‘Well Mr Durbrinisky who was of Russian Jewish extraction and assumed the Mac in front of the name Durbrinisky because of wanting to feel more a part of the St Patrick’s Day parade which he always watched from his Fifth Avenue apartment windows. That’s a little joke of course. I’m sure he had other reasons. I’m sorry, Mrs Jones, I can see you’re not amused.’
‘No. In fact I’m not. Not because it’s not quite funny but because frankly I’m scared stiff as to what is really going on here.’
‘I do apologise. You see, although nothing could be found pointing to any relationship we were quite certain of your having some personal connection with Mr MacDurbrinisky. And I am sorry for our assumption and for the apprehensiveness which I can see this is clearly causing for you.’
‘Yes. It is.’
‘Well, brass tacks then and in the customarily alluded to nut shell. Minus disbursements concerning his funeral and some other debts and expenses which are relatively minor, you are, excepting his housekeeper Mrs Kelly, the sole beneficiary of Mr MacDurbrinisky’s will, inheriting all and everything of which he was possessed at the time of his death which includes all of the real, material, and intellectual property we have so far traced. You see we in fact would have been in touch sooner following Mr MacDurbrinisky’s death but we had to deal with one or two nuisance claims and also a matter of another name in the condolence book which has proved on investigation to be fictitious.’
‘O my god I don’t believe this.’
‘Well if I may Mrs Jones continue. Simply to bring to your attention matters upon which you may like to be immediately aware and matters upon which some prior notice is appropriate. The legacy includes an apartment of eleven rooms and furnishings on Fifth Avenue. Indeed not far down from the Metropolitan Museum of Art as it happens. But perhaps nearer the Frick which clearly, if I may suggest, you may find most pleasantly convenient. And just by the by, the big drawing room, the library which is of some considerable distinction but does involve some delicacy, which we won’t burden you with at this time, and Mr MacDurbrinisky’s office at home, and the main bedroom suite, all overlook the park from the Fifth Floor and house his art collection. In addition to the main eleven rooms are the servants quarters of three bedrooms and two bathrooms which are self contained. Mrs Kelly, Mr MacDurbrinisky’s long time Irish housekeeper presently in residence, is acting as caretaker. She is the immediate beneficiary of one hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars. Her continued employment is at your discretion but she will be entitled to a further payment of one hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars upon her employment being terminated for any reason or the same amount to apply to her retirement. There is also his Rolls Royce which is kept parked in the basement garage of the building directly across the street. Again it’s entirely up to you as to whether or not you keep on Steve, Mr MacDurbrinisky’s part time chauffeur who also works in the garage. There is a small fishing lodge in upper New York State, Putnam County, consisting of three hundred and ninety acres mostly wooded which includes a private lake of seventy-eight acres where Mr MacDurbrinisky fished. You will have available to you as well eleven crypts in Mr MacDurbrinisky’s mausoleum at Woodlawn Cemetery in which he occupies one vault of the twelve therein. It also happens to be among the most elaborately built of recent mausoleums in the cemetery and is regarded as having some architectural distinction.’
‘If this is someone’s extremely bizarre idea of a joke it is entirely a very sick one. And if it isn’t a joke then you’ve got the wrong person. I do actually feel this has gone entirely too far.’
‘Mrs Jones, please. Do please sit down. I assure you this isn’t a joke. I’m a senior partner of this firm. My time is entirely valuable and in fact is priced at precisely three hundred and seventy five dollars per hour. And I further assure you it is not usually apportioned to apply to the frivolous inconsequential. However, I’m entirely ready to confer further in the matter with your own legal advisers.’
‘But this sounds totally ridiculous. As if I’m going to be arrested or something for impersonation.’
‘Not if in fact you are the Jocelyn Guenevere Marchantiere Jones formerly of 17 Winnapoopoo Road, and removed to apt 6B, 94 Riverview Apartments, Riverview Road, Scarsdale, and now residing at 47 Oneidadeen Avenue, Yonkers. Which latter address is precisely the same as the address as written in the condolence book when Mr MacDurbrinisky’s body was lying in wait at the Memorial Funeral Home before proceeding for interment at Woodlawn Cemetery in the Bronx. And I earnestly now assure you that this is not in anyway a joke.’
‘O my god. This is for real. Is it.’
‘Yes, Mrs Jones, it is. Absolutely for real. And as I anticipated it might, I do understand that it has come as a shock to you.’
‘Well as much as I still don’t believe it, it is I must say better than being told I’m going to be sued.’
‘Do I take it then, Mrs Jones, you’re ready to hear more.’
‘Well I guess so. And may I have some water please.’
‘But of course. Let me pour. There. Now then. I’ll continue. Although you will appreciate here that I am skipping over the more mundane. However one must bring to your attention and the reason why time is of some essence, that you have also come into possession of a fairly substantial fully tenanted apartment building on East Fifty-First, the air rights above which have recently been subject to quite substantial and competing offers. Indeed in an amount nearly as significant as the estate itself.’
‘You really mean this is all going to become mine.’
‘It is already yours, Mrs Jones. You see Mr MacDurbrinisky’s assets were designated in his will to be distributed equally among all those whose names were entered in the condolence book. And, Mrs Jones, your name aside from the fictitious one, is the one and only one so entered. You’ll appreciate that the contents of the will were known to myself and one other senior partner of this firm, and neither of us for obvious reasons visited the Memorial Funeral Home. And I suppose it should perhaps form some sort of further explanation to tell you now that I find it entirely understandable that you were not an intimate of Mr MacDurbrinisky’s. Mr MacDurbrinisky, although completely honourable, was in fact a very disliked man, for want of use of a stronger and perhaps more disagreeable word. He did too have an eye for the ladies. And certainly, if I may say so, for those as elegantly attractive as your good self. And yes, I must admit I did feel there might have been a personal connection upon that basis. However as it happened you were the only single person other than that person using a false name and address that could not be traced to have paid their final respects to Mr MacDurbrinisky, or indeed, what has transpired according to the terms of Mr MacDurbrinisky’s will to be the most important of all, to have written your name and address in the condolence book. And I apologise now if this has had, because of its unusual nature, to cause you distress or to have taken up so much of your time.’
‘I’m still, I’m afraid, far from quite believing all this.’
‘And that is entirely understandable Mrs Jones. And I apologize to have kept you this long. But I suppose in a way of demonstrating the truth of the matter and getting you to the Met before it closes, just let me see if I can get Mr MacDurbrinisky’s chauffeur, Steve. Excuse me. Miss Jinks, see if you can get Steve who works in the garage where Mr MacDurbrinisky’s car is kept, and see if he is available to take Mrs Jones to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Now Mrs Jones it shouldn’t take Steve long to get your car here which I can see no good reason why you should not put to immediate and good use. It might not be that faster up Madison Avenue but it will certainly be a lot more comfortable. Ah. Steve. Please. Yes. Mr Sutton. Steve we have Mrs Jones here who has come into the possession of Mr MacDurbrinisky’s car and wants to go to the Metropolitan Art Gallery Eighty-First on Fifth as soon as possible. In say twenty minutes. Fine at my office. That’s perfect.’
‘Mr Sutton, I do apologise. I feel now that I’ve put you to some unnecessary efforts in th
is matter.’
‘It’s all in a day’s work I assure you. And not to sound mercenary I may also assure you Mrs Jones that we shall be adequately compensated in our fees. Indeed ha, ha, you may find yourself saying ouch when you see them. However Mrs Jones if you are late today at the Met I’m sure the curator, a most kindly man who happens to be a friend and to whom you might suggest a modest endowment, might even provide you with a private view after closing hours. But your car should be here shortly. What’s wrong Mrs Jones. Are you alright.’
‘I’m sorry. I’m just I guess finding all this a little bit emotionally wrenching.’
‘I quite understand. And I hope it’s not too inappropriate to suggest at this time that we should be most glad to offer our services in any capacity to you. But of course realizing you may wish to avail of your own legal advisers. O dear, you are alright Mrs Jones.’
‘No.’
‘O dear. I can see this has all come as too much of a shock. Would you like to use our rest room.’
‘Please. If I may. And please cancel the car. I’m just going to go home. And on the train.’
‘But of course. I quite understand Mrs Jones.’
Shown by the receptionist to the ladies room Mrs Jones took a pee in this quite commodious spotless chamber. And Mr Sutton as he passed by the desks of his secretaries, taking notes handed him, showed her to the elevator giving her an encouraging gentle pat on the back as the ascenseur door silently slid open, and he smilingly bowed goodbye as they closed. She had his direct dial number and he said for her to be in touch, be she in Paris, Rome or New York, for any help or advice at any time.
She descended sixty-two floors and went through the lobby. The dignified lady with the polythene bags was gone. Someone must have come and said get the hell out of here. She wondered if Mr Sutton knew she carried with her, her thirty-eight, which made a clonking sound when for a moment she put her handbag down on his desk. But she wondered more how this could still be her moving back out on the street ready to go along this pavement, owning a whole apartment house smack in the middle of this city, with people living alive in it.
The traffic thick heading uptown. The foot pavement crowded. A grey gleaming Rolls Royce by the curb, a black coated and capped swarthy man watching the faces emerge as she stepped out of the building and briefly met his enquiring eyes. The name Steve on her lips but would not make a sound. Ironic life comes back to haunt. Her husband’s name the same as the chauffeur’s. Someone she could now tell to turn right or left, instruct to slow down, command to stop or go faster or even to say to, you’re fired. It would be the ladylike thing to do, to phone Mr Sutton to say that Steve might have already arrived and to thank him for bringing the car but tell him not to wait.
Walking west through the friendless anonymous shadows of Forty-Fifth Street to Grand Central Terminal, she bought a pretzel from the pushcart man on the corner. Keep it to chew on the train. Her feet and legs cold and feeling an overwhelming dirge and doom. She could hear again the strains of Bortniansky’s choral music and see that face and pince-nez again upon the body in its coffin. On the way to the elevator Mr Sutton said she was now the proud owner of one of the largest collections of pornography in the city. The thought should have made her smile. It instead made her feel more desperately lonely than she had ever felt before.
Clutching three quarters in change in her hand and passing under the vast roof of Grand Central with its painted stars on the ceiling, she recalled the brave voluble figures who had come forth in this city to protest at the plan to demolish this massive monument. To save this sacred cathedral of worship to trains and travel. In this city which did have greatness in its buildings and where hardly anyone had ever tried to save anything before. Where the foundations of the skyscrapers go deep down into the stone on this island bourse, where the so many rich can lurk secret in their doormen guarded bastions. Amen.
All was still haunting her as she descended to platform fourteen to catch the four forty-five White Plains train to Scarsdale. Terrified with the barren emptiness of her thoughts. But feeling no despair or misery. Just the invasion of her privacy of another’s death invading hers. Which could be now. At last. I can take my sleeping pills. Next month’s rent and all bills paid. Make my will. Leave every penny to provide refuge for the dignified homeless indigent of New York. For them to sleep in comfort and rest in peace.
She sat on the left side of the train. A full moon arise this evening heading home on the Metro North and the once Yonkers Division of The New York Central. A social dimension. Ten per cent of people’s time in their lives spent going and coming on these trains. The black people coming down from Scarsdale get off at Mount Vernon or 125th Street. The stories of guys every day meeting their girlfriends or mistresses on the train. Years ago it was said you could choose to ride forward or backwards by pulling the wicker seats with the brass handle to face you forwards or backwards. And she’d even found herself greeted by a conductor who got to know her and who said one morning you can call me Dick ma’am, but my full name is Dick Borst. And she could never say good morning Dick. But good morning Mr Borst.
The stations north going by. Fordham, the Botanical Gardens and Williamsbridge. Through the dull discoloured window of the train she could just make out the white shadowy shapes of graves and mausoleums along the hillside of Woodlawn Cemetery. Could she bear to be cemented in behind a slab in a sepulchre already containing her benefactor Mr MacDurbrinisky. Yes. Why not. He looked quite gentlemanly in his silk shirt, tie pin and cravat. She’d read someone’s reminiscences of the Bronx. About a little boy who said he was paid 25 cents to walk flowers into the graves when people with their bouquets would come up on the Central and it was too far for them to trudge into the cemetery. Whatever was going on in the world then was strange. She heard too there was a lady ghost in flowing robes who was to be seen on misty winter nights along the uninhabited length of Webster Avenue waiting by the cemetery wall and under its big black fence. And cars had stopped to pick her up. To find suddenly she’d vanished from sight.
And what was going on in the world now was the click clack roaring of the train on this crisply cold night. There could be snow. And no doubt about one more day added to her age. Even as a young girl of twenty-two she was already taking steps to try to stop her looking older. And now she was older and ignored and betrayed. When love is gone you can never get it back. And if any of this dream is true one could not now bear to find one again had friends.
Who was she now. A lady of leisure. Who did not have to please, deceive or cajole. Who could afford not to have to be a whore or a nun. And getting off the train tonight the man in the military greatcoat tipped his bowler hat to her. Offered her a lift home in his car. He seemed a little drunk. And getting off the train as she waited for a taxi she saw the girl again who’d been handcuffed in the window of the house in Winnapoopoo Road. She was flanked by two minders. She looked haggard and terrified. And they pulled her into the back of a big black limousine which sped away.
If she rang the sad man who lost his family in the plane crash maybe he would say, why hello, I was just about to ring you. Could that ever be true. That someone would say I was just about to ring you. In order to say would you like to go somewhere nice. What would be absolutely true is that she’d keep the taxi waiting while buying an extra container of milk, salami, salad, cheese and a bottle of beer at the delicatessen store. It could cost three or four dollars or even more than five dollars. And the taxi more dollars.
But tonight no matter what it cost she would buy two bottles of beer. Lonely drink them both by candlelight. Then early to bed. And it’s all amazing. Albeit on a lighter note. How when one is able to indulge the luxury of beginning one’s life again.
All one thinks
To do
Is end it
Also By J.P. Donleavy
Novels
The Ginger Man
A Singular Man
The Beastly Beatitudes of Balthazar B
/>
The Onion Eaters
A Fairy Tale of New York
The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman
Schultz
Leila
Are You Listening Rabbi Löw
That Darcy, That Dancer, That Gentleman
Novellas
The Saddest Summer of Samuel S
Non-Fiction
The Unexpurgated Code: A Complete Manual of Survival and Manners (with drawings by the author)
De Alphonce Tennis: The Superlative Game of Eccentric Champions
J.P. Donleavy’s Ireland: In All Her Sins and Some of Her Graces A Singular Country
Plays
The Ginger Man
Fairy Tales of New York
A Singular Man
The Saddest Summer of Samuel S
The Beastly Beatitudes of Balthazar B
Stories
Meet My Maker the Mad Molecule
Autobiography
The History of the Ginger Man
Copyright
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior permission of the publisher.
First published 1997 by
The Lilliput Press
62–63 Sitric Road,
Arbour Hill
Dublin 7, Ireland
www.lilliputpress.ie
This digital edition published 2012 by
The Lilliput Press
Copyright © J.P. Donleavy, 2012
ISBN print paperback 978 03 168 83429
ISBN eBook 978 18 435 13346
A CIP record for this title is available from The British Library.
The Lilliput Press receives financial assistance from
An Chomhairle Ealaion / The Arts Council of Ireland
J. P. Donleavy, The Lady Who Liked Clean Restrooms