The Beastly Beatitudes of Balthazar B

28

I do and say nothing all these days. As I sit taking my meals silent and alone in my study, watching out on chill winds and sudden April snows. Beefy went to Scotland for another desperate and unsuccessful bid to prise loose funds from his granny. On his return I met him at his club. Sitting away in a corner. Suddenly I couldn't hold my sorrow. Pouring from me like a great ghost. And just as Beefy was that crushing day my Tillie was torn away. He put his arm across my shoulders. And walked me home across the park.

Poor old Boats went back into retirement. When he regained his feet again. And left me his knife sharpener and shoe horns as a gift. Nurse said goodbye in her big hat. Said she would miss all the wine. Nannie sat rigid and correct day in and out. Her narrow compressed lips and bustling starchiness through the house driving me out of my mind. Saved by the laughing and pleasing Alphonsine. Who went happily cleaning and telling me about her Paris boyfriend Jacques. Sometimes she wheeled the little fellow out in his pram. I could go and talk with her when I followed them to the park. And Millicent hearing me come one early evening into my room, stood at the dressing room door.

"You never take me out anywhere."

"I'm sorry."

"I'll bet. Where were you all afternoon. Fll tell you where.

Talking to Alphonsine in the Dell in the park."

"I'm sorry but I don't care to get into an argument."

"I could kill you."

"Another time perhaps. I want to change."

"You're going to the ballet again."

"Yes."

"What right have you got to tell my mother to stay away from this house."

"Possibly a legal right. I'm not sure.' "I could kill you."

"Yes."

"Why don't you be a man.' "I want to change my clothes please."

On that occasion Millicent knocked over the furniture in my room. Broke the mirror with an ashtray. And heaved other glass through the air. Until Alphonsine came rushing in to see what the matter was. When a hair brush bounced off the side of my head and I saw stars. A cut across my brow. As Milli-cent charged, her fingers drawn up to scratch my face, and Alphonsine intervened.

"Madam you must stop, there is blood on Monsieur."

I sat on a righted chair. Millicent ran from the room. Went down the stairs and slammed out the front door. Alphonsine bathed my eye. And put a bandage neatly there. One further trial of strength was over. With a letter reaching me two days later. From her solicitors. An injunction would be sought restraining me. Not to molest my wife. With another letter a day after from my trustees, enclosing an envelope marked personal and postmarked Belfast.

The Temple

London E.C.4

Dear Mr. B,

Herewith a letter of which we are in receipt with the request that it be forwarded to you.

We should be glad if you will attend a meeting, convened by the undersigned trustees, in order that compensation paid to the trustees may be varied with regard to increased expenses now found incurred by the many recent contingencies. Please advise us of a time suitable to you.

Yours faithfully,

Bother, Writson, Horn,

Pleader & Hoot

Part this other envelope, black ink penned neatly on the cream paper. My hand atremble and my heart thumps hard. To see again this address.

The Manor

Co. Fermanagh

My dear Balthazar,

I know this letter will find you far away in your own life. And it is with the greatest sorrow that I write. But I feel you would have wanted to know. Elizabeth died the thirty first of March. And was buried here beside her brother and mother.

It is extremely hard to know how to say something when one learns that out of a desperate love there can come cruel things. It broke my heart to withdraw from my daughter's wedding plans. Elizabeth had an accident taking a hedge with her horse being caught by wire and she was thrown violently hitting her head. I could not face the doctor's verdict. Elizabeth after the accident never fully regained her complete self. But in her limited way she begged me not to say anything in the hope that she would get well. Neither of us could bear the thought that the possibility of marrying did not remain. Her love meant so much to her. And therefore to me. It was the only thing still perfect she had. Now that it is over I somehow feel that it would have been fairer to you had you known. And that I was wrong in a hopeless way. It was a father's love for his only daughter that made me not say for her sake. And I do most hope you will understand. She also asked as a final wish I should send you this enclosed.

Yours sincerely,

Raphael Fitzdare

Inside the pink envelope Balthazar withdrew a sheet of paper with a large lettered scrawl of two words headed, The Manor, Co. Fermanagh.

Dear Balthazar

And that night when finally I could sleep I dreamt a dream. I had had so many times before. In the darkness and night wind of that green land. Under the tall trees and waving grasses. Fitzdare sat by moonlight on her little brother's tomb stone in a wedding dress. And I would climb the hill up from the lough and cross to her and try to take up the white splendid vision in my arms. And wake with tears.

I had breakfast at my desk each morning brought by Alphonsine. Weather wanning across London. The skies clean and blue. And sat with my feet up over the steaming delicious coffee and croissants. Which I covered with blackcurrant jam. Staring out my window over the lilac trees and across the walls at windows where perhaps there move other sad lives. When my private phone rings. The one man who knows its number. Pick up the black handle. And hear Beefy.

"Dear boy, joy. It is announced. Just as I finally threw in the towel. Put on your hat and coat and rush to the Edge-ware Road. Meet me the north east corner of Praed Street. Sorry to give you such sudden news. You know how one might pick up the best newspaper of a morning only to read that the Swedes are legalising incest. But for me I regain my rank. Valued by one's equals and honoured by one's inferiors. Of course I may add I am really a one orgasm man but I do guarantee some tempestuous thrustings in between."

"What's happened Beefy."

"It has happened. New shirtings, smoking jackets and kimonos are on the way. The Ritz first stop. The Infanta and I have a little passionate caprice I'd like you to cultivate. Called the regal rapture. Balthazar you will think me entirely without humility. But you know I stand in front of the mirror now and I must say when I look at it, it's fully ready for rosy rogering in deep solitude. Corsica perhaps for the honeymoon."

"Beefy I can't understand what you're saying."

"We are marrying, the Violet Infanta and I, today. Awfully rush and much hush hush. You are best man."

And Balthazar B rushed to change his clothes. Gathering money from the bank. Only thing one has for a present. Put it in a brown bag with two apples they can eat wherever they go. Jump into a taxi heading to the meeting place up this straight grim road. The Violet Infanta in a blue suit and blue hat. Beefy in grey double breasted pin stripe and Trinity Dublin tie. In a panelled room four of us stand before this pleasant smiling man. Who frowned a little and looked up as Beefy convulsively exploded a helpless laughter out his lips. And said as we went to a nearby hotel, I hope no one minded, my laughter was all relief.

Outside there was a din of pneumatic drills and I bid them goodbye with a wave and kiss from my lips. The dark shadow of Beefy through the opaque taxi window. I shook hands with the Infanta's friend who boarded a bus. People part. One does not want to grow old in misery. Trickle down to death. Carry always with me now. My Fitzdare I married. Long ago in my heart. Her smile and all the rest of her. Walks with me. Told to one's face. By a wife who has trapped you. Because of your money. Stroll along this road through a thronged street. Lady shoppers testing tomatoes on the stalls. Past this female hospital. And over the canal. No taxis anywhere. Just wait and look. Before one goes into the tube. Watch that weary old dog bent up crapping in the gutter between two cars. Poor doggy having such a struggle. Like Beefy he may have piles. But codes as well because he doesn't foul the footpath. Pity there are not more doggies like him. My God he's taken umbrage at my watching.

The dog with its fat body wobbling on thin ancient legs sped up from the street at Balthazar, barking and biting round his ankles. As one moves most quickly down the steps into the tube. A lesson learned that some doggies want their privacy. Like his master standing at the door of his pub. A regular who goes back inside to ask for his usual. And drink beer in the quiet civility where no shins are chipped. Or privates displayed.

Go now and take a ticket anywhere. On the low round little trains. Roaring down their tunnel tracks. One will go to St. James and walk across back through the park. See the ducks and swans swooping in the air. Wish so much for Beefy to be glad. With his pretty bride. The two of them holding hands. Wed when the daffodils are gone. And Beefy said the Infanta said she married him because she liked men with big pricks so she wouldn't have to strain her eyes.

Stepping off the train. Walking down this grey station. Bright shouting pictures on the walls. And suddenly stayed by a hand. To turn and look into the black face of a man.

"Escuse me sir."

"Yes."

"Do you live about here."

"No. But not too far away."

"Can you tell me how to get to the Foreign Office."

"Yes indeed. Just go out of the station into Petty France Street. Down Queen Anne's Gate, go right along the park. I think it is Birdcage Walk. Continue left along the park and then go right, up some steps, into what I think is King Charles Street. And that's the Foreign Office."

"Sir may I ask you kindly another favour. I have been watching you on the train. I have been riding the train for hours. Seeing all the faces. Just waiting until I could see a face of intelligence and humanity. Such as yours, the only face like that I have seen all day. I am a medical student. At Edinburgh university. And sir, believe me when I say I have waited to see a face like yours. One of sensitivity. An honourable face. Distinguished. I know nothing more about you except what I see. And sir, I know you have been to a university. Is that correct."

"Yes."

"You see I know. I can tell human beings and what they are. It is with the utmost reluctance I trouble you. The fact of the matter is sir. I have not eaten all day. I have no money. I am at my wits end. Everywhere I have gone I have been refused help. My shoes are worn out. Dear sir, could you give me the fare to Edinburgh."

Balthazar B looked into these dark pleading eyes. The black shining skin. And gracious manner. His shoes were only very slightly pointed. The missing buttons on his shirt and frayed cuffs nearly like my own.

"Please sir, before you speak, before you make up your mind. I want you to know that I am not lying. That I am genuine. Believe me. You are a professor."

"No."

"A member of the government perhaps. You know the streets so well."

"I walk here often."

"I can tell that you are important. I knew it as I watched you on the train all the way from Paddington on the Bakerloo Line to Charing Cross. You changed to the District Line to alight here. You see I do not lie. You are perhaps a member of Parliament."

"No."

"What are you sir. If I may just ask you."

"Pd hardly be able to answer that really."

"It is all right, you don't have to tell me, I understand you are someone important, and you do not want to divulge. I can see. Then you are a minister."

"No."

"You are of the peerage. Modesty prevents you from telling me. You have the carriage and demeanour of a lord. It is so clear to me that such is the case. Your clothing and the air about you tells me. But sir, upon my word of honour. Everywhere I have gone they want credentials from me. And I have left them with my landlady in Edinburgh and she will not send them to me because I have not paid the rent. That is the gospel truth. If I can get to Edinburgh my credentials will allow me to get further funds. And immediately I will send the sum back to you. Believe me sir. If I fail with you. There is no hope. Because it is only you out of all the hundreds of faces where I find love expressed with an elegance that simply no one else I have seen possesses. I do not ask you further. Believe me sir, I am aware that you may even be a member of the royal family. And that you would not want me to know. I offer you my watch as security."

Balthazar smiling to put this gentleman at his ease. The watch of poor quality held out in the pink faced palm of his hand telling the wrong time. His eyes full of sad resignation. Back those years, when one saw passing across college squares black princely gentlemen with their white flashing teeth and splendid ways. Flowing colours of their robes and the grand aplomb with which they wore their tweeds. And there was Zutu. Great soothsayer of the horse and race course.

"Please. Do put your watch away. And don't worry. You do flatter me over much I think, but alas you have stopped the right man. I will help you."

"Sir. Upon my God I knew I could not be wrong. That no face like yours have I ever seen before. I do not try to flatter you. I know you would scorn such an attempt. I merely speak the truth that is forced up out of my heart by hunger, the dread of destitution and no one to turn to. I have tried everywhere. I would show you my wallet or some identification but I have none."

"You must not upset yourself further. I am walking out, perhaps you would accompany me."

"Yes. It is sir, as if Christ himself had given me a goblet of wine. Men such as you have courage in your heart and wear love upon your face."

"It's nice of you to say but I'm not so sure. You mustn't trouble to give me praise. I am happy to give you the money."

"Fll send it back, please I beg you to tell me your name and give me an address."

"I'd prefer just to make this a present. I give it in memory of someone else. I'd like you just to accept it. And we'll say nothing more. It's enough to get you to Edinburgh, first class on the train, and this, extra, for you to have a good dinner tonight. I had an uncle who always said a bottle of Gevrey Chambertin today gives the spirit its sleep for tomorrow. Goodbye. I wish you a pleasant journey."

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."

"Of course. Like a shark. Just like he drives his speed boat through the water."

"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.

"What do you think of, looking so sad."

"Things."

"What."

"O how the geese gather together in the gloomy of St. James Park. The ones who come flying over our heads when we sit in the Dell. But there are others who fly for the night into Buckingham Palace Gardens. They have a pedigree."

"O you are funny."

"You have a tache de naissance on the neck Alphonsine."

"I think your eyes are very busy Monsieur."

"Come over here."

"No."

"Why."

"I must not. I must go away. Back to Paris. I am not happy to do so when your home is like this now. But it would not be proper to stay."

"Don't go."

"I must. It will be goodbye. It is sad too. I have liked it here. Sometimes I feel to go to Paris is like a grave. All the way from Calais looks like graves. The eyes of everyone are like lizards. But then when I am at last in Paris I go speeding in Jacques' car and we are gay."

"Is Jacques hairy."

"O la la. Jacques has not a hair. A little of course on the leg. And where he should have hair. On his chest he has a gold cross. With Christ. A tattoo. It looks how do you say, high style."

"Is he a good driver."

"Ha. Magnificent. We go so fast like a shot across Paris. Honking his horn. The tires squeal. His car is big, others get quickly out of the way. He is always the master. We will make such a good husband and wife together. We would not be perhaps too rich. We would not have all the things but what does it matter, we would have enough."

"Is Jacques very strong."

"O la la. What a question. Strong. How do you say, like the reptile with the constriction. He wrap around and squeeze like so. He makes the shoelace of me."

"He might squeeze out your life."

"Ah he leaves just a little so that I will recover."

"Jacques sounds so musculaire."

"You are being naughty I think. But of course I tell you many times already he is musculaire. In the bathing costume he is superb. Bump bump bump it go over the stomach."

"Does he put dressing on his hair."

"A little perhaps. Otherwise he is so very casual. He likes the tight trouser. Like a glove over the hip. Sometimes he hangs the open shirt outside. When he goes in the evening to the cafe. He say hello hello to all his friends. He laughs. He pushes away the others from the pinball machine who make a low score. He waves away the praise over his shoulder as he makes a high score. He never tilt the machine. He move the hip just so and his shoulder just so and makes the ball go in the skill hole."

"Does Jacques ever look awful when he gets up in the morning."

"Never. He is refreshed. Touches the toes, one two, one two. It is so beautiful when he shaves. He pats the toilet water over his face. Women they all turn the head when he goes by. I save all my money to buy my swimming costume and it is very extravagant but that is why. To feel confident and when Jacques looks at me and I feel he is proud. He does not notice then the other women."

"I had a big car once. Perhaps I could have won a race with Jacques."

"O never. You would not stand a chance."

"O dear, have some more brandy. I feel a need of champagne.' "A little. Tiny bit."

"Why wouldn't I have a chance with Jacques."

"He drives fast. Wears the sunglasses of course. It is so funny. We come to the stop light. The cars they are there waiting to start. Bumper and bumper like so. They are even, at the line. The drivers they look at each other, like down the nose from the engine to the wheels and they think ah monsieur will be left in the dust. At Jacques, they think, ha not much that car. Ah but Jacques he does not bother to look. He look straight ahead, he know what will happen. His hand is ready to steer, so relaxed like it would hold a cigarette, so bored he is. And his foot is ready on the accelerator. Tap tap it goes with impatience. For he know what is to happen. Inside himself he laughs as they look at him. The lights change, he is so bored, he gives them a second to get away. Then only for a moment he allow himself ah just a tiny smile. He is bored. Completely he is bored. He press the accelerator to the floor. One arm is across the back of the seat holding the cigarette. He give the ash a flick. And zoom we are going. A little smoke rise from the wheels on the street. The others they are thinking with a smile that he has been left standing. Then it is so funny as Jacques comes like a bird, he go by to leave them in the fume. And he puts the cigarette to the lips, he raises the one eyebrow. He sends out the little puff of smoke from the nose. And he is yawning. And that is that. He is of course so absolutely bored with his speed.' "Jacques is a winner. But Alphonsine it is I who bring home the onions. Jacques would be bored being so fast he would not bother.' "Ah yes, you are sweet."

"But how has Jacques become so formidable."

"He was born a winner. He works hard. When you are asleep, he has already worked half a day. His father, his brothers, the sister, they too are at work. He has but time for a quick cup of coffee in the morning. When you are only having your bath at eleven, with the pine scent. And you are on the bed till twelve in the towels.7 "You have spied on me."

"Only a little. You have spied on me through the keyhole.' "Only a little. What would Jacques do if he knew.' "O he would kill you. First like so, to the jaw. Then he would come with the uppercut. He is fast like a cat.' "Ah Alphonsine let us toast my death at the hands of Jacques.' "I have had so much already.' "We both need just a little more I think. Even Christ on the cross on Jacques' chest would join us tonight. But if Jacques were here he might kill me, slowly perhaps."

"It would not be bad, it would be over at once. But to try to make a fight, ah another thing it would be. It would be an abattoir for you. It makes me laugh to think. You and Jacques. So funny. Snap would go your head. Jacques then would come in with the chop. Chop chop. With the downward motion. Whoops, like a chicken who lose the head. O it would be funny. Like the tiger he would fight. He has machines for the hand to squeeze, in and out like that, one two, one two. To make the hand strong. In his underwear I see him. It is tight. The belly like little mountains."

"O dear, I am not musculaire."

"You are distinguished. Jacques is not distinguished. But I have enough distinguishness for the two of us. We do not worry who is your family. Where is your chateau. Who is your uncle. Your tailor. How is your accent. The English they are like parrots. The women squawk. So nervous. They do not get enough love. It is very sad. They go to Italy and they have it up the backside. I do not think that is satisfactory. It make the accent go high. It hurt the arse too. I am high. O la la, what am I saying. I have far too much to drink."

"Alphonsine may I just say it's good to listen to you."

"You are so flattering to me. Jacques does not flatter. He commands. Like a matador. But brave like the bull. When he comes and it is time to take me. I lie there on the bed. He is there, only in his brief. I but wait."

Crackling fire. Snapping of embers and the licking light across the room. Two photographs of Trinity, taken from my window in the square, hanging there against the oak panelling. A rainy day it was then. And wheels go by on a wet street now. Got my onions in before the rain. Pull the drapes closed on the window. Alphonsine sits back on the leather cushioned chair, feet tucked up, shoes off, in her tight grey slacks. Mil-licent said she probably looks like a cow when first she wrote. And I knew she didn't. From her handwriting. Her strokes so light and tentative. A strange little love grew up the moment I saw the way she crossed her t's and made the capital letter I. This blue delicate trembling vein on her ankle. Brought her here with her two large brown leather bags. We hardly talked all the way in the taxi. She spoke English and I answered in French. She wore a man's watch on her wrist. Her eyes were smiling so gleaming and shy. They somehow reach into one's life and touch it gently. I carried her bags up and she said her room was very pretty. At night Millicent put instructions written out and posted on the wall in the kitchen. Under au pair. And others under cook. After Boats left. And I would take them down. But once Alphonsine saw it when she came to make cocoa and blushed all over her cheeks. She could hardly speak and swallowed a lump down her throat. I said to Millicent you are never to do that again. She said why not she's French.

"You sit so how do you say, dejected. I should not tell you such things. I see what they do on your face. Even though I make a little joke, it is not nice. I suppose I do not tell you what is really the truth. When sometimes on my day off. I walk. I go to the shops. Up the Park Lane down the Oxford Street. And. Yes. I have thought of you often. I would wish I was back with you and the little fellow at the Dell when you come to the park. I would be bored by myself. I would be hungry too. I would be too stingy to have lunch. All the time when I was saving for the swimming costume. I come to a bun shop. Look in the window. I stand next to an old lady. She is hungry too. I count the number of raisins in the bun. To find out which is most. I go in the shop. I ask for that bun. I say no. Not that bun. That bun. I laugh. He mixes up the buns. I say wait, you have lost my bun and I must count all the raisins again."

"I will make your salary higher, Alphonsine."

"O no. I could not accept. I did not tell the story for you to say that."

"Let us have some champagne.' "O I am so light already in the head.' "It clears the palate. Refreshes the spirit."

"You are funny."

"I am not Jacques."

"Now now. You hold what I say against me. You know I have already said now what I shouldn't say. That it is often I think of you. But what good is it to think. You are another woman's husband. I have no right to think like that. It is not good to tell you these things. I have already made such a mistake to be here in your private room like this. But I want to be. So I am. And it is very wrong."

Balthazar bowed to put his lips briefly touching her hair. And went down the dark cellar stair. Along the cool corridor to the wine vault door. In here among the bins. Find something quite unforgettable in the straw. The two of us left in this house. No reason why for one night it should not be a happy home. I suppose if I were strong enough to lift it, the only defence against Jacques would be a chair. But if I got it up above my head he might punch me in the belly. So hopeless. I'm not even awfully good with sabre or foil. By the sound of him he could also beat me at squash. Only my palate would win. Challenge him to deciphering champagnes.

Alphonsine taken the tray away. All the other little scraps of paper gone. The cushions fluffed up. Scent of wood smoke. And one day when I went a walk along Brompton Road and entered the Oratory. Where often I go for peace and solitude. It was middle afternoon on a coldish day. A couple came and knelt at the altar. All alone. Then a priest came out. He performed a wedding ceremony. These two people wrapped up with each other's love holding hands. No cheering, singing and hats and rice and champagne. Just a priest's soft voice gently joining them. I thought how sad but then how beautiful. Two people together against all others. And me their only witness who watches. In the empty church. Send them out of my heart some good little wish. When one never believes in miracles. I saw one small one happen. At the moment they were wed. A ray of sunshine came striking down from the church dome and shone upon their heads. To light up their world.

"I could not drink more."

"To celebrate."

"No no. I could not when your wife has gone. And the little fellow too. I would never celebrate such a thing."

"It's to celebrate my friend's wedding. Beefy."

"Ah. Le Comte. O la la. Who would marry him, he is such a one. What things he say. How is that funny one, that it is the rich what gets the prunes and it is the poor what gets the shits. I laugh."

"Your eyes sparkle."

"Ah you are. Are you not. Making it a bit risky here. But it is nice to feel so good. I like when the light goes on your hair. It is like the electric that one touches. But taboo. I am above Jacques' class. You are above mine. And you are very rich."

"I am poor."

"Ha ha, I see how you live, you could not be very poor. Do not think I do not know the champagne we are drinking. It is not for poor people. You do not fool me."

"I want to kiss you."

"No."

"Why."

"Because it is taboo. Who is he on the wall, clinging to the cliff."

"That is my Uncle Edouard."

"He looks nice."

"Yes he was.' "O something happen to him."

"Yes. He is in his grave."

"O I am sorry."

Balthazar rising from his chair. To step near Alphonsine. Her hair gleaming. She is alive. No grave. She is France. Like all the piers from Calais to Boulogne where men stand and fish. And starfish lie crushed and sun dried along the quays. The towns now lit bright with neon lights. But the fishing boats still come and go. Just as when I was a little boy. The car ferry was moving away. Trawlers coming in from distant seas. And white little sailboats like butterflies, their wind slanted wings out on the grey green water. Fresh blue sweeping across the skies. Each day lay out upon my dreams somewhere near the edges of land and water where the eye could see. Married I was as voices sang. Walked stiffly slowly up the aisle. Needing to take a pee. My afternoon already darkening. My hands are on you. Alphonsine. Takes so little flesh to make a curve. And there's a flat wall of red brick on the corner of Pall Mall and St. James against which one can lean. And with you Alphonsine tune our ears to vespers. Tea with crumpets and gentleman's relish. Jacques takes what he wants. And I must ask. To pardon my ancient expression. And the tremors of trouble bubbling behind the kneecaps. Hard pressed by evil. Snatch delight in these selfish times. Soft to kiss. Take up our memories in the Dell. Hear a Beefy beatitude. Blessed are they who out of a sea of human frailty climb aboard a piece of arse when it floats by.

"No, I think we must not. Please."

"Why."

"It is not that I do not wish to. But I must stay here no longer. Please. It is very sad but it is so."

"Alphonsine. Let us sleep in the same bed."

"What difficult things you ask."

"Please."

"You want me. I want you. But why should we be allowed. Everybody passing on the street. They look. They want. But why should they have.' "No one wants you as much as I do. And I may never drink enough again to have the courage to ask you. I know it."

"I am thinking you are as wicked as you are sweet. You have such a way with you.' "Do I leave Jacques standing in his tracks.' "Ola la. You are bold.' "Watched you through the keyhole."

"Of course I know you watch me. It was so funny. I move this way and I move that way. I was so naughty. And you are so English to look through the keyhole. I am so embarrassed but I laugh at the same time. As I hang the towel slowly over the hole. It is le Comte Beefy who put you up to it. Both of you outside the door looking. I give you the towel like a curtain at the end of the performance. But Jacques would be jealous. He sometimes say at the end of a letter we are finish, that I have the affair in London. He has his dog. His boat. He says when he wants to make me unhappy that he likes his dog better. And I am only second."

"You are first with me."

"I cry a little. I miss the little fellow. I love him so. He has eyes like you. Now it seems so sad. I do not say to you all your wife said to me. I cry too because I do not want to go back to Paris. I would like always to be friends with you. But maybe it is not possible to be friends between a man and a woman. You never see me cry before. But please. Tell me. I want you to tell the truth. When you look through the keyhole. Do you think when you see it, that my bottom is too big."

Alphonsine looks down into her glass, head bowed. My study bells chime. One waits. And in the silence comes the distant boom of Big Ben. Lit up looking down on the Thames. Where it ebbs flowing up against bridge ramparts. Carrying all the French letters away. Alphonsine come with me. Don't say no. Bolt the doors. The windows. Only thieves can get in. Monsieur I am so ashamed. Take your arm. Both of us stand. Offer up your face. Lids closed over your sad dark eyes. Taste your tears. Apple smell of your mouth. The last bell of twelve comes over the rooftops. Climb slowly each stair. Kiss and hold tight on the landings. Up to your room. Undress your big bottom in the darkness. Ripe and round. Put my arms around you. Stand flesh to flesh. Till the day grows light up the valley of the Thames. My little fellow will not see the sun come up the street and gurgle in his crib and smile. Down on your hands and knees to clean this house. When I was aloof and mortified. Safe in my comfortable habits, sailing through little miseries. Lay me on you. You say I am so hesitant and shy instead of sportif and musculaire. That I have everything I want. But one never wants what one has. Except more of you. All through this night. As I see a streak of light. At a door opening in dreams. To let in things it's sad to know. And it's morning in Knightsbridge. Back in my room. When I was in yours. The world swirls. Fades light and dark. I rise up from bed. You sit all dressed again.

"O Balthazar. You are awfully sad, you had so much to drink."

"What happened."

"You were so sweet. So kind. So very drunk."

"O God."

"You will be better very soon."

"What happened."

"O it was nothing. You say you love me. You say you love someone else who's dead. O la la, such a pickle. You say you will buy me a little cottage with roses round it by the sea. Then you fall asleep and snore."

"I am sorry."

"You are a saint. You say such wonderful things to me. I will never forget. Go back to sleep. Later you will wake and feel better. Go to sleep."

Back to darkness on the crisp pillow with an uncrisp head. My eyes will open sometime again. Where I dream sitting at a white table cloth. On a crimson carpet. Pink spots on pottery. Lights glow and waitresses move to and fro. In this mauve illumined room. Vichy water on the bedside table and my red glass decanter. And at the window. A fluttering like butterflies. Moth wings beating against a shade. White winged figures. Roses in their hair. Am I dying. Smiles upon their lips. Quiet gleams from their faces. Tip toeing across the carpet. Towards me. To touch the hem of my coverlet and raise it gently up to my neck. Take light lemon flavoured water, wipe my lips and brow. Hear them all humming now. Is it the first chill day of London winter. When clouds lie striped on a western sky. And a wind blows cold and clear down Jermyn Street. Warm inside like Christmas. And there they stand. In summer. In all their beauty. Waitresses. Pouring tea. A flavour of blessing.

At a time

Told by

A sea's sad

Big clock.