J. P. Donleavy - The Beastly Beatitudes of Balthazar B

The Beastly Beatitudes of Balthazar B

This page intentionally left blank

Books by J. P. Donleavy

THE GINGER MAN

A SINGULAR MAN

THE SADDEST SUMMER OF SAMUEL S

THE BEASTLY BEATITUDES OF BALTHAZAR B

THE ONION EATERS

A FAIRY TALE OF NEW YORK

THE DESTINIES OF DARCY DANCER, GENTLEMAN

SCHULTZ

LEILA

MEET MY MAKER THE MAD MOLECULE

THE UNEXPURGATED CODE

DE ALFONCE TENNIS

J. P. DONLEAVY'S IRELAND

ARE YOU LISTENING RABBI LOW?

THE HISTORY OF THE GINGER MAN

THE LADY WHO LIKED CLEAN RESTROOMS

A SINGULAR COUNTRY

This page intentionally left blank

J.P.DONLEAVY

The Beastly

Beatitudes

of Balthazar

B

Copyright 1968 by J.P. Donleavy

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of such without the permission of the publisher is prohibited. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the authors rights is appreciated. Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or anthology, should send inquiries to Grove/Atlantic, Inc., 841 Broadway, New York, NY 10003 or permissions@groveatlantic.com.

Chapters 1 through 8 were previously published in TheSaturday Evening Post. Excerpts originally appeared in Playboy magazine.

Published simultaneously in Canada

Printed in the United States of America

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Donleavy, J. P. (James Patrick), 1926

The beastly beatitudes of Balthazar B.

I. Title.

PS3507.O686B4 1988 813'.54 88-3415

ISBN 978-0-8021-9818-1 (ebook)

Grove Press

an imprint of Grove/Atlantic, Inc.

841 Broadway

New York, NY 10003

Distributed by Publishers Group West

www.groveatlantic.com

Content

The Beastly Beatitudes of Balthazar B

This page intentionally left blank

He was born in Paris in a big white house on a little square off Avenue Foch. Of a mother blond and beautiful and a father quiet and rich.

His nannie wheeled him daily in a high blue pram on pebbled paths under the tall trees. And as May branches were pressing out their green tips of new leaves he was taken on this warm sunny day across the river, through portals, a courtyard and under musty military flags. And there in a godmother's arms with salt pressed on his lips and a cold dash of water on the skull, he was christened Balthazar.

Made of sudden love this gurgling baby shook tiny tender limbs in ecstasy. Wheeled to the Bois across summer, fists encased in woolly whiteness, skies passed more blue than cloudy beyond the folds of gauze. Under leaves and green, nannie sat near knitting on her folding chair. She waved away the mosquitos and bees and welcomed butterflies. And each day at four, in the thickest hot stillness, we headed home for tea.

Up the cooling steps to winter, her blue cap sat on a bun of brown hair. In a crib in the sun room off the vestibule I crawled. And reached through wooden bars to tug at plants sitting on their white gleaming pedestals. And touched where a chinaman fished forever in the river, to make him move. And he stayed the same. Like the cuddling kissing rocking arms I knew. Until the sweet nut flavour and milk white beauty of my mother's breasts were taken away. And I made my first frown.

Winter went away down warming steps to spring. The vestibule plants crushed together against the window. On a June dawn the big black car with the footrests sticking from the fuzzy floor drove west north west from Paris. Through steamy mists rising on the land.

Late afternoon, a western heaven rippled red. Past all the villages between the wide spreading fields shimmering in the sun, lonely steep roofed red tiled cottages and flowering apple trees. And beyond a grey wall and gateway, at the end of a white dirt drive over two little bridges stood a grey and solemn house in the trees. The dusty motor stopped and out stepped nannie and a sailor suited Balthazar. Pierre the chauffeur handed boxes and bags to Heloise and Celeste hurrying from the house. And the little brown and black dog, Spot, jumped and licked and barked.

Under the slate roof and yellowing eaves were rooms and rooms shuttered through winter, leaving a dark summer air stale and cold. A mile away over pastures rose dunes and on the white sandy shore washed the chill waves of the English Channel. And here Balthazar B learned to swim, learned to pray, speak English and to use his potty.

Mornings nannie came up from the dungeon kitchen with an egg basket of baguettes sliced with layers of soft ham in white creamy butter. The primrose pram with its upturned f footrest and lacy awning proceeded out the white pebbly drive and down a straight black tarry road to the beach. As Spot raced up and down unseen between furrows under the potato leaves.

Balthazar's fair skinned body was rubbed with oil and he played the day under the big orange parasol. Cloudy skies he ran up and down the dunes with Spot and dug at the roots of the strange sharp clumps of grass. Until the cool of evening, when returned with a bag of shells and one big one to which nannie said you could listen and hear the sea, they sat by his window with Spot a cozy little ball between their ankles and up over the tops of elms and pines they watched for shooting stars.

All the countryside dark and still across vineyards and turnip fields. A dog barks and a candle glows at a farmhouse. The sleeping sound of waves takes the sand away under the feet and washes ankles white and blue with cold. Nannie leans close with big brown eyes and round smiling cheeks. To seal the day, she said. With a kiss. And not to worry little boy about dreams, no big sea away on the shore will come pounding and foaming down the road. Tomorrow mommie and daddy will come. And like a good little boy we must move our bowels and take our drop of iodine in a glass of water and one day just like nannie you'll be able to break an apple in half with your thumbs.

This night a storm swept in from sea and raged through the poplar leaves out the window. To lie snug and warm and safe where out there under the wild sky the world is so cold and wet. When big harm is a big shadow waiting for little boys who have no roof nor mommie nor nannie and daddy to save them. Gentle sheets tucked up round and safe now to go to sleep.

Mommie and daddy came. And two days later a long grey car with a black canvas canopy and gleaming brass radiator. And out stepped a man in helmet and goggles and shiny brown leather gaiters. Bald with a beard and monster teeth he slept in the bedroom at the top of the stairs. Nannie said he was a famous balloonist and hunter and had just come back from darkest Africa from many narrow escapes from wounded lions, slithering pythons who wrapped round you and crocodiles. Who could snap off your head. And that Balthazar was a bad little boy to crawl up the stairs and throw lumps of cheese over the banister at this Uncle Edouard as he lay asleep in bed.

A woman came called Fifi. With a flapping wide pink hat and narrow little waist and fluffy lacy frills round her throat. Her skin was smooth and pale. And by early morning Balthazar stole to Uncle Edouard's door and quietly pushed it open. Retreating behind the banister once more to heave lumps of cheese and fling kitchen knives clattering across the floor. Fifi sat up in bed and her shoulders showed. Uncle Edouard foamed at the mouth and his eyes blazed and he shouted I will kill you you little brat.