After the picnic, more beer. Smith taking Miss Martin and cohorts to a road house, called Casual Cabin near the little airport. Travellers in shirt sleeves without ties not admitted.

The long bar. Tinkling fairy lights. Gleaming dance floor. One round of beer after another. Smith throwing up an arm.

"Ha ha, drink up death deliverers."

"Mr. Smith maybe I think we ought to be getting back or something. Brandy will be wondering what happened, maybe needs the truck."

Smith abloom. In one curious smile. Pointing to the door. To the highway. Along by the lake. By back dirt roads. To one inn and din. And then another. Your smile Miss Martin. Your breast. Watch me pick elderberry blossom. Sure cure when stricken on a cross country tour with ague.

Smith climbing aboard the hearse. Stretching full length on the casket rest. A clutch of elderberry blossoms upon his folded hands. Shout to the cohorts.

"Pomfret Manor. Haste. To the Bonniface. Middle eyed king. Of the slippery of spirit."

Hearse containing George Smith and party, turning off the road into a sweeping blue pebbled drive. Flanked by roses and low freestone wall. Lawns and shrubberies. A field of dairy cows. Led in a line to milking. Walled enclosure of pines. Faint white gravestones of a little burial ground. Drive curving through a thickening of trees and opening to circle round a great mound of lawn. Rambling ivy clad grey stone mansion. Hearse gently pulling to stop before a dark porch, and balcony above. Grey haired, blue silk gowned woman stepping out, a pincenez to her nose to look down. Upon this hearse with the stretched figure behind the chiseled glass. George Cadaver Smith under the elderberry. Her scream full of a tired agony floating out across this richly tended place. A thump. As her fat person fainted out of sight.

Chunky figure emerging from glass open doors to the lawn at the side of the house. Laughter, merriment and black bow ties. Round face, round cummerbund belly approaching. Bald pate ringed in grey hair. Tufts of ribbon on the gleaming tiny feet. Miss Martin biting her lip on the pebbled drive. Two cohorts silent by the open hearse doors. Whispering in to the prostrate figure.

"Mr. Smith, Mr. Smith."

Rotund person, displeasured brow acrinkle and faintly crossed with white fear. Walking up to the cohorts, standing rooted, black toppers in hands. In a manner taught by Mr. Brandy for the graveside presence.

"What is the meaning of this. What are you doing."

Smith slowly to a sitting position. Rotund man rearing back..

"My god, what. Vas."

Crowd collecting on the lawn. Tinkling thin membranes of glass. House lights flooding out in the evening gloom. Somewhere in this great spreading dark mansion dallies Bonniface.

"I'm Mr. Jiffy. What is the meaning."

"I'm Smith."

"Well you're George Smith. Well. Ha ha."

"Sorry if I gave you a fright."

"Well welcome, Mr. Smith, sir. Ha ha, your arrival. Well."

"Miss Martin. Mr. Jiffy. Mr. Jiffy, meet my drivers."

"Hi there. Come on in."

Little gathering moving into the big gathering. Under the massive stone porch. Pink scattered way up in the distant skies. Jiffy's hands on Smith's elbow, sir you must meet my wife. Alas Jiffy out of a slit of eye I saw her keel over unconscious above us.

Great entrance hall. Flanked by spears, daggers, armour. Sandstone steps hung with a balustrade of crimson rope. Sign my guest book, Mr. Smith, while I find my wife. Miss Martin scratching her left handed signature. Mr. Jiffy in search of spouse. Smith sneaked in an X. Good sign this night.

Miss Martin clinging. Mr. Smith I feel so out of place, with all these people in evening clothes. Smith nudging a feel with an elbow. Miss Martin digging her fingernails into his arm. George's knees gave with the pain. Jesus Christ Miss Martin watch the nails, will you. As they passed now along a hall. Tall portraits of ships and horses. And down steps. To a sunken room. A balcony high up round the walls. Gigantic table and transparent clock. Clutches of people. Whispers and turnings around as George Smith with one brave hand filled two pewter tankards with champagne. A word of mausoleum. Of market. Of money. And one loud voice out of a thin reed of woman. "Love to expose my body, marvelous lunacy."

Further over the heads. Down more halls. A peek passing the dining room. White table cloth covered with silver coffee machines. Black uniformed maids waiting in white lace aprons. And the library. Whoops, behind each book a bottle. Gloomy tall windows flanked with brown tomes. A ladder on wheels. And further the sign of a canvas boot high up, searching in the vellum among the manuscripts. Visions everywhere. Do not look further up that leg. Come Miss Martin to the conservatory I spy at the end of the hall. Full of palm. Monkey tree. Hydrangea.

Under a dripping vine by a strange flower. Two lurking unblinking eyes. Between the heating pipes. Smith bending near to get a better look. Snap. Wham. The jaws of a goodly sized definitely loose alligator, hissing. Jiffy is distinctly outdoor. Smith draining the tankard. Miss Martin tugging. Mr. Smith I want to meet people. Sign of betrayal. Not to lurk quietly here with the alligator, Miss Martin. You want to saunter in the high life. Greet and meet nobs. Well then, come.

Smith taking Miss Martin down the hall. Nearly dragging her along. No one these days wants to sit and talk with just you. Mr. Smith it's only that I've never seen people like this before or been in a place like this. You only have a little cabin in the woods. With a spider, Miss Martin. But this is a palace or something, full of important people. I see, Miss Martin. You think because I hold out in the mere and barren room of 604. Because my suits are repaired. Underwear ripped. That I cannot shiver all these ears.

Pomfret Manor's lonely evening grandeur. One side the sloping lawns. The other sheer rock cliff with a dining terrace. And back road. Looking down on tree tops and further into a deep valley. Moon up. The lake lit far below. Smith tucking into another tankard. Stray folk making curious ways to shake his hand. I want to say someday I met you. You made the big boys cringe. To these dreadful flatterings. Smith quietly smiled. Looking for a sign of Bonniface. Miss Martin coyly across the room with a tall gentleman, grey hair well greased back with distinction. Four medals on his chest. I recognise as military. And I am left alone.

Mosquitoes. Crickets bantering under dead leaves all out through the woods. Two gigantic wolf hounds strolling licking faces among the gathering. Footmen and flit guns spraying the night. Murdering insects. Trays and trays from the pantries. Bonniface is in this house. For whom I search, from whom I run. In the kitchens sneaking a fist into the cookie jars. I could kill Miss Martin. Use me the way she has. My seed. Not one word of thank you.

"Ah sir you look lonely now, would you like to fill up your tankard."

A maid. Stiff cowl of lace across her dark hair. Smiling.

"Thank you. What's your name."

"Ah sir, you wouldn't have any interest in knowing my name."

"You're beautiful."

"Sir, flattery will get you somewhere. You're the gentleman as arrived in the funeral car. I had to laugh. Himself had a fright he won't forget. Ah my God it's been some day. Since the gentleman with the cultivated ways arrived. I wouldn't want to tell you. The house is no longer safe. We're in fear of our lives. It's exciting."

"What's your name."

"Now. Enough's said. Who are you pretending you would have anything familiar with the poor likes of me. You're a friend of Mr. Clementine, now isn't that so. Ah it's so. I can tell by the green glint in your eye."

"What's your name."

"You'll be trying your hand on me next. Like your gentleman friend, I'm Maureen. Ah Jesus I love men. They're great. Jesus, that Mr. Clementine. O God that man."

"Where is that man. Maureen."

"That man if you ask me is God himself and he can strike me dead for saying it. He'll be in the closets." strike me dead for saying "I beg your pardon."

"That's where. It's mesmerizing. Gentleman's hands reach out of the linen. Poor Bertha the cook never had a man near her. Jesus if he didn't chase her right into the ice house, back there under the kitchens. Must get the drinks around. I'll be back." Fair skinned. Fresh liquid eyes all blue all cleared and cleaned by rain. Maureen. I'm the saddest creature of all. My gracious. The wolf dogs. Random alligators. And alone here in this spot. No one to talk to. Car doors slamming somewhere out across the lawns. Ice house under the kitchens. If there's a Bonniface at all. That's where he'll be. Blue veined. At dawn in the mornings those university years ago. With an open penny notebook. Scribblings about geology. Studying the long night through in the cattle markets, among the tinkers and renegades. I got rich. He got poor. Both got childer. And not one day in all those college times were there less than smiles. Less than full bows. One wedding of a princeling friend. One morning suit retrieved from the pawn. A white shirt dipped in bleach. His wife picked up the iron to give it a marvelous stiff sparkling collar. With the hot instrument resting on a green painted shelf. One great green smear across the collar. A tear in my eye now. For that day. As we all went. Speeding in from country parts. The bride and groom in their raiment. So handsome it was terrible to behold. She married she said for money. He for beauty. What could be better. Till Clementine. Enraged for the green smeared collar, kicking holes in all the doors of the house. Letting in the fresh air he said till his shoes were of no use at all. Changing to sandals. Stepping out on the road. Hitching a ride to the reception. Stopping the first car he spied. Standing in front of it on the road, hand raised. By God it was carrying the bride and groom. He climbed in and sat between them. Said, how do newlyweds.

George Smith, eyeballs glistening. Alone with tankard. Sallow faced. As the high chandeliers of this drawing room dimmed and went out. With Maureen and two other dark maids taking lighted tapers to candles on mantels, tables and sideboards. Room aflicker. Miss Martin has been led away. By a man of distinction, jangling medals.

Taste of wine. Light white gentle dripping down the throat. Tinkle up the nostril. Jiffy. So round and busy. So bald and bouncing. Grey, wife lies up stairs. Jiffy. John, Junior. Don't try to be too rotund. Hello wolf dog. Nice head you got. Don't bite now. Maybe you know the whereabouts of the Bonniface. Here, fill you a little bowl of champagne. Drink up. My only friend here. All the others have sidled away. Good wolf doggie. Nice mutt. Duties on the estate to chew up any visitor not invited. Doggie, don't think I don't know that.

New guests. More and more. In hunting equipage. A string octet striking up in the distant summer room. Wherever it is. But hear the faint strains of violins. A blue gowned woman. Hair streaks of grey. Undulated up to Smith. Talking down her nose.

"Hello, who are you."

"Who are you."

"I asked you first."

"I am Fang."

"You like dogs, Mr. Fang."

Tall languid woman. Creamed face. Soft breasts. See through the blue. Diamonds sticking on the ear lobes. Rests on one slipper and then the other. George leaning to peer down her careless cleavage. She put her hand there so he could not see. And grinning weakly she stepped away. Tripping backwards into an empty ice bucket on the floor. Where she fell. Wolf doggies leaping round her. Nipping playfully and growling. Smith prayerfully gazing in the distance, across the crowd. Thicker and bigger. All Bonnifaces. Mind areel. Matilda you black ox. Giant breasted. Giving parties in Merry Mansions while I'm away. Marvelous how one can receive these messages on the ether. That black is busting out. Skin so smooth.

Smith out through the guests. Pardon me. Sorry. Excuse me. Do you mind. I'd like to pass please. What for white. How are you. And into the pantry by the zinc sinks. The sweating footmen. Four of these faces I recognise from Cinder Village. Layabout louts. Side door here. Peer in. The bacon room, hams hanging. Catch Calvin gnawing one of those. Ah kitchen. Hello. Cook. I'm scraping and slaving in here for the stingy likes of Mr. Jiffy. You know Maureen. An upstart of a girl. Gentleman such as yourself would not want to be friendly with the likes of her. Into bed with any pair of pants. Mr. Clementine. O my God sir, that one. I mean with all respect. O what a merry kettle of fish. Do you know his whereabouts. And sure I do not. And the quicker the likes of him are last seen in Pomfret the better. Ah now, cook. Don't call me cook. Madam then. How do I get to the ice house. Don't mention that place to me. Under our feet.

Smith bowing at the kitchen door to the cook. Across a hall. Peeking into the servants' drawing room. An ironing board. Peering out on a porch. An ice cream churn. Down the stairs. Musty, damp and cold. Cobwebs in all the corners. Peeling paint. Deep passage way. Cinder smells. And hay. Damp. And rot. In these cellars in the direction under the kitchens. Ah. A gigantic door. Of stout massive timbers. Great bar of iron. Squeezing it shut. Hinges size of thighs. In here the ice. Cut in winter down on the lake. Hounds will find me here full of guilt and chew me up.

Smith reaching grasping the great iron bar. Pushing it up. Pulling the giant door open. Plenty of knowledge about doors. Open up to darkness. To the cold air in there.

A cackle. A quiver. In the dim light. The blocks of ice. Six feet down. In the far corner. On a cold throne. Cedric Calvin Bonniface Clementine. Encircled with brown bottles marked export. And X. A piece of cheese. One ham. A giggle. Of a dark uniformed maid making for the door to the outside world.

"My dear George, come in, join me. Cooling off down here. Think I'm mad. Think I'm going to ask you for money. Terrified. True I'm going to ask you for money. George. So good to see you. The trip here, goes without saying, was shameful. I do not mind a ship pitching. And rolling. But when there is the pitch, the roll and the lurch. Then by God."

"Hello."

"You build a tomb. Make mountain of marble for moment of last chill. Mean you have money. Me big temporary chief."

"You're drunk."

"O me chief. You build tomb. Much money. Me have none. Me want money. Me want big suitcase full of. I will tell Mumchance to come get you. The MacGillicuddy. He come too on big boat. We all come on big boat. After you. You desert your wife and children in the sticks. Shame. Naughty. You have black help in your house. The Merry Mansion. Naughty. You ride with two way telephone in black auto. Naughty. I am old friend. We go college together. We depart. I go down. You go up. Evil. I walk hot pavements. You hide out in cool country. I fry egg on street corner. Nearly get hit by taxi. Ask man directions. He runs. I phone you. You run. Make escape. Me meet Jiffy. Jiffy is big joke. Me mount his wife. She say who on me summit. Me say me on summit. She old. She like it. Me like it. Ah George. Good to see you. Pale face. Her Majesty wept when you sailed away. She knew you in your celluloid penis stage. She said."

"Goodbye Bonniface."

Smith hands and feet on the rungs of the iron ladder up out of the ice house. Musty chill. Bonniface enthroned in the corner with the leather cushion on the ice blocks. Deep down in Pomfret Manor.

"George don't go. Listen to a little song on comb and paper."

Chase out

Cheats

Rid the world

Of suffering.

Jump on

Twisters

Rid the world

Of harm.

"Goodbye, Bonniface."

"Why don't you talk about your children George. And about ShirL Don't you love them. They frighten you too. Look for money from you. I scare you. Make you want to run. As the years go by George, there is less of life to spend and the risks are cheaper. Stay."

Backstairs maid shyly sitting with Bonniface on the ice. Smith stepping back from this dark chilly scene. The many months. Of bantering. Dear sir, we will get you. The phonecalls and doorknocks. Smith climbing the ladder. Bonniface. One last shout. George. Turning round. Calvin trembling in the hand. The drink shaking out over the glass. Brown liquid lurking on the lips. Bonni-face's eye quivering in their tears. Said George. Don't go. Don't hide. From me. Bear with me. I suffer.

Smith climbing the ladder. Stepping out into the endless cellar hall. Pressing the great ice house door closed.Smell of cinders along the corridor. In a door the vast machinery of boilers. Giant asbestos covered tanks. Whoosh of great spurts of oil, billowing into flame and roaring. Need all my money for myself. Bonniface married a debutante. Lost his glasses on a delayed honeymoon with the first six month old daughter. Who in the hot afternoon of a cheap city hotel slept on Bonniface's chest as he lay snatching a few moments rest between the narrow streets. It was after lunch. The baby crapped. Late in the afternoon with heart thumping to a knock on the door Bonniface awoke. He rose. Put the baba aside and brushed feverishly away the thing on his chest. God forbid. With his hair needing to lie back more presentably, he brushed it back with his hands. Smoothing it. O Jesus. In his distracted innocence he went to the door. To greet the debutante friend of his wife. She saw the aristocratic Bonniface. Attempting to bow. She screamed and fainted. George Smith heard the commotion because he was mounting the stairs. Just having arrived in town. And as she swooned he caught her. And then saw the spectre of the Bonniface. The awful. And fell backwards down the stairs, the debutante on top, both entwined, rolling to the bottom. Where they looked back up. Spectre on the landing. The Bonniface. Covered surely in shit. And this debutante head in hands in tears sobbing. The awful. The awful. She had been presented.

Tonight George Smith climbing up the servants* stairs of Pomfret Manor. Back sadly through the kitchen, giant pig ears sticking out of the pot simmering on the stove. Through the pantry, the workers, with rolled up sleeves washing glasses. And through the swing door to the dining room. A commotion of barks. Growls and lashing of teeth and savagery. Screams. Furniture breaking. Three gigantic animals shooting by. Round the tables and chairs. Flying blood and hair. A monstrous animal locked in mortal combat with the Jiffy wolf hounds. Claws scratching up the rugs and floors as they ripped into each sharp turn. Out of the room. Into other rooms. Back again. Random voices. In the melee.

"Ouch."

"Someone has fingered my wife."

"Give me ass or give me death."

"Sure."

"Gee. Thanks."

"I didn't want to see yon die."

Smith holding elbows high up to avoid the flashing fangs. An animal bigger than the wolf hounds tearing them to bits. Smith aghast. Attempt to relish this rare marvelous sight of dog eat dog. Gawd. Recognise that one. Goliath. Miss Tomson. It's your animal. And not so many hours ago. Mr. Jiffy from person to person, with extended hand, nice to see you, glad you're here. Now gone. Fleeing in all directions.

Gently slowly down the staircase in die great hall. One hand on the banister. Breasts large and blue, turned for a moment east and west. With high hips, legs starring at the shoulder blades. Like all the tall buildings in town. She said herself like some guy was sixty miles up. Wearing one gold and one silver slipper. Smiling ever so lightly as her dog was winning. Jiffy shouting to stop. Stop. Get that animal out of here. Guests vanishing to the safety of the mosquitoes outdoors. And then the shout of stand back. Stand back everybody. Stand back. Bang.

A smoking gun. Huge Goliath felled. Mouth bared with useless fangs and terrible blood. Legs still running. One twitch. And stopping. The two yelping whimpering wolf hounds dragged away. Alive. Silence in Pomfret Manor. And Smith saw across the yellow flickering candle light the saucer green eyes of Sally Tomson cast down on the gathering. And the dead brown body of Goliath.

All dog

All dead.