Spring Lupins with their pillars of splendid colour shivered with excitement at the tender touch of a fairy-light sprinkle of rain from a brief afternoon sun-shower. The air was sweet and warm as Junré passed the colourful patch that graced the entrance of The Oasis Country Club at the end of Cheaux Parade on the outskirts of town, the Aussies had constructed and named the new parade before building the club.
An adventurous class of Australian gentlemen, rich, well-educated and extremely well-mannered when not under the influence of alcohol founded and managed the elite club.
Like most say, it is a French woman’s prerogative to change her mind at the very last minute if she so desires, therefore having a professional hairdresser colour her hair was what she desired most. In bygone days Junré had tried colouring her hair herself, but failed and as a result her whole head swelled to the size of a melon. This would never happen again, she would definitely see to that.
Women of all shapes and sizes sat their posh posteriors on adirondack chairs arranged on a wide and stylish verandah, chatting and sipping on apricot chiffon coolers waiting in comfort and relaxation for their chance to have their hair cut and coloured at The Oasis Salon by the best hairdresser in town.
Junré joined the gals.
The well-to-do ladies with their high spirited personalities animatedly called for extensively experienced hairdresser Yvette of forty-one years.
It was not long before she bounded through the front door introducing herself as a hairdresser with a difference. Junré began to feel confident. Hair styling books were placed on the round timber table beside her.
“Please feel free to express your ideas should you find these styles and colour combinations to be unsuited to your liking,” expressed Yvette, placing a cooler beside the books.
All were like sisters – problem-solvers and heart-warmers. Each decided on a light crimp style.
“Breathe in the delightfully cosy atmosphere where togetherness always counts. Welcome to The Oasis Junré love. I am also known as energetic Yvette, one has to be when working amongst speedy Aussies, you know how they make a girl feel before and after a dip in the Olympic pool – wet, wet and more wet!”
“I can imagine! I adore the feeling togetherness creates thank you my dear.”
Awesome looking sun-tanned cooks with sunburnt cocks sought escape in the grounds near the salon from the break-neck pace of the sweaty kitchen bespattered with sputter, as full as googs.
“Ladies what do you think of my latest creation?” screamed Ace the trainee chef with slurred screech waving it under their sensitive parson’s noses.
A baked boiling hen stuffed with boiled eggs rested in the centre of a gravy spattered silver platter bordered with stuffed spuds.
“Are you preparing to make coddled eggs with that pampered chook mate?” Junré screamed in return fully cocked on cooler.
“No, I’m making cockered cockerels with a young cock,” he exclaimed clutching his rising cock with his other kitchen hand.
Junré once again injected with equal surprise, “Oh you mean barbequed hatchcock with a hot cock?”
Suddenly, the head chef came from behind disgusted at their naughty behaviour warning, “You boys better get a wriggle on or your hot cocks will get the cold sack.”
In raucous reply they cried out in unison as they walked away with flabby cocks, “Then you’ll have to change the name of the restaurant from Steamboat to Cockboat, cause we’re jumpin’ overboard.”
The girls cacked till they hatched.
“It’s a wonder you’re not making cockyleekie soup with those leaky cockies,” topped Yvette.
Their laughter faded with the sun.
Yvette, the wife of a Civil Engineer soon became a respected friend and confidante to Junré from that day forward. They both preferred the colour champagne with highlights of bright gold and silver threads throughout and so did everyone else in the group. Junré and company gave Yvette the French wave of worship upon leaving the salon, all ecstatic with their new bright, frizzy look, outshining all others on the streets of the City Of Light.
The moment Junré stepped into the flatette she raced to the bedroom and changed into a simple frock, when her husband shoved his hand up the poodle puppet he had just created and began his ventriloquist act.
“Your new hairstyle resembles the coat of a washed out French poodle, woof, woof!” Antaeus and the puppet both sprawled on the plush woollen carpet pretending his puppet poodle to be peeking up her dress.
She kicked the dummy in the side of the head then stomped on his face with the heel of her shoe, causing Antaeus to scream blue murder, his hand he’d removed to show off the damage, now limp at the wrist, his fingers a crippled mess, not to mention the poodle dummy’s snout now resembling that of a Pekinese he pointed out.
“I am bored with always being the epitome of mature elegance. I desire the ‘young glamorous’ look not the ‘worn out dishrag of a wife and mother’ look. The path I choose to take is my own decision, you must respect that, the same goes with your daughter, let us be!” With a loud sigh and an angry glance she chased them both out of the bedroom then closed the door, silently wiping away the falling tears with her home-spun embroidered handkerchief, nauseated at Antaeus howling like a wounded pup all the way up the hall.
Then, like a raging bull in a china store she ripped the door wide open till it almost cracked off its hinges, yelling, “It seems to me you have a more intimate relationship with your dumb pet pup than with me your beautiful wife!” Her parched remark made him feel a real heel, driving him to shout an extensive apology in return which soon made her feel as proud as punch.
* * * * * *
The result for the competition Malachi had entered a couple of months ago arrived via the early morning post. He had slept soundly throughout the entire night, not a worry to spoil his mind and decided to rise early to bake a cake, the type his mother would make for him when he was growing up in Australia, then crawled back into bed.
Staring at his latest buy from the comfort of his cosy bed whilst listening to nature’s finest musical score of tiny little wavy waves tamely bouncing off the hull, he pictured himself winning that ‘lucky dip’ employment –wise, he could almost sniff that coinage, he could almost hear that chinkle in his paypacket. He had completely forgotten he’d even entered the Retrospect competition until today.
His oxford crew socks and microfibre business shirt in electric tangerine mixed and matched well with his sleek sharp ivory-coloured three-piece suit of raw French silk, with an additional touch of comique on his novelty jacquard business tie of bananas in pyjamas sporting the critique: GONE BANANAS! He half-hoped it would snap the ice of solid professionalism just enough to land that perfect position, as his horoscope warned him – he would be in for an arduous month.
Like a doting father, Malachi secretly hoped his little Angel was able to procure copious hours of beauty sleep amidst a busy schedule. The very fact that this lady, he so greatly admired, happened to be as truly beautiful as a babbling brook, especially naked, caused him to feel a little hot-tempered, knowing full well those lusty lecherous lumps from wild Ticino could possibly entice his babe to show them everything she possessed.
With a determined heart and a look of terror on his unshaven face, he leapt out from under the satin sheets and hungrily grabbed a bite to eat from the cuisine and the peach coloured envelope from the mail table just near the front door.
Sobbing sounds he’d heard coming from the top step in the hallway intrigued Malachi to investigate just who’s sobs they belonged to. To his surprise there sat young Jiminez the paper boy, balling his eyes out.
Squatting beside him, he began to reassure him, “Hey little matey, what’s the matter, did some bully flog your Flageolet?” The idea of using an unknown and questionable word was a deliberate attempt to temporarily get the young boy’s mind off his immediate troubles in chasing Malachi for its meaning. But in fact quite the opposite happened. “Bully Frog….waaaaah!” cried Jiminez. Malachi cupped his right hand behind his right ear and muttered, “C’mon let out ya secret.”
The young Spaniard’s empty tummy growled and growled. With a searching look in his half-closed eyes and half-hoping Malachi possessed special powers, he rapidly spilled out the gory tale that spooked his maturing mind.
“Mama choked on a Goliath Frog’s hind leg last night. It is all my fault, I must not have cooked it long enough. I followed the French recipe, it didn’t work out and now she is no longer alive. I shall be put in an orphanage. My father died when I was seven years old and I have no other relatives to look after me. What do I do Mr. Malachi? I am a bad boy.” Tears splashed from his sweet and swollen eyes.
Malachi threw him a life raft of wordsy encouragement to save him from drowning in the waters of woe. “Hang in there Jiminez, you are a special little fella, you are very courageous.”
“Thank you Mr. Malachi,” said Jiminez wiping his wet face on his woven pancho. “But I am still a bad boy.”
Malachi’s guarantee of a well known praiseworthy truth brought honour to his guilty guest, securing him against all future risk, “The motto of Boys’ Town is: There is no such thing as a bad boy.”
“But I will still be homeless.”
“Not if I can help it,” secured Malachi with confidence. Rescuing Jiminez was a divine honour from deep within his charitable heart. To take time out of his busy day to fully achieve this was a brief sun-shower to him.
Jiminez pretended he was playing a pipe. “I can still whistle higher than a piccolo with my imaginary wind instrument, listen.” He pursed his lips and made his fingers dance as he whistled a lively tune he had composed and called ‘Orange Juice For Breakfast’.
Malachi gaped at him with sympathy in his eyes and politely expressed from the core of his good-natured character, “That is the finest sounding Flageolet in this whole wide world Jiminez, so come in for some orange juice and some upside-down toffee banana cake for morning tea. You and I can have it early as I shall be leaving soon for half a day, okay?”
Manful Malachi in all his determination and braveness wished that Angea-Lea was presently by his side to lend her loving support by offering practical suggestions, basically to help settle and comfort the little fellow so suddenly shattered by the loss of his dear departed mother.
“Did you think to telephone the police and ambulance young man?”
Jiminez sniffed and with youthy mellow voice answered, “Yes, they came. I told them she choked on some food they accepted the reason and took her body away. There must be a funeral at the end of the week, they told me. I told them I have an older friend who might take me in and look after me, I told them it was you, so they dropped me here, I continued with the mail delivery and paper rounds making my last stop yours, and I also told them I’m too scared to attend the funeral, so they told me I did not have to go.”
Malachi patted him on the back and graciously informed him, “You did the right thing, I will have a word with them, you can live with me, okay, you are a fine boy, but you must remember to move on with your life, don’t get bogged down in bereavement.”
With questioning eyes he asked, “What is bereavement Malachi?”
“Bereavement means to be robbed of a loved one. Death is a robber, don’t let it cheat you out of your life. You’ll always have Angea-Lea and me, my son,” his fatherly smile added a touch of peace to the youngster’s soul as Malachi lifted him up in his arms to let him cry his last on his firm shoulders.
All the splendour and excitement of the spring season in France lay at their feet as together they looked out of the sliding door to discover in surprise the whole city skyline flooded with sunlight. They ran across to the window opposite and swiped the vertical blinds wide open.
“Oh!” cried Jiminez, surprised and delighted. Beyond the water, calm and unruffled, were neat flowerbeds and beautiful statues lining scenic parks.
Malachi hugged Jiminez tight seating him gently on the couch. Moments of absolute silence reigned in the sitting room as Jiminez fed his tear-stained face until he could eat no more.
“A full belly is a happy heart, you polished most of the cake off quicker than a hungry pet pooch, good lad, I only wanted one piece anyway,” Malachi briefed, wiping away the sticky crumbs from his cheeks with a wet face washer he had retrieved from the bathroom. Malachi gulped what remained, slamming the juice down fast.
“Now, let’s see what’s inside this envelope shall we?” Malachi slid his gold-leafed letter opener between the adhesive strip. Jiminez clapped his hands and grinned like a Cheshire cat.
“Is it a surprise? I like surprises Malachi.”
Relaxingly reflecting on images of Angea-Lea’s calming influence by way of past tenderness through her heavenly love he flipped open the card of congratulations with untrembling fingers, it read:
CONGRATULATIONS YOU ARE THE WINNER OF THE GRAND PRIZE – A TRIP TO SYDNEY’S RETROSPECT MUSEUM AND FOUR SEATS AT ONE EVENT AT THE SYDNEY 2000 OLYMPIC GAMES AND FOUR SEATS AT THE OPENING AND CLOSING CEREMONIES. ORGANIZER MR. JAMES C. CLARKE REQUESTS THE PLEASURE OF MALACHI CASTLE AND FRIENDS AT A CELEBRATION DINNER ON THE EVENING OF SEPTEMBER NINETH AT SEVEN-THIRTY TO CELEBRATE YOUR WINNINGS AT THE JACARANDA ROOM, RETROSPECT LIGHTHOUSE, WESTERN PASS, CIRCULAR QUAY, SYDNEY, NEW SOUTH WALES. R.S.V.P, A.S.A.P. BY CALLING 02 484 7953.
YOURS VERY TRULY
JAMES C. CLARKE
ORGANIZER.
“I’ll have to trim bills and save for this event,” joked Malachi. “Young man, I’ve won a competition, I’m going back to Aussie-Land, and I’m taking my girl Angea-Lea, what do you think of that eh?”
Now sitting in the lotus position on the cold red marble floor of the kitchen and hunched over his closed wardrobe trunk that lay on its side near the curved doorway, in downhearted tone of voice Jiminez told him how wonderful he thought it was. “But what about me?” he asked, doubtful that he would be invited to join him.
…then the answer he had hoped for came. “Well, you’ll be coming with us of course, we will adopt you.”
Jiminez leapt into the air yelling – “YOWEE! I’m going to have a mom and dad, a floating castle and a trip to Australia, - a land of open plains and huge grasshoppers.”
“That’s for sure, the grasshoppers are actually Kangaroos, my son.”
He had never felt happier at knowing someone really cared and full of intrigue as to what a Kangaroo looked like.
The French flag billowed in the light early morning breeze just outside Malachi’s kitchen window reminding him of his lady’s skirt rising with the wind showing off those shapely alabaster shaded thighs.
* * * * * *
Again secretive wonderous visions of a semi-naked French teenage maid floating and fluttering about his home like a pretty petit butterfly set décorer la maison with her feaux d’artifice as if celebrations of la grande fête nationale française was just blossoming.
He could feel the vanilla ice-cream in his Aussie waffle cone melting at the wicked thought, driving him in a ninety mile per hour dash to the privacy of his bedroom rolling onto the bed, after a quick unzip catching the foamy shower in a hollow gourd soon after the cascade of artificial white camellias it contained were tossed out violently through the open window into the neat hairdo of a passing female Japanese tourist, instantly thrilled at the gift of a floral forked twig sent just for her from up above, Malachi’s wild throaty growl of utter satisfaction scaring the elegance out of her.
With one hand covering his deflating flaccid penis he darted to the window and caught her look of terror. In return, he shot a noisy apology “So sorry Geisha girl,” his lengthy bamboo cane dangling out the window, his centre veins wrinkling, the viewer fearing he’d place his bamboo branch into the crutch of her woody fork. She then went on to imagine it being wedged permanently into the unwanted position forming a cross-bar between the front and back gaps of the branches. She screamed off the gang plank and down the boulevarde.
Malachi marched out of his resting-place, his get up and go garb he’d leapt into adhering to his sweltering mould, his footsteps hushed on the shag pile carpet tiles as if swept off his feet by a well-paid Indian body servant.
The flick of his froth was nothing more than a spell of idleness he ironically termed his trial of strength, like a bout of morning sickness to a pregnant woman, it left him physically weak, parched and trembling from the waist down, it was an effort for him to decamp at all.
“There’s no denying it Jimmy my boy, I’m a bit of an antique Queenslander, a marriage minded man with old-fashioned simplistic values. I couldn’t chase another chic if I tried, I haven’t the heart to do it to my Angelic Beauty my Angel Baby,” he bragged sharply, fighting off the temptation.
“You are a man of style eh, nice threads man! Queensland is a stylish place, I have seen pictures in my mother’s travel guide to Australia. Treasure your sweetheart don’t exchange her for another, no matter what,” Jiminez pointed out with pride, both sides slapping the high-five of approval.
With an expression of dread on his face and apprehension in his feeble tongue, he finally regurgitated the question, “It’s a fashion faux pas isn’t it boy?” with the grunt and swiftness of a high-speed motorised torpedo-boat.
An intense, keen-witted frankness pierced the youngen’s sharp eyes, penetrating Malachi’s anxious mind with half-expected painful answer, “I think you had better hide under the four poster bed, cardinal conquers on the catwalk this year, that’s what mamma read.”
Worried out of his confined mind of a very confined space and mumbling loudly to himself he snuck his crushed self-support skills to his well-stocked mini tavern to “unload a short shot of the spanish touch sangria that delightful cooling drink made with red wine, fruit juice and a pinch of sweetness, which the majority of ye olde rugged Aussie stick-in-the-muds unthankfully describe as deceptively drinkable, but with a kick in the balls like a rebel stallion if you have more than a few straight squirts. Down a full kepi and you’re likely to kick the bucket.” Jiminez overheard his rambling confession of faith and kick-boxed the air whinnying and snorting like a highly-strung green colt.
“There’s nothin’ like a jamberoo to follow a shoppin’ spree it packs power and punch into your scrappy kanakas,” Malachi told him.
“What the devil are kanakas Malachi?”
Malachi’s explanation almost knocked the wind out of young Jiminez while he admired the picturesque houses lining the bank further up the river through the jutted window.
“Now, aren’t ya gonna ask me what a jamberoo is?”
Malachi loved to lead, Jiminez loved the chase, already like father like son, an inseparable pair of Aussie buddies.
Impatient for the hero’s prize, the mystery behind the strategeous storytelling, the ridiculous question jetted out from his lollypop gap like that ol’ demon called semen that spurted every spring for young man or old man whether planned or unplanned.
Like a pushy piper puffing away on his bagpipes at a Breton festival at Brittany, in Sunday best the sproutly binious belted with pas pardon, and brave spirit, “The meaning of a Jamberoo in exchange for a fishing smack and a steamer’s anchoring hug.”
“Okay boy, ya ready?” Jiminez nodded his head. “A Jamberoo is nothing more than a drinker’s splash out spree. A spell of liqueur lickin’, a bout of beer bashin’. Clear as mud?”
“Clear as mud alright. I can predict the way ahead for the both of us. Living with you Sir Malachi will be just like living in deep clear waters one minute, and drowning beneath muddy seas the next minute. I ask myself the question, waving my hands in the air, do I really need this great distress in these O so cloudy times?”
With upturned lip, one last sip of the slippery dip and zombie, eye-popping glare he raved on with crazy confidence and spitting lip, “In my high-status position, I can feel free in any gear, why dread the threads my main man? You know what stargazes say about the underbriefs – yep, you guessed it – they too need to be bright tangerine – the colour for success.” It may not be the only time in his endless fun-filled life he might have to wear them.
“In that case, it is quite on the cards that you could possibly succeed in melting a few cream-filled white choccy love hearts today my friend,” the voice of Jiminez transmitting the vital message like a radio signal.
Studying the intricate design of the Eiffel Tower through a pair of high-powered binoculars, Malachi thoroughly examined the kind-hearted verbal sketch of passion-in-the-distance, his lazy torso draping casually over the cushioned window seat like a woollen throw rug.
Malachi straightened his arching shoulders and thrust forward his square chin to face Jiminez doing the same, his body now resting vertically against the outdoor ballustrading with both hands tied behind his back.
“The only cream-filled white choccy love heart I intend melting is my sweet little French poochette,” he pointed out, his formerly turbulent voice that accompanied his vehement address on the colour for success taking on a more tranquil tone.
“Gorgeous eh?” Jiminez bleated in blithesome utterance.
“Yes, she is gorgeous.”
Malachi’s gaze swept the opulently furnished room, he could almost hear the faint flutter of his angel’s wings hushing the voice of youth. With face full of joy and heart filled with sunshine he looked upward to see Angea-Lea’s golden hair, attractively framing her flushing face as tears of pity fell like rain from eyes that shone of motherly love, her voice filled the room announcing, “I am with child and it belongs to you Malachi.”
For a moment the City Of Light dimmed in mournful strain for the dear one whose Mother had ascended like a floating dove through the pearly gates of heaven above, the faces of two holy mothers, so fine, awakened in the dust of endless time.
With valorous heart thumping wildly inside his virile chest, a poem of love cascaded like a tumbling fairy from his honey-dripping lips, “My precious son, your new mother is about to become a mother herself, she came in angel form and told me she is carrying a little angel inside of her belonging to me. O, what an angel’s song, she trills all the day long. Her angelic beauty can illumine the thought and mind of every man, bringing with it visions of power and splendour across a far-reaching land.”
“An angel inside an angel, sweet,” Jiminez felt richly blessed, having not only a luxurious home to enjoy but a valued family unit, so rich in inner beauty, that looking at these treasured folk from the outside, was, to him, like looking through an unfrosted window at a magnificent view. Although he had not seen a picture of Malachi’s chosen one, he had a pretty clear idea her face, her smile, her every hidden and visible feature must reflect his new father’s treasured heart of undying love and affection, a love, he knew would stay. Jiminez was determined the darkness and coldness death held would not trail behind him nor spook him on the inside.
Malachi folded his arms around his special little boy once again, until he felt safe and protected under those folded angel like wings, he soon discovered, were lined with pure gold.
In lively, untamed motion, Jiminez and Malachi performed The Big Bear dance with side kicks from the knee, skipping up and bobbing down to the Swinglegum sound slithering from the stereo and when the sharpness shattered, the listeners chattered.
“The whisper goes, that a young French Marine was seen scaling the walls of the Château de Chantilly singing Paul Verlaine’s Marine score, the moment he reached the top of the tower. Apparently, he was out to entice the housemaid, Nicolette of twenty-two years to arise and play at the end of the day. Rumour has it he had spied on her as she sunbathed in the raw on the shifting shore surrounding her holiday beach-house late last spring. The ‘would-be’ gentleman if he ‘could-be’ gentleman attired only in his neck to knee see through birthday suit, was eager to show himself off, bragging loudly, he had the bulgiest gonfler, the largest poignée and the biggest bouchée in gay Paris. When he was discovered, the Master of the French country-house ordered him to be shot on the spot, however, the saucy housemaid took pity on him bringing the unwarranted action to a screaming halt. According to authority, the decision is pending.”
Malachi was never too busy for a pleasant and long-winded confabulation with this curious little nipper, he soon discovered, was, in fact, chattier than the average chatterbox, quick to exchange all the latest news and views from mistresses to hostesses knee-deep in cooking, cleaning, waxing and polishing from Château to Château and where the chattels ought to go.
With a slight smile on his ruby rouge dial, Malachi’s artful manoeuvre adroitly worked the cream of the conversation away from his ill-smelling opponent. The bragging bugaboo was bugging him like a blood-sucking insect, purely out to infect.
“He don’t belittle me none, I’ve a buffalo-hide with a beastly pride. My buckshee can buckle his sabre, his armour, his entire equipment any day any station and it is fully guaranteed not to crumple up under pressure. I can bend my energies to work my way round a hoard of broads in multi-orgasmic magic. My Aussie beast is the biggest, the meanist and the ugliest and my little woman knows it. So Reporter Lilliputan, you can tell him for me he can go to buggery that sawn off and soggy French stick of a Marine.”
He could feel his phoenix rising from its ashes as it drooled to drip into Angea-Lea’s dip.
For one awful, embarrasing moment, the boy caught sight of the sight for sore eyes and stumbled on the statement, “Geez, I bet your girl sees you as a large, impressive lookin’ sort she would be proud to walk down the aisle,” his slippery tongue slippin’ in and out of his widening mouth like a lickin’ lizard.
The two cool proons shrivelled then frowned as it all came crashing down, completely crushed following an all-time knee-high, thankfully the Letters Of Mystery peeping out of the top pocket of Le Garçon du papier from Spain would brighten their dull spirits once again with hope and deliverance.
Poking about in his own top pocket, Malachi skittishly asked, “Are those little ol’ postpaks for moi as well?”
“Oh yes, I almost forgot Master Manly Malachi they are definitely yours, come and get ‘em.” They chased each other round the room wheelin’, squealin’ and eventually kneelin’. “I could barely bear in mind the empty fact, that I had in my mean possession, a couple of love-letters belonging to…Sir Malachi The Awesome One,” teased Jiminez, his beady little eyes searching the room to check if anyone was spying, then casually handed Malachi the Red Letters, or, what he suspisciously suspected, were, red-hot letters. To his surprise Malachi barked with petulance, “Yipee! Red Letter Day.” He could sniff the money like a drug sniffer dog and tore open the first envelope with his jagged fangs.
He immediately recognised the distinctive handwriting style on one but was not one hundred percent sure about the other and smiled widely at the triangular Happy Birthday sticker that sealed envelope Number two, the Par Avion sticker… and, the Australian postage stamp.
A bank cheque for the amount of Sixty-thousand Euro dollars was retrieved from the paper pocket with an attached note that read:
TO OUR DEAREST MALACHI EDWARD HAPPY THIRTIETH BIRTHDAY SON. PLEASE USE MONEY ON A NEW VEHICLE FOR YOURSELF. DO NOT WASTE OUR PRECIOUS DOUGH ON A PAIR OF OLD USED ONES.
WILL CONTACT YOU SOON
MUCH LOVE
DADDY AND MOMMY
XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX
P.S. (ALWAYS REMEMBER MASLOW’S HEIRARCHY OF HUMAN NEEDS – FOOD, CLOTHING, SHELTER).
WE’VE GOT THE FOOD, CLOTHING AND SHELTER BUT WE’RE MISSING ONE MORE PRECIOUS ASSET – YOU SON. COME HOME SOON FOR MORE THAN JUST A FLYING VISIT, WE MISS YOU TERRIBLY DEAREST.
He was grateful he did not have to part with his grandfather’s money he had left him in his will. He bounded into the air and stomped all over the cushions and the sofette, rolled all over the floor three times, clean forgetting about his spiffy attire. Jiminez followed suit, the pair, after hearing the good news promptly laughed their heads of – HA! HA! KAPLONK! as if they had just heard the funniest wisecrack ever.
“So far, two surprise gifts, will he win a third and hopefully a fourth, in landing that paramount position?” bellowed Malachi with excitement, mingled with a touch of fear in his trembling voice.
“Ya! Rah! Rah! Rah! Rajah!” the small Spaniard cheered in return, stressing the last word.
An aromatic balminess floated from the gummed flap that had been peeled back carefully from the cactus tinted paper cover, reminding him straight away of the cool woodland scent of Swamp Buttercups that bloomed in the wet woods and open waters during springtime in Australia.
He pinched out the perfumed letter, sluggishly unfolded it, then placed it to his pounding heart, hoping with all his might it was from his dream lover. Nestling back into the spongy, peach toned sofa, his giddy mind wildly gathered the gold-dipped quilled thoughts, gradually dispersing, without distraction, the bright ideas throughout his entire inner workings like scattered petals of the Sturt Desert Pea, his most impressive feature, the statue of plenitude, turning to a solid plinth.
Youthy Jiminez fidgeted with uneasiness during the long boring silence he was forced to endure whist he waited impatiently for Waltzing Matilda to memorise every wavy line.
A blast of that dreaded complaint ‘ABANDONMENT’, from deep down amongst the boy’s vocal chords, raised Malachi from the immersion, his sanity, by now, on the verge of vanishing completely.
The little begger itched to waste his time listening to a recital of the piece of impressiveness, certainly not from the box of treasures between his guardian’s legs, but, from his girlfriend’s writer’s box of treasures, stored in the core of her fertile mind. He noisily sounded his request to the noiseless reader.
Malachi jump-started his croaky voice, then began to read aloud.
He glanced at the top of the page and exclaimed “Winnings Number Three, sniff it and snuff it!
SEXIEST MALACHI,
EXTENSIVE IN HISTORY, THE LAND OF FRANCE, MY MOTHERLAND, WITH ITS MULTIFARIOUS SCENIC SPOTS AND BEAMING CITIES, FILLED WITH SPIRITED FOLK, POSSESSES THE POWER TO ATTRACT AND LURE INTERNATIONAL VISITORS, LIKE YOURSELF, FROM BEHIND CLOSED DOORS, TO EXPAND THEIR HORIZONS DURING INTERESTING ANALYTICAL DISCOVERIES OF ITS TRUE ANGELICAN BEAUTY VIA IN-DEPTH EXPLORATIONS OF A CULTURE LIKE NO OTHER.
THESE INSPIRED THOUGHTS FROM THE WRITER’S DESK OF YOUR ANGLEA-LEA AS QUILLED IN THIS PERSONAL PERFUMED LETTER, TO YOU, MY SWEET, GREAT AUSSIE BOYFRIEND, WILL BRING TO LIFE ALL OUR SLEEPY LITTLE FUTURISTIC DREAMS OF COUNTLESS HOLIDAYS TOGETHER, FROL-LICKING AROUND FRANCE, IN THE BUFF, OVER OUR ENCHANTED PLAYGROUND OF BREATH-TAKING SIGHTS, FIT FOR THE ARISTOCRAT IN BOTH OF US AND THE ADVENTURER IN BOTH OF US.
IMAGINE THE FUTURE BEFORE US, A FUTURE FILLED WITH ROMANTIC ENCHANTMENT, STOPPING AT QUAINT LITTLE TOWNS AND VILLAGES, PORTS OF CALL, THE SOUNDS AND SCENTS, NOT TO MENTION THE FINEST VIEWS ALONG THE COAST WITH THE FINEST AND MOST CHARMING LADY IN FRANCE, MOIS, LA MADEMOISELLE POUR VOUS.
EVERY PART OF YOU ACHES TO JOIN ME, DOES IT NOT?
IT HAS BEEN SAID, THAT, SOME ADORE THE COUNTRY OF FRANCE, HOWEVER THEY LOATHE THE FRENCH. THE MOST BEAUTIFUL GIRL IN THE WORLD JUST SO HAPPENS TO BE A LITTLE FRENCH FAIRY ANGEL OF SHEER DELIGHT, MALACHI’S LOVE-LIGHT, LIKE FRANCE, THE LIGHT THAT SHINES FORTH IN A WORLD OF SEMI-DARKNESS, A MOST GIFTED AND POWERFUL SPIRIT THAT CONTINUOUSLY SHEDS HER LIGHT THROUGHOUT A COMPLEX UNIVERSE OF WONDERS AND MIRACLES YET TO BE CONQUERED BY THIS UNIQUE AND LIVELY COUPLE, YOU AND ME.
DARLING, I ADORE YOUR COURAGEOUS OUTLOOK ON LIFE AND I MISS YOU LIKE CRAZY,
TRULY YOURS
ANGEA-LEA
YOUR CUTE LITTLE BAMBINO
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Thirty minutes of yoga and meditation on this, out on the deck, in just his tangarine underwear, further illuminated the mind of Malachi whilst Jiminez rested his weary mind and body on the couch.
Delving into his spiritual zone, nestled deep within the nucleus of his inner spirit, glorious visions of Angea-Lea in nothing else but her Wisteria blue stretch-satin push-up bra and matching satin G-string panties danced in his head, a vital energetic force, almost pushing him fair over the balcony.
“Follow your yellow brick road. Keep your nose to the grindstone for the production of ingots of silver and gold en masse. Call on your celestial commissioner to guide and protect you. Wave your magic wand Sir Malachi The Great!” chanting the order to the clear blue skies above ushering Angea-Lea’s comforting spirit ever closer to his.
Her memorabilia he had learnt by heart, her figures he kept in his mind and her facts he stored in his heart.
After throwing on his attire once again, he floated out the main doors with Jiminez at his side, Malachi meshed in mesmerism, gay-tempered Merles dipping and flitting and circling about the luxury inn-on-water like ponies on a merry-go-round.
“Fortunate Friday a new beginning for us both, I can feel it in me bones Jimbo,” applauded Malachi with loud cheer.
“May loads of luck come your way today,” exploded Jiminez.
Malachi’s heart was filled with gratefulness and chock-full of gladness.
‘The keeping of intimate secrets is a secure practice.’ Malachi’s faultless father had pointed out during his growing years. But Aaron Castle’s son did not always see life from this perspective. He was a tell-all sort of a guy.
‘Your previous relationship could have been salvaged if you had have adhered to this basic principle it is the only way to ensure a lasting trouble-free and private togetherness between your sweety and yourself. It is essential, that chit-chat, particularly with other males, with the exception of your father, be restricted.’ His Pa’s lecture on relationship preservation paddled about his busy mind almost capsizing his own ideas.
Rather than attempt to patch up the past and that ol’ broken heart, his willingness to work motivated him uptown, in earnest, for the top vet job in Europe. Part-time could lead to full-time, his ticking mind balanced. “Who knows where it could lead?” he repeated the question quietly to himself. “Ya know little matey, fairly soon I shall be known as cash-sack and you shall be known as coin-pouch,” Malachi assured.
Jiminez looked up at him half-mopish, half-hopish and sulked, “What will Angea-Lea be known as – Miss Currency Flo when she whizzez out of Floral Artistry?”
A monster grin flashed across Malachi’s stunned face.
“Aah our little Spanish boy has an Economics degree.”
“No, I just have a quick-rich buddy with an angel for a girlfriend.”
Overflowing with valour and rattling with lose change, the money-hungry villains slipped into St. Tropez outfitters for youth. With fifteen minutes of time to spare, prior to the interview they rumble-tumbled through the shop in search of the best vest for the best vet’s young colt.
And there it was….
Embroided Spanish ships in gold threads splashed across a backcloth of an unclouded sky rising out from the ruffling waters of the Mediterranean Sea that adorned the hand-crafted waistcoat Malachi had carefully selected for Jiminez.
He was intrigued by the crafty design and lively colours of the woven wool, interlaced together, like daring close acquaintances, rousing his curiosity all through the short trip to the vet hospital.
Refusing at first to wear the garment, he held it tightly in his small tanned hands just so he could admire its fascinating pattern.
Outside the Paris Veterinary Clinic, in the heart of Paris, a shabbily dressed gardner stood watering a blossoming toffee-apple shaped apple tree that had been topiarized the week before and re-potted into a huge bronze pot. Jiminez crouched at ground level and pressed his plumpish fingertips over the bunches of raised violet grapes that decorated the stippled surface.
Without his notice the vest fell from his hands onto the dusty sidewalk. Squatting beside the boy Malachi picked it up, shaking off the dust before fitting him in it.
The pair stepped with confidence through the front office. Asking the assistant to keep a watchful eye on his best friend, he brushed himself off and loosened his tie slightly then charged through the interviewer’s door as soon as his name was called.
Malachi’s eyes flashed a momentary look of brilliant brilliance at the squat vet seated behind the reddish-brown wooden desk, the slightly open maple wooden shutters let in a golden glow of warm sunshine inspiring the interviewee to think and act in a mild-mannered way initially greeting the bearded gent with a sensible handshake and sensible verbal intercourse, so sensible in fact that Monsieur Bonsoir deeply appreciated any defects of character as advertised on his stylish tie and emerging bombay bloomers as valuable pluses, his outstanding credibilties outshining all other employment seekers, as he read and re-read his university reports and previous job references and gutsy attitude.
In hot pursuit of fleshly gratification, he tore out of the office excited and thankful, leading Jiminez out of the entrance with untold thoughts of Angea-Lea’s fleshy bare bottom wobbling from side to side as he imagined her walking naked before them.
“I start first thing Monday morning, the interview was a roaring success, it must have been the tie and the underdaks. Come Jiminez let us purchase the Mountaineer and head for the International Food Fest for an afternoon of utter gluttony.”
“Let us go buy a car and gobble our guts out,” Jiminez suggested, swayed by a feeling of emptiness both in heart and stomach drably coloured with emotion rather than wisdom.
With a runny nose from crying and a nervous tickle in his throat he sniffled and said, “I still cannot believe I have a new Dad who cares.”
“I love you son and we shall always take good care of you, both me and Angea-Lea.”
After handing over the cheque to the reputable car salesman they jumped into the air-conditioned four-wheel drive and headed for the feast fest.
“In few words, it’s got grunt, heaps of grunt and so have we Jiminez.”