Angelic Beauty

by Lisa-Ann Carey

  But the speech did not put Malachi off. He had his heart set on purchasing the latest Peurgeot, he had money (passed onto him by his deceased Grandfather) and he wasn't a youth. After he’d test-driven the model he had decided he was happy with its outstanding features, particularly its smooth road handling.

  * * * * * *

  The sun broke through the massive clouds that vaulted the sky. It was the middle of the week, the weather had been bleak, until now.

  Jiminez the Spanish paper-boy forced his breath through the small hole between his nearly closed lips, the short, sharp whistling sound stirring Malachi from a deep sleep.

  It was four-thirty in the afternoon, he had dozed off on the sofette, one hour had torn by.

  The Evening Gazette was neatly placed on the hallstand just outside Malachi’s front door. Jiminez waited to see it open, out stumbled Malachi.

  “Evening Sir, I’m Jiminez your local paper-boy. I’ve just started a daily delivery service today, the local rag does interest you does it not kind Sir?” he shook his hand and tipped his hat.

  “It certainly does, how much?”

  The paper-boy held the front page up to him for him to read the price in the right hand corner.

  Malachi reached into his top pocket to retrieve a little more than the price and handed it to Jiminez.

  “It covers a tip also.”

  “Thankyou Sir.”

  “That’s okay, by the way, I’m Malachi Castle. I’m from Australia.”

  The boy’s eyes widened, his mouth dropped open. “A real dinki-di Aussie?” he asked excitedly.

  “Yep, a real dinki-di Ausie,” repeated Malachi, winking and smiling before waving him on. “A daily delivery thanks including weekends,” he yelled after him. “In future, I shall leave the money on the hallstand.”

  The paper-boy turned, nodded and gave him a flash of his crooked white teeth as he marched off down the corridor.

  * * * * * *

  Angea-Lea was a little taken aback by the Eurasion invasion of her private property. She was forced to move on, and quickly, lest he indulge in another tickle of her tackle.

  Without uttering a word she gave him an angry glance and headed out of the door after checking-out her borrowed books with the Librarian.

  Feeling somewhat pekish, she grabbed a small block of swiss chocolate from the vending machine, the wrapper advertised the name swiss-sno. She placed the choc bar in her duffel bag and walked briskly over to a large splashing fountain and seated herself on the circular slate edging and stared out over the snow-capped alps that formed a striking contrast to the arcaded square in the foreground.

  Teenage Swissians, dressed in traditional costume, began performing a live musical in Musicians Square. The snack soon filled Angea-Lea’s tiny stomach. After one hour the folklore show came to a close.

  Australis, the latin word for Australia, meaning southerly, swept through her mind as a cool southerly wind swept her silken strands of buttercup.

  She was both a realist and a dreamer, she’d believed. The size of her Aussie companion’s manliness, only she knew, was not merely a dream, but very much a real thing. She’d ogled at it. She had felt its massiveness graze the soft flesh of her opening, rubbing past, fast, spilling its spicy gravy into her empty, crisp, vol-au-vent. “Ooh, the man from Australis, my type of man!”

  Her greater southern region warming at the thought of his warm meaty juices, remembering how it had felt, her mouth watered as she felt, once again, the oily matter lubricating her deep inside, itching, craving, hankering for an instant replay of that great Aussie rustic sport, Malachi had named Grasp The Greasy Pole. Back in Australia he was also the fastest, wettest volunteer fireman – on call whenever he was needed.

  Glancing once again at the map, Angea-Lea followed the route on foot to her new residential quarters.

  The grey stone lodge with its blue stone slab roof merged into the blue-grey precipitous rocky landscape to the North.

  A medium-sized burgundy coloured canvas carryall she casually slung over her right shoulder, her duffle bag in her left hand.

  Butterflies fluttered in the pit of her stomach as she walked down the garden path with its up-ended split slabs of granite set edge to edge either side of the mosaic stone walkway.

  Once through the clear glass sliding door at the entrance to the reception area, the flabby arms of a largish, auburn-haired Italian woman encircled her in a welcoming embrace.

  Her broken wittily-Italy accent, rich in arioso-tone, tunefully trolled, “Salutations my dear. Quinto Institute of Floral Artistry awaits you. My name is Amber Fiessco and I am the Administrating Officer. What would your name be then sweetie?”

  She looked up at her rather shyly and announced quietly, “My name is Miss Angea-Lea Siffleur Madam.”

  “You must pay me your fees.”

  She fished around for the cheque her father had made out and handed it to her.

  “Am I ready to begin the course?”

  “Of course.”

  “Could you lead me to my room thanks.”

  “Come this way.”

  Ms Fiessco carried her canvas bag up the grey slate steps to the second level. The interior stone walls and slate floor had a naturally frigid feel, she felt stone-cold within. She sensed every male eye checking her out, ready to interrogate her with a million probing questions.

  Her face went a fiery red, her skin burned on the surface like hot, glowing coals. Perspiration dripped, tickling as it was trickling down her spine and legs. She felt nervously nauseous.

  Music from the Swiss soul broke up the rhythm of loud breathless conversations between French, German, Italian and Swiss students as she opened the heavy door and stepped inside her unit at the end of a long pokey hallway where the students sat cross-legged in rows opposite each other. Amber dropped off her bag and left.

  To her surprise, a young dark-haired girl lay on the top bunk, with a frilly-edged flamingo pink pillow supporting her head. All she was wearing was a skimpy see-through cream lace petticoat.

  “Hi! My name is Millii Visconti. I am a descendant of the famous Duke of Milan. I am about to study floral art, and you, the same I gather?”

  In a delicate french tone Angea-Lea nodded then smiled widely and told the girl her name and what area of France she came from.

  “I am about to embark on the very same course, the business course interests me also – the how-to’s on running a florist shop. We can study together if you like. Wow, you have royal-blood!”

  “Yes I do, perhaps we could even cheat a little during exams,” suggested Millii in a wicked tone as together they giggled, squeezing each other’s hands in a secret handshake, they both simultaneously invented on the spur of the moment.

  Jackdaw birds with their black feathers and distinguishable yellow peaks fluttered and twittered amongst the bone-dry twigs of a deciduous alpine tree.

  Angea-Lea poked her head through the small open window and called in tweety-talk, “Did you fly all the way down from that mountain top to visit us? Do you have a mate eh?” The bird twitched and chirped to her in song as three others flew down to join the party. “Thanks for the chirpy-chat,” Angea-Lea added.

  Millii handed the bird bits of dry toast and told Angea-Lea, “I call him Mister Bergdohle. I feed him bits of grainy swiss toast every day. He has become my little paly pal in the last few days since I first moved in here.”

  “They shall keep us company,” Angea-Lea declared, passing on expert advice on how a young female college student ought to dress for the mild winter season. She felt like a top French fashion designer giving away helpful hints whilst putting away her clothes into the wardrobe.

  “From the latest shapes, textiles and shades to the dandiest accompaniments and ‘must have’ requisites such as matching undercovers, it is essential the chic is chic, no matter what the weather.”

  Angea-Lea swung open the door then continued.

  “The key is to keep as warm as french toast, in
as fresh a colour as the preserve you dollop on top,” informed Angea-Lea, her body accidentally slamming into the Eurasion’s she had encountered earlier as she walked down the corridor.

  “Cuddle up with me my little french fairy, I’ll keep your toast toasty,” Anthonee flashed back, his fiery expressive eyes suddenly turning into an icy stare as she kneed him in the nuts. She threw back her crop of beautiful blond hair and laughed watching as his shapely lips threw her a curious smile and his brows a quizical frown.

  He grabbed his vital parts, his long languid limbs and family jewel baggette turning inside out as he leapt five feet three inches into the air landing cross-legged on a firm duchy chair.

  Suddenly he saw the beastess in her, losing all sight of her sex appeal. He never really did say much after that. The next two months of her college stay hurriedly raced by without a spot of bother. The acquaintances she’d come to know not game to get too close after the tale had spun around campus.

  * * * * * *

  Junré sang Home Sweet Home modified from an old French folk song Ranz des Vaches whilst arranging her shoulder length blond hair into a coiffure, noticing some whispers of silver and mentioning to herself that it really needs a colour restorer. Would she do it herself at home or have it coloured by a hairdresser? Deciding to save on the added expense of getting someone else do a job that she could do herself, she decided to shop for a colour, dressed herself in a warm lavender turtleneck jumper, stepped into a pair of black crepe pants and put on a fully lined black crepe jacket, and picked up her black flap-over hi-shine shoulder bag, her black hi-shine matching leather boots clapping loudly across the tiled entry.

  Racing out the door toward the station she caught the mono-rail into the city arriving at their florist shop by mid-day.

  Antaeus had been working there since early that morning and was just putting up the new sign when Junré had showed. He stepped down from the ladder.

  Two minutes had disappeared before Malachi wandered by, noticing Antaeus and his wife, he haltered in his tracks asking were they the new owners of the store.

  Casting a sour glance in Malachi’s direction Antaeus vehemently recounted the blazing event that razed his former florist shop to the ground one night in July last year.

  “The bottom shelf of the supply closet was stuffed with paint-stained rags where they burst into flames through spontaneous combustion. At first Arson investigators suspected the fire was deliberately lit, but that idea was soon extinguished when they discovered an overloaded fuse box at the rear of the closet had ignited the cloths blazing up the paint cans on the upper shelf.” Antaeus raised his arms in the air and shouted, “Boom!”

  “You should have destroyed the rags Antaeus,” Junré deduced in a melancholic tone.

  Malachi boastfully broadcasted, “I was a voluntary sparky-soaker back in Aussie Land, neatness is all-important in preventing fires. How long did it take the Bucket Brigade to put the fire out?”

  “Half hour, it was one of our busiest days,” laughter soon put out the fiery yarn.

  Malachi reported in a vivacious voice, “The end of one flamin’ bad year and the dawning of a new flamin’ good one provides an excellent opportunity to hose off the scum and make a fresh start.”

  If that statement didn’t make Antaeus breathe easier, nothing would.

  Junré synchronised with the rhythm of time’s timpanist: “The world of work is forever revolving, but some folk entwine themselves around vocations of an epoch gone by. Floristry was and still is a timely and noble enterprise.”

  “It certainly is my darling,” Antaeus lovingly agreed.

  Malachi watched Antaeus unpack a wooden crate of statuettes of which he displayed on the bottom shelf of a glass display cabinet.

  A statuette of a semi-naked mermaid bathing on a flat rock attracted Malachi the most. Her upper torso reminded him of Angea-Lea’s shapely figure.

  “What are these figurines used for?” questioned Malachi an intrigued ignoramus. “Her Forget-Me-Nots closely resemble your daughters.”

  Antaeus raised his eyebrows in total disgust and asked in a furious tone. “How do you know that?”

  “Um, Umm,” he fumbled for the answer, “Lucky guess.” He was lucky he just scraped out of that argument.

  A plastic version of a colourful bloom of flowers were carefully arranged around the mermaid.

  “These artificial flowers are a sample of a real arrangement. They are called Spring Beauties. Come early spring and the real thing will be available to the public to be used in a display similar to this one. They are known as tender plants. They bloom for a brief time only during the early weeks of the springtime.” Junré smirked, deliberately holding back her best smile in reaction to his crude comment. An information card with all the details in bold black type was placed in front of the design.

  Malachi capped the conversation with one last big, bold brazen statement, “Your daughter is as tender as a Spring Beauty as delicate as Baby’s Breath.”

  “The Baby’s Breath has not come in yet,” Antaeus snapped, a little concerned this brazen Aussie knew more than he did about Angea-Lea, his only daughter and his special profession.

  “Is this the reason for sending her away to a course in floral art in wild Ticino to keep her away from me?” Malachi asked in a half-hearted tone.

  “She must learn the difference between what is real and what is artificial,” Antaeus stated as their eyes bugged out at the sight of his extra long stem that had stiffened unbenownst to Malachi whilst eyeing off the voluptuous Miss Mermaid and the picturesque images of Angea-Lea’s nudity that flashed through his mind from the very first moment he’d feasted his eyes on her utter sexiness. He was careful this time not to let slip how far he’d gone with their beautiful daughter.

  Malachi noticed their stares and buttoned the base of his jacket to hide his lengthy flower stalk out of public view before another wild, out of the blue question spewed from his drooling mouth.

  “I wondered if perhaps Angea may have chosen to learn what type of flower and colour she might choose to pin to my lapel for our engagement?” he slurpingly questioned.

  “You reek of verbal diarrhoea! Be gone, before I kick you to the kerb!” the garlic scent of Antaeus’s breath almost did just that on its own.

  Malachi left, tail between his legs.

  Angea-Lea kneeing Anthonee Flair in the nuts

  Chapter Five

  A light balmy breeze refreshingly enwrapped Parisians as they embraced the birth of spring.

  Under shifting skies, Poets of Paris lyrically christened France’s latest dweller from down under as Malachi The Mariner of the magnificent sailing craft they christened The Nautilus now anchored to the bed of the stirring Seine.

  The cooing of Water Minions, in perfect Provençal blended with the murmuring swirl of the waters in perfect harmony as they decorated the golden balustrades of the floating Château.

  The body of the much adored Malachi lazily lay on a champagne coloured sheepskin rug that partially covered the pink and white marble patio.

  Mid-morning sunshine peeped through the open slats of the alpine pergola, bathing him in its tepid warmth.

  He sprung to the chime of the telephone ringing off its hook in the master bedroom. Clasping hold of the receiver, he picked it up and placed it to his burning right ear. His drawling accent dragged out the words, “G’day, Malachi Castle.”

  “Allo, Speedy it is moi your Angelic Beauty – your Angelique Tulip, only the real thing, not just an artificial look alike.”

  His eyebrows arched in surprise, “My runaway pride.” There was a deathly, chilling silence for a few minutes. “Pardon, I am not your bride.” A crackle on the line had caused some disruption and misunderstanding between them. Malachi cleared his throat, “I said Pride, P for Pierre, as in pride and joy. Get it?”

  “O Yes I get it. It is so good to know I make you feel so very proud.”

  Angea-Lea placed his chunky silver box chain she h
ad been wearing around her neck to her teeth and began nervously grating it against them. Just before she had left he had slipped it around her neck as a keepsake.

  “Do you know what special day it is today Malachi?”

  The muscles in his left arm tightened as he lifted a hand to his head and scratched “Is it your birthday?”

  She cupped her hand around the mouthpiece and breathed heavily then muttered, “I shall give you a hint, Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall. George Burns and Gracie Allen. Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklos.”

  His heart pounded, his razor-sharp wit cottoning on. “Malachi Castle and Angea-Lea Siffleur,” the words gushed out of his watery mouth. Pairs, duos, couples he thought to himself. He thought further down the track, companions for life, passion, devotion….heartache? “Saint Valentines arrived.” He swallowed hard.

  She noticed his voice lacked warmth and feeling, more so than usual. “You cannot appreciate shared love, no?” she questioned delicately, concerned a previous torrid relationship he may have shared with someone else in previous days may have turned intensely cold for him.

  “Yes and no.”

  “You don’t sound too sure,” she tried to warm him with affection in her inflexion, but instead she rubbed him up the wrong way, he began to chafe from the friction, instead of soothing him, she irritated him.

  He preferred to keep his unhappy past experiences under wraps, and promptly told her so.

  “If ever you decide to air your grievances, you may do so whenever it suits. I won’t push. Ca Va?”

  “Ca Va.”

  The real reason for his downheartedness was because she had not made one telephone call to him since leaving for the college.

  It was true her stored smile kept him cosy on those long lonely chilly evenings when the best he could do was to imagine her there. He wondered had she met someone new whilst studying in Ticino. He bit his lip he just had to know the frustration almost driving him mad. Was that why she had not phoned him?