Angelic Beauty

by Lisa-Ann Carey

  * * * * * *

  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 th
at 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.”