The Ginger Man - J. P. Donleavy [58]
Malarkey grabbed Dangerfield by the arm.
"Sebastian, do you want to see the most amazing thing in your life?"
"I do."
"Come back into the wine cellar."
Sebastian and Mary following Tony.
"Now for the love of Jesus, don't make a sound or old Clocklan will have a fit. Just take a look inside."
At the end of the long black hall, they paused before a half-open window. Leaning over the sill, peering into the black hole. In the center of the room, two figures on a narrow canvas camp bed, reeling on four twisted legs. Writhing. There was a great squeak. And then a squeal. The camp bed collapsing, bare bums slapping the stone. A naked Clocklan clinging desperately to the smooth nude. She said O my God what's happened and groaned. Clocklan grunting, ignoring the laughs in the hall, glued to the bleating blonde.
"Have you ever seen anything like it in your life before, Sebastian?"
Tony, I must say that Clocklan is full of spirit"
"Ould dirty whore. He'd get up on his mother in her coffin"
Mary had run back to the kitchen. A jammed place. Floor covered with broken bottles. A girl standing in the corner, drunk, pissing down her nylon leg. A nice pool. A voice declaring.
"Say what you want about me, but by God, don't insult my King"
"Hump your old King."
"Who said that?"
"Hump your old King."
"I say, I say there, out with it. Who said that?"
"The King is a shit."
"Look here, I won't stand for it."
"Up Ireland."
"God save the King."
"Bollocks the King."
"God save all here. And the others as well."
O thread my way back into this Catholic blood. And there's something about slaughter. Fists in the smoke and smell. What a tiresome scene. A decibel of this is enough. Moral decadence. And an agreeable lack of fibre. But decency, not a bit of it anywhere. I must put a stop to it.
Dangerfield taking a chair, and stepping on to the table, wound his fingers around the electric light and yanked it from the ceiling. There was a blue roar of flame. Layers of plaster crashing to the floor. Screams all over the black room.
"Mary and Joseph we're being murdered"
"Get your filthy hands off me"
"Who did that?"
"I've been robbed"
"I've been goosed Wow."
Through the dark Sebastian led Mary and together they pounded up the iron steps to the street A horse cab was passing.
"I say, my good man."
The cab stopped.
"Tell me where can the lady and I get a drink?"
"Certainly sir, certainly."
They climbed into the mouldy interior. Sitting on a mass of torn upholstery and damp rugs.
"Isn't this great, Mary?"
"What did you pull the light out of the ceiling for? You could have killed somebody."
"I was appalled by the depravity and the general slump in morals. Does your father ever hit you in the chest, Mary?"
"He hits me everywhere. But I can defend myself."
"I'm going to take you to The Head. Mary. Where we can drink with a better class of people."
"I think I better go home."
"Why?"
"I have to. You go to Trinity."
"How do you know?"
"One of the girls told me. All these Trinity students are the same. The only nice ones are the black ones. They're gentlemen. They don't get personal or fresh."
"Mary, I may not be black but I'm not bad."
"You just laughed at those people in the back room without any clothes."
"They were having congress."
"Fancy names."
Under the train trestle went the horse cab. Past the monument makers. And a shop where I used to keep my rations. A milky, cold smell. I often bought two eggs and one slice of bacon. From a bowl-breasted girl. She eyed me. And once I bought oatmeal and went out and got dreadfully drunk across the street. Invited the pensioners in for a pint. They all came in adjusting scarves, coughing graciously. They all told me stories. About men and their daughters. I heard them before but once is never enough—got to have them more often. Later I spilled my bag of oatmeal all over.
Sebastian kissed Mary. She put her elbows over her breasts. But she's opening her mouth. And she's got a hard little back and thick thighs but I can't get my hand to her bosom. Can't squeeze it in under here. Not an inch. Say, Mary, how about you and me going where the olives grow? Or at least where it isn't so goddamn damp. Boy. your lips are narrow.