The Ginger Man - J. P. Donleavy [109]
"You're right"
"I'll be sorry to leave, Tone"
"Not at all"
"A bit of sadness. The burial boat But I need the change. Over the water and far away. The greenness will be gone. Strange, Tone, how you, direct descendant of the original king, take so much in your own country. Without land or spuds."
"If it weren't for me ould blood being blue I'd have sold it at the hospital long ago."
"But never mix it, Tone. Never do that Our day will come. Just stave off the starving and a few other things and our day will come."
The holy hour of two-thirty when public houses get the big iron gates shuttered across the doors to keep the thirsty out. They went to the Green Cinema where they sat at a white table and golfed down platefuls of rashers, eggs and chips. When they came out the traffic was stopped. Heads out of the cars and honking horns. Down the street a huge hulking man lay himself down in the road and went to sleep. Some said he had drink taken. Others that he was listening to see if he could hear the pulse of the city. Sebastian danced and yelped. Newsboys in the crowd asked him what he was doing. Dog dance, sonny.
They walked down the Friday throng of Grafton Street and by the customers waiting for the cinema. Heavy skies coming over the city. Dark dark. Glow of lamps in the Grafton Cinema Cafe. My haven. Bikes flooding up towards the traffic jam which was becoming general throughout the city. The public houses filling with the huddled men wiping noses across sleeves and on chilblained knuckles. Bartenders hard at work. Serving up to the voices touched with bravado of payday, and mouths shut on Monday. And now we go down Wicklow Street because on this street there is a public house which I have always found very special It can't be beat for the mahogany or barrels. When I go there the man is nice to me and has even asked if I went to the theatre. For once I didn't lie outright, and I said no. What do I say when I lie? Ill tell you. I say my name is a Gooseky and I'm from Westsky every Leapsky.
Dangerfield got his hand through to the man for two foaming pints of plain. They retreated to a corner. Put the pints on a shelf. Tony brought out a box of butts.
"Good God. Tone."
"I got these out of the fireplace of an American in Trinity. They throw them away big."
"Put them away. Away Tone and permit me in a moment of lavish to treat you to twenty."
Huddled over cigarettes and porter. There comes a time in the city of Dublin, when the glass tinkles. Morning despair and afternoon's passive agony fruits in a jell of joy. And leaks all over when it melts later. I look into Tone's face, which is Ireland.
"What would you do, Tone, if you ever got money. A lot of money."
"Do you want the truth?"
"I want the truth."
"First thing, I'd get a suit made. Then I'll come along to the Seven Ts and put a hundred pound note on the bar. Drink up the whole kip of ye. I'll send a hundred quid to O'Keefe and tell him to come back. May even, if I get drunk enough, put a plaque in the sidewalk on the corner of Harry and Grafton. Percy Clocklan, keeper of the kip who farted on this spot, R.I.P. Then, Sebastian, I'll start from College Green and I'll walk every inch of the way from here to Kerry getting drunk at every pub. It'll take me about a year. Then I'll arrive on Dingle Peninsula, walk out on the end of Slea Head, beat, wet and penniless. I'll sit there and weep into the sea"
"Tone, take this"
Dangerfield placed a folded pound note in Malarkey's fist
"Jesus, thanks Sebastian"
"So long, Tone"
"Good luck"
Shaking hands. Sebastian drained his glass. Hand in front wedging cracks between the overcoats, finding a way out into the street. He stood on the corner. Look up into the wild, dark sky. Pin the mackintosh up around the throat. Stop the sneaky drafts. And hands in the wet cold pockets. While I try to get up heat rubbing the pennies. I've got a passport Two hours left. I've seen whores walking along this street In there they sell the dishes. And this ironmonger's great black window. Think of the basins in there,