A Fairy Tale of New York
Read A Fairy Tale of New York Online
Authors: J. P. Donleavy
A FAIRY TALE OF
N
EW
Y
ORK
Books by J. P. Donleavy
The Ginger Man
A Singular Man
The Saddest Summer of Samuel S
The Beastly Beatitudes of Balthazar B
The OnionEaters.
A Fairy Tale of New York
The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman
Schultz
Leila
Meet My Maker the Mad Molecule
The Unexpurgated Code: A Complete Manual of Survival & Manners
De Alfonce Tennis
J. P. Donleavy's Ireland
Are You Listening Rabbi Low
A FAIRY TALE OF
N
EW
Y
ORK
J. P. DONLEAVY
Copyright © 1961, 1963, 1973 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 author’s 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 [email protected].
First published in the United States of America
by Delacorte Press in 1973
Published simultaneously in Canada
Printed in the United States of America
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Donleavy, J. P. (James Patrick), 1926–
A fairy tale of New York / J. P. Donleavy
ISBN 978-0-8021-9817-4 (ebook)
I. Title.
[PS3507.O686F26 1989] 88-10325 823'.914—dc19
Atlantic Monthly Press
an imprint of Grove/Atlantic, Inc.
841 Broadway
New York, NY 10003
Distributed by Publishers Group West
Contents
A FAIRY TALE OF
N
EW
Y
ORK
This page intentionally left blank
Three o’clock in February. All the sky was blue and high. Banners and bunting and people bunched up between. Greetings and sadness.
Great black box up from the deep hold, swinging in the air high over the side of the ship. Some of the stevedores taking off their caps and hoods. With quiet whisperings, swiveling it softly on a trolley and pushing it into a shed.
Cornelius Christian standing under the letter C. The customs man comes over.
“I’m sorry sir about this. I know it isn't a time you want to be annoyed by a lot of questions but if you could just come with me over to the office I'll try to get this over as quickly as possible. It's just a formality.''
Walking across the pier through the rumbling carts, perfumes, furs and tweeds, the clanging chains and into the little warm hut with typewriters pecking. Tall dark customs man, his fist with a pencil on a piece of paper.
''I understand this happened aboard ship.''
"Yes."
"And you 're an American and your wife was foreign."
"Yes."
"And you intend burial here.''
"Yes."
"It's just that we've got to make sure of these things because it can save a lot of trouble later. Don't want to burden you with anything unnecessary. Do you have any children travelling.''
"Just my wife and myself.''
"I understand. And are all your other possessions your own property, all personal effects. No fine art, antiques. You're not importing anything.''
"No."
"Just sign here. Won't be anything else and if you have any trouble at all don't hesitate to get in touch with me right away. Here's my name and I'll straighten out any difficulty. Just Steve Kelly, customs'll get me. Vine funeral home phoned here just a while ago. I told him everything was all right and he says you can go see them at their office, or phone any time this afternoon or tonight. You take it easy.''
"Thanks very much.''
Customs man giving Christian a pat on the back.
"And say, Mr Christian, see the stevedore, guy with the fur jacket. Just tell him Steve said you'd help me with my stuff. Ok. Don't worry about anything.''
"Thanks."
Out through the grinding winches, clicking high heels, the stacks of gay baggage and colored labels. The great tall side of ship. And coming out to it as it sat on the sea in Cork Harbour. A stiff cold vessel. All of us bundled up as the tender tugged us out on the choppy water. And left the pink houses on the shore twirling early morning turf smoke in the sky. Black rivets on the ship's side. And I climbed up behind her. On the stairway swaying over the water. And now through this jumble and people gathering each other in their arms. This stevedore with fur jacket, a hook tucked under his arm. Hard muscles across his jaw.
"Excuse me, Steve said you'd help me with my stuff."
"Oh yeah, sure. Sure thing. Got much.''
"Three small trunks, two bags.''
"Ok. You just follow me all the way. I'll put the stuff down the escalator. Meet me the bottom of the stairs. You want a taxi."
"Please."
Under the roof of girders and signs. No tipping. Escalator rumbling down with trunks and crates. Crashing and crushing. The treatment they give things would break open her box. And they shout, this way folks. Five bucks. Grand Central. Three fifty, Perm Station. The stevedore has scars on his face, keeps his hands on his hips.
"Mr. Christian, this guy will take you wherever you want to go. Stuff's on.
"Here."
"No no. I don't want any money. I don't take money for a favour. You'll do the same for somebody. That way it goes round the world."
"Thanks."
"Forget it."
Cornelius Christian opening the door into this gleaming cab. Horns honk everywhere. This driver with a green cap turns around.
"Where to, bud."
"I don't know. Have to think of somewhere.''
"Look, I haven't got all day. I want to catch another boat coming in."
"Do you know where I can get a room.''
"I 'm no directory bud.''
"Anything."
''Place is full of hotels.''
"Do you know anywhere I can get a room.''
"Boardinghouse for a guy like you. Just sort of dumps I know. This is some time to start looking. Everybody want me to find a room I'd be starving. As it is I make peanuts. Ok. I know a place west side near the museum.''
Taxi twisting away. With smiles and arms laden with coats others get into cabs. The trip is over. Some made friends. And we go up a hill to the roaring highway.
"It's none of my business but what's a guy like you doing coming all the way over here with nowhere to go. You don't sound like a guy got no friends, don't look it neither. Ok. Takes all sorts of people to make a world. Keep telling my wife that, she doesn't believe me. Thinks everybody's like her. Across there long."
"Went to college."
"Good education over there. Don't you feel lonely.''
"No, don't mind being alone.''
"That right. Got a right to feel that way if you want. But look at this, how can you feel alone. Everything looking like it's going to explode. And I got a face looks like a monkey. Know why. Because I used to own a pet shop till a relative got the big idea to make a lot of money. So what happens, I lose the whole thing.
Now I'm driving a hack. Kick in your teeth and every guy after a fast buck. What a life. Keep going, keep going till you can't stop."
Christian folding white gloved hands in his lap. Cars stream along the highway. The wail of a police car zooming by.
"Look at that, some guy murdered his mother for a dime. Guy like me got to drink milk all day, live like a baby. I tell you, it's a crime. Sweat our guts out. Something awful. God damn place jammed with foreigners. Think they'd stay in Europe instead of coming over here and crowding us out. You foreign.''
"No."
"You could pass for foreign. It's o k with me mister if you're foreign. My mother came from Minsk.''
Clouds come grey and east. Ice down there on the edge of the river. Smoky red weak sun.
Taxi turns down off the highway. Between the pillars holding up the street above. Serve beer in there. Bar stools and sawdust.
Stevedores with hooks. They say keep your mouth shut and you won't get hurt. Safe in a crowd. Close in there by the elbows, next to the sleeves where all around me are just hands to shake and squeeze.
"Ok mister here we are. Give me five bucks."
Bed grey stone they call brownstone. An iron fence. Where the rich lived years ago. Tall steps up. First five dollars gone.
"Mister ring the bell downstairs and I'll take your bags, never get rich this way but you look lonely. Mrs Grotz'U take care of you. She's crazy, but who isn't.'J
Mrs Grotz, cross eyed, wrapped in a black coat and a collar of silver fox, standing in the door.
''What 'a your business mister."
"He's all right, Ma, just back from college over in Europe. Just ain't got no friends.''
"Everyone ought to have friends.
"How do you know he wants them.'
"Friendship means a lot, you crazy cab driver.
"My wife thinks I'm crazy too, but my kids think I'm god."
"Go home you crazy cab driver. Follow me mister, I got a nice room."
Carrying the bags behind this large bottom shifting up the stairs. In the onion smell. And scent of dust.
"Stairs for me is work mister. Got to do everything myself. Since my husband. He drop dead right in his underwear. Eight while I was watching. Such a shock. Go to turn off the lamp and drop dead right on his face. I'm nervous and shaking like this every since. So all husbands drop dead sometime. You think they have manners and do it quiet in the hospital."
A room with red curtains high on the window. Double bed like one I saw in Virginia where once I was walking down a street and climbed in a train standing in the hot sun. Always wishing I could save the heat for the winter.
"Four fifty dollars a night or twenty dollars a week. Look what I supply, radio, shelves, gas stove, hot water. Don't play the radio loud."
"Could I let you know in a day or two how long I'll be staying."
"Give you till Friday and you got to make up your mind. You got a funny voice, you English. Learn to speak at college.''
"Justabit."
''Was that the accent you was born with."
"I don't know."
"Give me four dollars and fifty cents."
And now
You own
The Brooklyn
Bridge
New world. Opening up the suitcases on the bed. Turn on the oven. Out into the hall past another brown door. Everything in the dark. And cars go by in the street like boats and soft bubbles.
Find the switch for the light in this bathroom. Green towel crumpled on the floor. Lift the seat. All gentlemen are requested. When little you never lift the seat and mommy tells you lift the seat. Pick up the towel. Go back. This door has a name on it under the cellophane. And now the only thing I can do is wait and wait and wait. It's got to go away. She could never pack things and her bag's a mess. I told her she was sloppy, why don't you fold things up. And I've got to go down there. To a funeral parlor. Just wash my face. No one to be with her. And I was so full of dying myself. I hope I know how to get down there after all these years. How much is it going to cost. Just end up being buried among a lot of strangers.
Christian steps down into the street. Grey tweed on his back. White gloves on hands. Street full of shadows. And dark cars parked. And straight ahead the stale stiff fingers of trees. After so much ocean. And I don't know what to say to this man. He'll be in black or something. Do I have to give him a tip or cigar. He might think I'm not sorry enough and can't concentrate on the death.
Grey tall windows of the museum. Down these steps to the subway. Chewing gum everywhere. Turnstile reminds me of horses. Coin goes in so neatly. Click through. Could step right under a train. Just let it roar right over me. What have you got to touch to get electrocuted. How would they know to take me and put me with Helen. It would have to be written down in my wallet. In case of death take me to the Vine funeral home and bury me with Helen. So slaughtered you could put me round her in the same casket. I just can't bear for you to be cold and you said last thing of all to put you in the ground. And you always wore a green shadow around your eyes. Came near me in your silk rustling dress, you sounded hollow inside. Listening with your eyes. And the first day at sea I didn't want to see you spend the two dollars for a deck chair. Now I'd let you have it. I'd let you have anything now. Helen, you could have got two deck chairs or three and I'd have said nothing. It wasn't the money, I didn't want you to get cold because you looked so ill you'd freeze up there and no one knew how sick you were. And I pulled on the towel. Pulled it right out of your hands when you said you'd spend the two dollars. It wasn't the money, I'd tear up two dollars here right on this platform. God, it was the money. I've lost you.
Head bowed. A white knuckle rubbing under an eye. A man steps near.
"Are you all right, buddy.''
"Yes I 'm all right. Just a lot of dust blown up in my eyes.''
"Ok, buddy, just wanted to make sure.''
Roaring train in the tunnel. Sweeping into the station. Train with the tickling noise under the floor. Doors growl shut. Then up, out, crossing each avenue, when the lights turn red and the cars slide up and stop. And it's all so new around me and so old. When I was young and walked here I heard a car screech and hit a boy. Saw the white shirt on his shoulder. And I wondered if all the people would be gathering around and keep him warm and not like me running away.
Where the street slants down, further on, the elevated train, tall buildings and a river. Closer. There it is. Double curtained doors, two evergreens on either side. Push through. God, what a place for you. Soft carpeted hall, luxurious in here. Warm green light flowing up the walls. So soft everything. This isn't bad. This door's open. It gleams and I'll knock. Man's black shoes and gartered black socks sticking out from a desk. They move and shine. His hand in front of me.
''Good evening, yon 're Mr Christian aren't you.''
"Yes."
"I'm sorry that you've had to come. I'm Mr Vine, please sit down."
"Thank you."
"Will you smoke. Cigarette. Cigar.''
"No thanks."
"Go ahead, make yourself comfortable. There are only a few little things here. Customs man who dealt with you telephoned after you left the pier. Very nice of him and I'll certainly do everything I can Mr Christian. Only these to sign.''
"Thanks."
"I'm not just an ordinary man in this business. It means a great deal to me and if there is any special help I can give anyone I 'm really glad to do it. So understand that.''
"That's nice of you."
"We can only do our best Mr Christian. We try to understand sorrow. I've arranged burial at Greenlawn. Do you know New York."
"Yes, I was born here.''
"Then you may know Greenlawn. One of the most beautiful cemeteries in the world and it's always a pleasure to visit. My wife's buried there as well and I know it's a place of great peace.
We realise sorrow Mr Christian. I'll take care of all the immediate details for you and you can have a chat with them later on.
All under my personal direction. Arranged as soon as you wish."
''Could it be arranged for tomorrow morning."
"Yes. Will it give mourners time. The notice will only be in tomorrow's Daily News, only give anybody couple of hours to get here."
"I'll be the only mourner.''
"I see."
''No one knew we were coming to New York.''
''I can put you in our small suite there across the hall.''
''Just for a few minutes. I want to keep it very short.''
"I understand. In the way of flowers."
"I'd like something simple. Perhaps a wreath with, my Helen."
"Of course. Something simple. Ill see to it myself. We try to make friends with sorrow Mr Christian. That way we come to know it. You'd like us to use glass. For permanence.''
"That's all right."
''And where are you located.''
' ' Near the Museum of Natural History.''
"I'm pleased you're near there. There's much to reflect upon in that building. We 'll send our car for you.''
' ' Is that anything extra.''
"Included Mr Christian. Shall I make it nine thirty, ten, whenever you wish.''
"Nine thirty is fine."
"Mr Christian, would you like now to have a little drink before you go. Some Scotch.''
''Well I would. Are you Irish, Mr Vine.''
''My mother was. My father was German.''
Mr Vine's little snap of the head and blink of the eyes, crossing his soft canary carpet. Puts a neat white hand under an illuminated picture. Sunlight filtering through mountain pines and brass name beneath says In The Winter Sun. Panels drawing apart. Shelves of bottles, glasses and the small white door of a refrigerator. He must drink like a fish. Pick him up like a corpse every night. I don't have the nerve to tell him I was raised in the Bronx.
"Soda, Mr Christian."
"Please."
"Now, the way you said that. Just one word. I can tell by your voice you're an educated man Mr Christian. I also like your name. I never had very much in the way of education. I was a wildcatter in Texas and then became the manager of an oil field. Wouldn't think of it to look at me, would you. I left school when I was nine years old. I've always wanted to be in this business but I was thirty before I got a chance to do a high school course. Did it in the navy, then went to mortician's school when I came out. It makes you feel closer to people. It's dignified. And art. When you see what you can do for someone who comes to you helpless. To recreate them just as they were in life. Makes you able to soften things. You're a man I can talk to, a person who's got a proper mental attitude. I can always tell. There are some of them who make you sick. Only thing I don't like about the business are the phonies and I get my share of them. Here, have another, do you good.''
"Thanks."
"Some people think I'm outspoken but I've given a lot of satisfaction and people put their whole families in my hands, even in a big city like this. I opened up another branch in the west fifties. But I like it best here where I began. My two little girls are growing up into big women now. You meet people from all walks of life. I 'm a bit of a philosopher and I feel anything you've got to learn you'll learn just through what you have to do with people, in that way I never miss an education. It's a fact, I never graduated. It's especially sad when I bury those who did. But everything is how a person conducts themselves. That's how I know all about you, customs man said over the phone you were a real gentleman. Would you like now for me to show you the establishment. If you don't it's all right.''
"I don't mind."
"You'd like to feel that she was somewhere where she's really at home. Come along, we're empty now, there's just two reposings on at my other branch although it's a busy time of the year."
Mr Vine rising. Gently bent forward. Flicks his head and bends one shoulder up to his ear. Frown around his eyes and hair sticks straight up. Holding door ajar. Smiling with his tilted face.
"I never want to have an establishment of mine get so big you lose the personal touch. It must be warm and intimate to make people feel at home. I call the other branch a home, bit of an expense to change here because parlor is in the neon sign. I feel parlor is a word that lets you down. Something poor people have. I like the word home. I don't gloom at people, I smile. Death is a reunion. A pause in the life of others. You understand me.''
A low corridor. Mr Vine touches Mr Christian slowly through the soft lights, soft step by soft step.
"These are the various suites. These two have their own private rest rooms. Which has been of great success. I wouldn't say it to most people but certain functions get stimulated at the passing of a cherished one. You've noticed how I've used green light and how it glows from the walls, it's a special kind of glass that makes it do that. Only kind in New York. You don't mind me showing you around.''
"No it's all right."
"In a few years I'm opening a branch out in the country. For some people the country signifies peace. You saw that picture, the forest, in the winter sun. Looking at that gave me the idea. It's not conducive to peace to come in off the street. And you hear that elevated train out there. Thinking of tearing it down. Won't be too soon for me. Shake the teeth out of your head. But I learned to accept it. And in here is our chapel. I thought I'd make it round just like the world and again green is my motif. And out here again there's the door to our work rooms. We call it the studio."
"It's all very nice."
"That makes me feel good. I'm pleased. And I hope you'll be satisfied you dealed with me. I always want people to feel that. You can trust me and know I've got reverence for my work. To love your work is happiness. It means I meet someone like you too. I'm never wrong about people. I know the real tears of death and they don't go down the cheeks. And this is my largest room, the first one I ever used. One or two personages been here. Mr Selk the manufacturer. I had that privilege. And we light a candle behind this green glass when someone is reposing. I think it gives, or rather, let me say, lends a sacredness to the occasion."
"Yes it does."
"You go home now. Put all bother out of your head. Get a good night's sleep. Remember it takes time. But time is a friend of ours. And I'm here, remember that, for any kind of request. Our car will be there in the morning. Good night, Mr Christian."
Mr Vine and Christian shook hands. Vine gave Christian a catalogue. Pushed open the door to the cold electric light of the street. A last smile, a wave.
The windy canyon of Park Avenue. Crossing a winter city. Cold heels on the pavement. Doormen rubbing hands, clicking feet, looking up, looking down the street. Beginning to snow. Like the first winter I got to Dublin. When the skies were grey for months. And I bought thick woollen blankets at the shop and they smelled like sheep.
Christian, hands plunged in pockets, takes a lonely subway west and north. Back by the shadows of the museum. And along by the stone mansions. Where I live tonight.
Music coming from the door with the name under the cellophane. Dim light in the hall, a smell of wax in the air. Dust in the nose. Door slamming. Voice yelling. Pipe down.
Must go in through this door and sleep. Pull aside the thick red curtain so tomorrow the light will wake me up. Snow streams down under the street lamp. Someone else's house is more your own if it's filled with strangers. Helen, I wouldn't have brought you to a room like this. Makes me feel I'm casting some poverty on you because this isn't the type of place you would ever be. Yours were bathrooms shining with gleaming rails and hot towels. All this plastic junk. Couldn't have been in the studio while Vine and I were talking. Couldn't talk like that. But that's the way we talked. Like pies peaches or eggs. Helen's not a pie peaches or eggs. She's mine. Taking her away. Gone already. Where is she nearest to me. Asleep on top of my brain. Came with me all over the ship when I couldn't stand them staring at me everywhere I went and whispering. Our table out in the center of the dining room. They were all thinking of the day when they had the gala occasion with the paper hats and balloons and Helen just sat there at the table and wept, pink handkerchief tucked up your sleeve and pearls like tiny drops from your face and none of them ever saw you again. They even came up to my cabin door after you were dead to listen to hear if I was crying. And the steward who said they wouldn't do your washing. He stuck his brown face in the door and closed it quietly when he saw me prostrate on the bunk. And he slammed the door in your face. Both of us utterly helpless, could do nothing could say nothing. I held the three dollars in my fist and watched his brown hand come up from his side and pull them out and leave quietly closing the door. The waiter who filled our plates with things we didn't want and came over the second day and said your wife don't eat no more and I said no. And lunchtime he came back saying he was sorry he didn't know, the wine waiter just told him and he got me a plate covered in smoked salmon. He kept as far away as he could until the last meal when hovering for his tip he asked me if I was a refugee. Then I went out, and from the ship's rail I looked at the strange flat shore with the fragile white fingers in the sky. In that cabin, Helen, where you left your soul and I 've got to lie a night here between these sleepless sheets without you.