The Beastly Beatitudes of Balthazar B

29

A man in a belted mackintosh and brown trilby hat stood by the lamp post with a newspaper and sometimes a shooting stick across the street from 78 Crescent Curve. And when he was gone a letter arrived from a firm of solicitors with reference to protecting the interests of their client Mrs. Balthazar B. I read it in bed over a breakfast brought me by Alphonsine.

And one Wednesday when the air was quite pleasant, taking a crowded bus from the middle of Sloane Street. Which jerked and swayed with a rather playful driver. I fell back upon a small white wisp of woman standing just behind me. I could hardly see her under her red felt hat and red tweed coat. And out came her saddened little voice.

"Please don't, you're pushing on me.' "I'm terribly sorry madam."

"Well would you please be more careful and hold on to something. I know the bus is pulsating but if you crush me it would be awful. Because I am so tiny and weak."

The bus lurched on as I clung dearly with my hogskin glove. Holding life and death over the minute creature behind me. And suddenly the vehicle stopped abruptly and one was swung helplessly. I fell again upon the little person. As she cried out in her most forlorn voice.

"There you have done it once more. You are a big person and you continue to fall on me a little person."

To the end of Sloane Street I was thrown back on her again and again. Her small voice rising in its pleading high pitched manner begging for mercy. The entire bus viewed me with such disfavour and then suddenly with umbrage that I alighted before we turned into Knightsbridge and took a taxi the rest of the way. At the estate agent's I gave my requirements. And they said they had just the thing nearby. I walked with the man and viewed the commodious premises a couple of floors up overlooking a little piece of green grass and trees in Mayfair. I walked the long corridors and peeked into the ancient musty rooms. In and out of the servants' quarters and the large kitchen that reminded me of Uncle Edouard with its tiling and great ranges.

At 78 Crescent Curve Alphonsine was packed to go. Each day I pleaded for her to stay just one day more. To hope she would change her mind. And when she would not leave her room and then later come to me, her eyes red with tears, I knew a letter from Jacques had arrived. But slowly through the evening she would cheer once more. On fillet steak, mushrooms, camembert and Grand Echezeaux. As organ concertos trumpeted on my gramophone she would sit reasonably pleased, sewing buttons on my shirts and darning my socks.

A card arrived from Beefy. Rather risque but antique. A lady with her finer points exposed and garlands in her hair.

His tightly minutely scrawled message I deciphered under my magnifying glass.

My dear Balthazar, We cast our clothes from us again last night as we have done many the nights previous. The Violet Infanta has a sweetness of character of which I was totally unaware. Our room overlooks the harbour. Our toothbrushes stand together on our little shelf over the washstand and her childish flimsy garments are strewn on an odd chair. I have on, my dear boy, my rust brick coloured slacks, sunglasses and sandals. The dear girl weighs a cool fifty eight and one half kilos. Very flat on the belly, she is. A marvellous space between the thighs through which I get morning and evening breezes when necessary. She's my mare, dear boy, we trot off on the trail together, soon followed, I hope, by little Beefys. Now that one waits in nonchalant comfort I dream each night of what colour socks I will wear to my granny's memorial service. God willing it should come. But one dark note was sounded in the night when a couple moved in next door. This room it would appear is of cardboard walls. Chap and his wife from Orpington, Locks Bottom to be exact, very south London if I may say. Me and mine were up to some rather very naughty and nervy tricks together when in the middle of one came these raised voices doing their accounts of the day together. Adding up tips, price of postcards and where they were robbed, cheated and miserably duped beyond, it seems to me, belief. It didn't half put me off my canter, but being cheated was the least of it. My dear boy, both were poisoned by some fish dish or other. And the toxin was only at that moment getting a grip on them. They yawked, howled and bitterly complained through the entire night. Having ruined two of my most flagrant caprices I went into a rage on the third just near dawn and put my fist clean through the wall. This appeared to cure both of them but brought the owner. He promptly did his nut and his own amazing caprice but was silenced by a note of large denomination. However the world is colourless without war. My banker loves me now. And by the time you get this I should be back visiting estate agents to get fitted properly out for the future. I hope you manage to read my minute scrawl. And one little beatitude, blessed are they who do not eat poisoned fish and yawk for they will refresh themselves with filthy multiple perverse practices in the night.

Love,

Beefy

Alphonsine laughed as I read her the card. And we rejoined to bed. She took each stocking carefully down from her legs and asked if I could feel a breeze come through the space between her thighs. She blew me as I watched the ceiling turn white. Which it was already. And I asked would she come with me when my new flat was ready, no one would know we were there. But her cheeks flushed and she sat up still and silent, the pink buds on her breasts, to shrug her shoulders. Till one knew there was nothing else one could say. And dressed I turned in the hall. She stood on the bottom stair. Beefy had rung on his return. I said I was off to see him. She stepped up to me in the hall and stood on tip toe to kiss me on the brow. She gave a sad and silent little smile. A mist in her eyes and watched me go out the door.

High in the grey great hotel. At the end of a long hall. A door swung open in greeting. The tanned brimming face of Beefy in a purple kimono, straw hat and Trinity scarf. Cowhide bags in an open bedroom closet. The Violet Infanta sitting demurely, her dark hair waved back and two blue eyes in her triangular face. She said a shy hello, grabbed her bag, swung her tweed skirt and left for a hair appointment. To leave me sitting in a fat chair as a bucket of champagne came in.

"Isn't she an absolute darling. My honeymoon was more than I ever anticipated. Little sad the Infanta was no virgin for the occasion. But excellent sport. After years of struggle at last washed up safe on a secure financial shore. Drew out cash at her bank this morning. Chap called me back and said there was some mistake. I riposted right sharpish, I said yes, that you leger scribblers are not at prep school learning a bit of civility. People of course hate to be invited to love you. But it is an awful responsibility guiding her riches through the shoals. So many fortune hunters around these days. Haven't had a look see at her share certificates but when one does one will know what sand banks to avoid. But Balthazar you look thin. Strained. How is all your little farm."

"Millicent vacated."

"Good God. That is sad. For good."

"Yes."

"And the little fellow."

"Took him too."

"O Lord no. That's awful. O dear I don't like that one bit. I mean she did once or twice try to brain you but that's all part of it. But buck up. Come, there now, have a sip. Better and more gracious days are coming."

Good to see Beefy looking so well. But not to put a pall upon his triumphant return I withdrew. The trains trumpeting in and out of Victoria Station. To points south and east 382 across the Continent, Paris, Vienna and Istanbul. Gentle fall of soot and smut. Newspaper hawkers shouting over the roar of traffic. London in its shallow bowl of tidy green squares and parks. The distant hills rising north, south and west around the Thames. To walk away from that hotel with a strange sense of sad. Cross Belgrave Square and pass a stream of ladies in flowery dresses and big straw hats. Back up the steps of Crescent Curve. To an empty house. With none left but me.

And an envelope under the paper weight on my desk.

Dear Balthazar,

I have left because I think it is best. I go back to Paris. I leave your dinner, nice mayonnaise lobster, in the fridge.

Love from

Alphonsine

To wake this day in a lonely house. As Beefy phoned. Moving from hotel to hotel. In search of one befitting his future. While I sat staring at Uncle Edouard clinging to the side of his cliff on my wall. Unable to see further than tomorrow. Wandered at a late hour across the park to the Bayswater Road. To hope by accident to run into Breda. But never a sign of her. Until Beefy stood suddenly in the hall of 78 Crescent Curve with his arms outstretched in doom.

"Balthazar, they've done it to me, I've been had. It will mean prison. It may have all been planned and plotted. She hasn't a sausage to her name, my violent Infanta. God help me if she hasn't Irish blood and relatives, all without social credentials. And what is worse, quids."

"Beefy, this is unexpected news."

"My dear boy I'm bankrupt. Fortunately I had lunched off oysters and a dozen gull's eggs out of season. Before my bank manager says to me, when I was just calling to pass the time of day, he said what on earth do you think you're doing. And the dismal facts were revealed. A huge Infanta cheque I'd paid into my account bounced right over St. Paul's. Everyone who has eyes in London saw it. I taxed the creature with it. I said your cheque bounced. She looked utterly innocent and asked why. I said because you don't have sufficient funds. Then the awful words came. She has had all these months a credit of eighty seven pounds fifteen shillings in her account and could prove it. I said if you do my dear girl, I am up the spout for thousands as I stand here. My bank manager thinking all this time that granny had been shoveled under. All rather hysterically horrid. I was found last night dear boy in a Mayfair doorway, protruding onto the pavement. Some gentle kindly taxi driver lifted me up and I groaned to him an address. Took me to the club. Had a little note pinned to me, Dear Guv, you are no lightweight, but good luck to you. You are a merry gentleman. And I did the worst possible thing. The most heinous thing of my life. I confronted the Infanta. Just over an hour ago. I struck her and she went down. I haven't got it in me to commit murder. I fell upon her sobbing. Worst thing of all is, I love the dear girl. I mean weVe had our awkward moments when I wanted to put it where I have done previously in others. And where too she finally welcomed it with delight. Although radiantly new to such proclivity."

"Beefy I am to the cellar. I will be back."

Beefy's words so loud in the silent house. As he sat there in his plus twos. At any minute he would make for the highlands and lie himself amidst the heather. To creep down at darkness into his granny's manor. And scare her to death. With a goat's skull. The time come to take slowly now upon one's palate two rare bottles of golden wine. Full of musky death sipped by the living to give life. With fresh lobster to go with Alphonsine's leftover mayonnaise.

"Balthazar you are a brick, to purvey this gonadal wine when it is most needed. And you know what else happened.On this fatal day. Only moments ago. A marvellous thing to befall any British subject. But me. I was on my way in one awful hurry to the merchant bankers in the City. Can you imagine, Masterdon. A power in the banking world. Actually ready to help me. Well my God, what happens but I get instantly into the most atrocious traffic jam. Thought best to get out and run the remaining three or four miles. And there I am standing on the pavement. Motors bumper to bumper, choked in all directions. When a car, a large vehicle of polished glass, coat of arms, flags on front fenders, stops right in front of me, my nose nearly at the window. I thought for one instant it was granny, so help me God. That's the way she goes about terrorising all her tenants. I had simply so much on my mind I froze. Dressed of course like this I should have been miles away in heathery landscapes. But there I was a British subject standing a little to the left of the middle of my prime. And sitting barely two feet from my incredulous face was the Monarch. Locked right in the traffic. Facing me, Beefy, just before bankruptcy. My first instinct is as always to check one's personal dress. Then I instantly came to attention. My hand half way up to salute. I was the only one on the pavement for miles. And I dropped my arm again. The Monarch turned and looked at me. I knew it was written all over my face that I had been corrupted by my nannie at the age of six and thereafter led steeply down the path of infamy and wretchedness. And that this morning I had to take an umbrella to crap under the drips from the club cistern above. I was not worthy of the Monarch's gaze. But I knew it was essential to look back with all the fair play and loyalty at my command, right in the Monarch's eye. One realises in a moment such as that, that the Monarch is always there, head of the ship of state to whom one can appeal in spirit when life is most rough. That the Monarch speaks for truth when you know damn well everyone is lying through their litigation. The Sovereign, always the resistor to the irresistible impulse, steadfast in jostling. Never unnerved in national turmoil and sorrow when from the Monarch's eyes the tears must fall. And it was clear from the very polite indifference in the present gaze back at me that no tears were shedding for my disaster. I knew I had to salute at that instant, hoping desperately the car would move on. But it didn't. The Monarch stared at me. I thought I saw an imperceptible raising of one eyebrow. And you know it's a feeling no foreigner would ever understand. That I wanted it somehow known that I was loyal, unbought and non fishy. Locked as one was in this eye gripping awkward manner. I couldn't hide my face in my hands. Or run. I wanted to almost say finally. Please don't look at me shattering the atoms down my spine. God how unworthy I was at that moment. Then the traffic began to move again. And the Monarch smiled at me. God help me if I didn't grow faint. And rushed straight here."

"Beefy do help yourself."

"My God what yummies. By whose hand was such mayonnaise wrought."

"Alphonsine."

"A true darling. O dear what will a chap like Masterdon say, awaken as I must memories of pulling each other's pecker. What a time to be without the bullion when so many beastly delicious freedoms abound. I nearly slid off your steps dear boy, only my good eyesight kept me from upending and writhing besmirched in awful doggie befoulment."

"I regret to say the dog across the street has learned that your little bow wows are only stone. He wee wees over them and they're rather stained on their little noses."

"By God Balthazar let us get some women and to hell with everything. Launch a major orgasm. There is that one you know, to which one mounts climbing up through those precious seconds and at the pinnacle explodes an imperceptible part of one's soul. The cream upon one's milk spilled without a pagan's apology. Which makes for serenity in one's life. God you know, you sit there so beatific and never beastly Balthazar. More than anything I'm sad for what has befallen the Infanta. She just lay on the floor holding her dear little hand to her face, not knowing what hit her. A defenceless creature struck down. And suddenly it seemed as if she reposed beneath a great marble arch on a bed of flaming roses, dead. I threw myself on her like a tearful child. Sorrow makes me awfully randy. Gave her a molto adagio rogering which was more in my later manner I felt than my usual earlier one. It defies me how I've got so fond of her. I suppose that in her own little way she is such a vulnerable creature and it would break my heart to see the world do her harm. As it is, the world is about to dump it on me in bulk."

"Beefy I'd like very much if you would allow me to help you."

"Balthazar, you are princely like no other and I'm touched. But so help me God, granny at her age can't go on befoggling me. Now that life is so terrifying and my fear of death nil I'm ready once more to have at her. She may be tough but by God I have taken the last of her diabolical, regrettable, shirty, shabby and tawdry antics. However, enough. Let us go in search of women."

A taxi with a jocular driver trundled them to Soho. Along with bottles of the golden wine, two dozen quails' eggs and bowls of the mayonnaise and lobster. They settled in the third row of the strip club. Packed out with a queue along the wall. And somewhat sulphurous with match lighting. The splendid friendly greeting to Beefy from the gentlemen at the doors. And a chap in the last row emitting a great gasping sigh after each act. Said to be a member of the peerage. Whose hand clapping could be heard as a lady skipped on stage wearing nothing but a well known old school tie.

As the lights blinked on in Soho and streets filled with night time traffic Beefy walked out with Balthazar into the evening, the wicker hamper balanced on his head. Past the doorway lurkers and book vendors busy with the toil of keeping their public satisfied. They lean over their wares with smiles and greetings. Beefy raising an ecclesiastic hand in blessing. To finally flag a taxi which roared off to a Mayfair address.

"You know Balthazar I have that feeling which comes when one is leaving the building site on a Saturday afternoon, a good week's work behind one. Even though I was mostly curled up asleep in an empty sewerage pipe. Yet will I see myself lodged in Sunningdale, carpeting laid thick under the occasional tables strewn with cigarette lighters. The Infanta 387 has the most interesting mole on the back of her thigh. In my leisure moments perusing her skin, I found parts of her unaccountably beautiful. About the armpit she is quite elegant. All I wanted to be was a great ecclesiastic. Offering up prayer in the sanctuary of a cloister with a fountain and ornamental waters. Amid moisty green swards and orangeries. Stamping out the lonely evil habits rife among civil servants. Calling upon solicitors to do penance and barristers to beat their breasts in contrition. Of course I'd also twist the ears of shopkeepers who put on airs. The Infanta has an incredible knack of cradling the balls. Gently squeezing them at the appropriate time. And I have been diabolical to her. Here we are. Wait Balthazar. I shall bring on the girls."

The taxi sped under a purple London sky. One's street lamp glowing and illuminating the expression of utter indifference on the face of the gentleman across the street as he raised his binoculars to view Beefy, two girls and two little dogs rushing up the steps of 78 Crescent Curve. Beefy in my doorway pointing a finger. And with a voice of window rattling resonance.

"I say, you sir with the binocs. You are clearly an impostor. Get out of that nun's habit immediately."

Sounds echo through this house where all has been so silent. My canes, my little prints of Dublin on the walls. As these two ladies of pleasurings fix their hair and tie up their dogs to the leg of the kitchen table. And Beefy holds out some fare. The rare faint blue of a shelled quail's egg in the palm of his hand.

"Welcome girls. Here is the invalid tray of goodies with the turtle and calves foot jelly. Your host, Balthazar. Isn't he a beautiful gentleman. While others are cunning and deceitful, he remains always witty and kind. Let the necklines plunge now. I'll paint your portraits for a start."

The girls giggled chased by Beefy through the house. They oohed and aahed to his gallant gooses given through bed and dressing rooms. Balthazar butlering with the buckets of ice brought forth. And champagne corks popped. Beefy mounting the dining room table upon which so many crystal cut bowls had crashed from Boats' trembling hands. He skidded back and forth in his socks. And shouted out gospel according to Beefy.

"Girls amid this forest of definitive degeneracy let us fan the appetites and incite the mind with black underthings. While I tremble over the extraordinary liberties pending. My old granny won't die. Lives on and on eating her own homemade jam, weaves her own cloth, sips heather honey and dandelion wine, and quaffs pot still whisky. No laughing matter. Her grandchild has been doomed to taking much roughage to clear the bowel. Ah both you girls have shallow navels. Which of you again is from Ongar."

"Me Winetca, your grace.' "Don't flatter me with title my dear girl. I am not quite that titular. But come into my little anglican communion. Up here you dears. Caper for Beefy. See how you gavotte. Neither of you I am sure send your vicar anemones on his birthday. No niceties remain. Such inclement changes have been wrought in England. Hardly a beastly beatitude is left. Stop that kissing and embracing girls. Too early. That caper is reserved for further and better particulars later. During my scripture lesson. Yes, pour the champagne on each other."

Balthazar sitting in the corner of the candle lit dining room. As Beefy dances away all his disappointments suffered. He lives on as if the world will bounce up again when you drop it. Yet one knows a terrible little sad secret stays in his heart. Which I read one day long ago. And found he was just a little boy like me chilled on an evening desert of sorrow. Even as he now gleefully puts a glass of wine to his lips. And slapping a narrow hardened buttock of Edwina. How did he get to us down through the centuries. To stand stark naked as he does. A belt around his belly, embracing the ladies of light fingered love.

"Girls I must caution you on that recent posture. Edwina remember you are the daughter of a long distance lorry driver and he would be ashamed. Can't you see my friend Balthazar is quite stricken with the outrage of your engripment."

The cries and screams of laughter. These three on the table pouring champagne on each other when suddenly the girls' poodle doggies came charging into the room. Trailing broken leads. Rushing to the sound of their mistresses' high pitched squeals. Beefy up into the air as one little doggie mounted a chair and nipped him about the legs. And he came down again with the other doggie's teeth clamped over his ankle. A swift kick upwards dislodging this clinging animal towards the ceiling and across the room to come crashing down on the candelabra formerly glowing gently on the sideboard. A mite of light left to see Edwina casting her bottle which crashed against the door. Just a little to the side of Beefy's head.

"By God girls you will get what for. The battle is on. There'll be false eye lashes everywhere I can tell you. My trustees will have at you with their canes long after I am done. Swipes across the tit and arse with my cutlass is not good enough for you."

Balthazar B tip toeing out into the hall. The battle raged inside. An awful dog smell coming from the kitchen. In the disturbed peace of what was once my home. And will no longer be. After tonight. Because I am going to march up these stairs. An outsider in Beefy's games. I've only ever been able to play with one. Take away this vase full of dying yellow flowers. Pour all the unicellular animals down the sink. Pack up a bag of clothes. And do so without a sound.

The two girls chased by Beefy followed by the little doggies came charging up the stairs. Their heavy breathing as they passed and went up another flight. And the floor rumbles in Boats' former room. Then all is quiet. And echoing down the stairs the voice of Beefy, that's very fine girls, very nice. Thank you. More please. I now anoint you. Winetca of Ongar of the shallower navel. And you Edwina of the long nipple from Nuneaton. But dear girls I should much hate to serve supper to any of your distant relatives.

In darkness one turns away. To go and sit and wait in my study. So sobered by sadness. And too awfully shy to ever feel delight. Go down the stair. All Beefy's beatitudes. Blessed are they who wear God's garters and sip champagne from the cupped hands of naked women for they will keep their pricks and palates young. Beefy never casts a stone. Stands alone with his dark devilments held aloft victoriously. The scream of a little dog. Sounds just like the small person I fell upon in the bus. You are a big person and I am tiny and weak.

Balthazar B sat in his study chair. A tired head leaning. The sounds distant upstairs. One is all alone. When you stop somewhere in your life and look at the love spilled from your hands. Hear the little fellow chuckle. He would reach up and take my finger and tug. And try to see me with his wide open believing eyes. To grow I hope when he does to rear up anew from each misfortune. And never know the sad little secret untold in Beefy's stout heart. Read all those years ago, fallen on a tiny piece of paper from his diary he kept at school. I picked it up from the floor between our beds and saw his tight little scrawl.

I want

A mommie

And a daddy

Please

Help me

Somebody.