Read The Beastly Beatitudes of Balthazar B Page 10

  Until the sound of an opening door. Just before the chimes rang ten. And Pierre's voice and the scrape of bags sliding on the foyer floor. Bella sat upright drawing in her breath.

  "O my God I didn't bolt the door, get out of here. Pick up your clothes someone is coming."

  The light faint and flickering, Balthazar ran grabbing and tripping across the floor to get out the door. Fingers clutching in a shoe, an arm squeezing together jacket and shirt. The click of his mother's heels in the foyer the end of the hall. To close Bella's door and get behind one's own. Leave the clothes strewn or be found skipping nude. To run with jacket and trousers clutched against the breast. And feel a faint sandy grit on the bottom of my feet. As a voice comes down from the dim light up the hall.

  "Is that you Balthazar."

  "No."

  "What. Of course it is. Is it you Balthazar."

  "I'm just going to my room."

  "O. Well I'd thought I'd return and pack tonight and leave early tomorrow for Menton. Chantilly was such a bore. How are you getting on. Why don't you put on the light. That is you Balthazar."

  "Yes."

  "Switch on, I can't see you. Is something the matter."

  "No."

  "Would you help Pierre, he has to fetch four more bags.

  Put on the light for heaven's sake."

  "No."

  "I'll put it on. It's irritating to speak to someone in the dark. Good God. What are you doing standing in the hall clutching your clothes like that."

  "Nothing, I have come from the bath."

  "Well wear a robe. What's that stuck in Miss Hortense's door."

  Balthazar slowly stepping backwards towards his door. His mother in a dark blue flowered dress, its silky sheen gleaming in the chandelier light. Her blond hair drawn tightly back on her head. The great diamonds on a finger flickering blue and pink as it pointed to the white cloth hanging from Miss Hortense's door.

  "I think it would appear to be a curtain."

  "A curtain. No it's not. Is she in there. Miss Hortense, are you in there."

  In solemn dry history books Miss Hortense said. There are times of treaty and times of war. When no one is poor and there's nowhere to go and many guns to make. And people feel better because they don't always have to think of them- selves. And love is sadder and stronger then. Because you might be killed.

  "Yes Madam."

  "Something is stuck in your door."

  "Thank you Madam.' To stand so frozen here. Covering all this pain. Why doesn't she go away. Don't ever come close to me.

  "Good God, your tie there Balthazar, and this. This is your shirt. What is it doing here. May I ask. In Miss Hortense's door. What is going on.'

  "Miss Hortense was sewing my sock."

  "And you had to take off your shirt and trousers and underwear."

  "I have been to the bath."

  "Yes and I think it is time you should go to your room. If it is not a little nudist colony here. And I think I should have perhaps a word with Miss Hortense."

  "Stay away from her."

  "What did you say."

  "I said to stay away from Bella."

  "I will do what I choose in my flat, my dear boy."

  "Do not open her door.'

  "And what if I do."

  "I will not return here ever again."

  "You are taking such a privilege away. What foolish talk.

  This is my house. Miss Hortense is my employee."

  "She is paid with my money."

  "To be sure. We are suddenly so aware of our rights. She is still my employee. And if I choose to speak to an employee I shall."

  "You shan't refer to her in that fashion."

  "And what fashion would you have me choose. To find your clothes strewn about. Stuck in Miss Hortense's door.

  You have some other term for Miss Hortense perhaps. I think so. Miss Hortense, may I have your attention a moment please."

  "Just a moment."

  "I can wait. It is no trouble. Yes I think perhaps I ought to know more of what is taking place while I am away. Why don't you go to your room, Balthazar."

  Miss Hortense opening her door. The pale profile of her face.

  "It is just to ask, my dear, that I should like to chat with you tomorrow morning. About nine thirty. Sharp, please. I think we may have some things to discuss."

  "Very well madam."

  His mother turning. Her eyes of cold blue steel. Her back stiff and straight. And legs long and elegant. Click click click like a soldier she walks away.

  "Bella please don't worry."

  "Balthazar please goodnight get your clothes and go to bed."

  To fall down through white tumbling sheets in a night of dreaming. And wake wide eyed to remember last morning Sunday, as Bella sat with breakfast tray and read the black headlines across the newspapers and said o Balthazar I think there is going to be war. It comes like that with photographs of men in high white collars with briefcases stepping from grand trains. They sit at great tables with glasses of water. Never any trust with treaties and someone will wield the sword. And that awful war there was before. My father said the rats roamed and ate the bodies of the dead and the whole sky smelled for miles. Like a yellow suffocating dust. And those horrid men with their black ties, smiling with their pens signing papers. Dearest Balthazar if ever guns spit red and smoke and fire please be far away. Tears in Bella's eyes as she poured our coffee in our white cups and the sheet dropped down from her breasts. She clutched it up and let it drop again and smiled. Her bosoms so strange and big when she leaned that way and nipples bright and hard. And then so tall and slender like a reed in the candle light. I chased her and her breasts bounced up and down. I caught her round the waist. She laughed to push down my arms. Her thighs so long and strong and so much bigger than mine. Just to know and know I could touch them and feel a long straight muscle hardening there. And not be pushed away. Bully you without clothes she said and tickle. Everything's unfair in this game. Now Balthazar stand still. I want to see you. Like a little statue so white and thin. You are a fountain and water should come out of here. And now, o now, I turn it on. With her open palm to reach and touch me, stay still, so stiff, you tremble. Fingers touching so lightly there. All along this funny little line underneath. Balthazar my beauty. Your splendid flower, its pink rose tip. And white blue veined stem. And all its tiny blond new leaves of hair. Bella am I brave to stand still. Yes. And beautiful. And I closed my eyes. O Bella it's coming out of me. Let it. And see where it lies. Like white melted pearls in my hand. And you are. A little fountain. And this is my gift in our unfair game. And yes I can pick you up and carry you. O gosh Balthazar, you know. What I shall do.

  What I wish perhaps. To marry a white haired man with so much money with whom I would not sleep and do the things I do with you and he should die within the year. And I would come and be your mistress. All dressed in black. And maybe just a light blue ribbon in my hair. Would you treat me well and take me on boats up and down the Rhine. I would say you were my son. You would keep your head down and walk around on your knees and squeak out when people asked, that you were Master Hortense and this was your big great old mother. We would sneak around the watering places. Sipping up the minerals. And go as you said from Bucharest to St. Petersburgh through all the towns and places you showed me on the map. Along green valleys and around white mountains. To Budapest and Prague, and whoops, I nearly missed Vienna. Then east to Warsaw across Poland all flat and lonely. No one would ever know us if we went wading in the Baltic Sea. We would be lost together and hold hands on an ice floe on the Gulf of Finland. And somewhere it's always black in sleep at night. And Bella faded away from shore. She stood in a long white lacy gown and waved back to the little boy. Further and further she floated. Out on the grey icy sea. Licked by salty cold waves. Then I was the little boy. Running back through my life asking dark shadows the way to go. And they stood and looked down at me with jelly fish eyes and said we don't know. On I ran. Towards the
arms of God. When first a country summer I was an altar boy. And carried a candle high. And in the rose garden stood the holiest Slouch. I shouted don't devour me you bloodthirsty priest. He was looking rather awkward in long winter underwear. Muttering that he was delegated to cast out the indecent apparelled. And put to shame all those suddenly found nose deep in smut. And the bicycle seat sniffers' band paraded by. As Masterdon swaggered across the cricket pitch saying in his loud boasting voice that he had quite fairly rogered his father's gardener's daughter right down between the green house tomato plants. And two footed gavotting Slouch said as he waved his tennis racket on high, I know that my redeemer liveth you damn devious boys, I know that he liveth and delivereth us from fleshy tomfoolery. Here spoken, my villainish boys, from verse nine of erotica. And Masterdon was waving his small penis in saucy applause and Beefy sat in a nearby tree eating an apple, and singing O For The Wings Of A Dove. And awake. Dark and the ticking clock. Bella. Don't leave me and are you gone. Run to you out of my bed now. Clutch you. Bury my face in your soft welcoming breasts. Hold me away from all that darkness. Like the narrow Rue Allent. The notice up on the wall. Urinators Will Be Prosecuted. And that day we went to the church of St. Louis where I was baptised. Nearly thirteen years ago from this morning of dismay.

  Miss Hortense came in with breakfast. Her eyes red and cheeks blotched. And put the tray on my bed. Opened my window and lowered the awning on a rising sun. In her white frilly blouse, grey skirt and black shoes. A locket round her neck. I reach to kiss her. And she pulls my arms from around her neck. And holds my face between her hands and let me please cut a strand of your hair. It curled round her finger.

  And she tied it tight with a long strand of her own brown 98 hair. And put it in the locket on top of my picture when I was six years old and standing by the sea.

  "Bella what does it mean.'

  "Balthazar listen to me. Listen. I am going to have to go away. Just as I always knew I would. This evening on the train. I am packed. No listen to me. I must. I love you. A war is coming. And I somehow know it is when they say it isn't.

  You'll be gone to your new school."

  "Will you visit me."

  "I will try."

  "O Bella say you will."

  "I will."

  "And write to me."

  "Yes."

  "I don't want you to go. Or ever leave me. I love you so dearly."

  "Then you would do one thing for me wouldn't you."

  "Yes, what is it."

  "Let me speak to your mother alone. There are things I would like to say. That I would not like you to hear. And you mustn't mind too much when I go. We've had some awfully happy times. True love is always sure disaster."

  "O please Bella, don't say such a harsh thing."

  "I must go."

  At nine thirty the salon doors closed. And Balthazar tip toes there. He waved away the cook who lurked in the pantry hall. She wiped her hands in her apron and scurried when Balthazar said shoo. And on the silk soft carpet he stood in his bare feet and robe and peeked through the keyhole.

  His mother sat on a golden legged chair. In a white linen suit. String of pearls at her tan neck and her blond hair brushed back from her temples. A great diamond pin stuck from the bun gently golden at the back of her head. And she tapped a small silver pencil on her engagement book.

  To see only Bella's legs and hands folded in her lap. And wish that my penis would not go hard and stiff. When anyone can look at you and say you are a naughty boy.

  "Miss Hortense. I am a woman. It will be less painful if I do not beat around the bush. I will say what I have to say. I am, perhaps, not a good mother. I have no wish to make anyone unhappy. But I could not do otherwise than what I am doing now. I must give you your notice. That is understood."

  "Madam I love your son and want to marry him."

  "What. Do you want me to go and jump off the balcony.

  He is a child."

  "He is a man."

  "Come come my dear girl, what do you take me for. We are grown people and he is but a boy. You should know what you are doing, Miss Hortense. It is far too easy to seduce such a sheltered little creature as Balthazar. I would like to know before you leave that you shall not have contact with him again. That is clear."

  "Yes."

  "And very wise of you. You are of good family. And I do not blame you or Balthazar as I should have seen what was happening myself. It is a troublesome world. One does as one likes, if one can. There are rules. Be discreet and do not get caught. But believe me Miss Hortense you were lucky to get caught. A beautiful girl like you should have better things to do. Balthazar will be a bit lovesick but he will get over it."

  Miss Hortense; standing. A white handkerchief clutched in her hand.

  "You awful awful woman. I love him. I love him."

  "Your envelope Miss Hortense has been put under your door. Do not forget it."

  "You're evil."

  "You are wrong but also how sad you are my dear. How sad. Some thoughts are best unsaid. I don't suppose you will be foolish enough to try any tricks. I leave in half an hour.

  And you may stay till it is time for your train."

  Miss Hortense pulled open the salon door as Balthazar stepped quietly back against the wall. He followed her along the hall to her room. She said you mustn't come in. And he went to the bath, and came back and came in. Her case packed and open on her bed.

  "Balthazar you shouldn't have listened. That was a mean thing to do."

  "Bella you said you wanted to marry me.' "Yes. But it wasn't for you to hear."

  "Why.' "Because we could never marry. O God I'm going out of my mind."

  "I have a cold cloth here for your eyes."

  "You're sweet. I don't mean to be angry at you. But your mother thinks I've corrupted you. That I want to get you in my clutches. Get your money and get your life. That's what she thinks. Maybe it's true. But I love you too."

  "Bella, don't be sad and cry."

  "I want to leave and go right away now."

  "Please wait till it's time for your train."

  "No."

  "Then I shall get dressed and go with you."

  "No."

  "Yes. I should be at your side. And please do not wear your hat and cover up your hair."

  Miss Hortense stood, her knees against the blue linen counterpane. Her hands hang down and the veins are long and swollen blue. Her lips are open and her eyelids hang gently down. Where under lurk her eyes with just their touch of laughter left in their gallant green. And she takes off her hat.

  "God what have you done to me Balthazar. What have you done to me."

  At Gare St. Lazare. Out on the train quay at nearly six o'clock. They went that afternoon up to Sacre Coeur, climbing all the steps. And sat in the church while a procession moved around the aisles. Sacristans with crosses held high in their dark blue and red robes. Followed by women with empty married eyes. Their white pasty skins that held in their fat. And as they left the Palais Royal, his mother stood in the foyer and waved her wrists and sniffed and shook her head slowly back and forth.

  The train doors slamming. Heads sticking farewell from windows. A whistle blowing. A green flag waving. A chug of steam. And the tall green carriage begins to move. I look up.

  The last thing we did together was to sit each with a sandwich jambon in a cafe across the street. To say little and then nothing at all. We were two lonely persons. Like we had never been before. And she put her hand across the table to me and bent her head. And the tears poured from her eyes.

  And I knew it was time just to touch her. And not say we will meet again or write. Because she would never walk out of my mind. While there was a glowing light. I knew because I could see her sitting there. Just crossing her knees. Where my lamp was lit and other lamps were out. And up in this window now. Her teeth over her lip. Her hand touching the blue ribbon she put in her hair. Choo choo choo. I cannot move or run. I stand. The train is gathering speed. Taking wit
h it so many years. Dragging them away. Faces staring out the big glass windows. Wheels turning. Hard white steel on steel. Goodbye Miss Hortense, goodbye.

  And when

  The Channel

  Comes

  And you slip out

  On the

  Grey and greeny

  White

  Whisper to it

  And say

  God love you

  Tonight.

  12

  In that last Paris summer Balthazar B stood in the evening Tuilleries gardens near the big pond with his solitary love held in empty hands.

  Alone in September he headed to his new school across the Channel and a short train ride from London. With autumn came the war rumbling east spitting cannon across the plains, rivers and valleys all the way between St. Petersburgh and Bucharest. And one afternoon on a hillside overlooking London he wept when France fell. The summers, autumns and winters turned all Latin and Greek, all grey and drab and Miss Hortense neither came nor wrote.

  His mother fled across Spain and by tramp steamer to Argentina. She settled grandly in a suburb of Buenos Aires. And went horse riding every day. Uncle Edouard joined the Free French and in Easter holiday Balthazar came to visit. At a tiny London house where Uncle Edouard nearly filled each room with his big chest and stretched out legs. And then he was gone. His housekeeper whispered at the beginning of summer holiday that the Baron had been parachuted into France. And eight months later in February came news. The Baron had been shot against a white stone wall in the sixteenth district.

  And through Uncle Edouard Balthazar B had appointed new lawyers, Bother, Writson, Horn, Pleader and Hoot in the Temple, and a firm of accountants up a dark stairway and street in the City of London. In May he was called to hear something to his advantage. Uncle Edouard bequeathed to him the big stuffed bear in Paris and his town house in London with all chattels. And Mrs. Bottle was given a three year contract to remain as housekeeper.

  Quarterly Balthazar B was invited to lunch by these elderly legal gentlemen. Until his school was evacuated north to Yorkshire near the Ilkley Moor. And there often he wandered through the wintry heathers and spoke to the lonely posted men of the home guard with cups of tea nestled in their hands. And one weekend the first month of spring he went to Huddersfield. Climbed a gentle hill. Between the sooty broken buildings across the town. And came to a low wall around a large stone house set in a lawn cold and grey. A woman in an apron answered the door and said politely Miss Hortense was in the military and lived here no more.