Angelic Beauty

by Lisa-Ann Carey

  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

  X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X0

  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 y
our 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.”

  Malachi reflecting on bed at The River Gallery

  Chapter Seven

  New to the Paris scene, stands L’Planetarium de Paris, on the elbow of the cul-de-sac, Raphaelo Avenue, where starry-eyed Parisian Eves, commonly known around the town as stormy petrels, tiringly walked hand in hand with their cute starry-eyed sons and daughters in endless circles till nightfall disgustingly transformed them into fading flowers…and Malachi was one of them.

  The thriving metro on Friday nights drew the odd questionable character from behind the closing curtain of its wild night-life.

  Malachi and young Jiminez witnessed first hand the destruction of innocence, opening with an unguilty verbal confrontation between a very elderly and rather refined French lady and a highly strung young Frenchman, with more hang ups than a clothes line, closing the uncomical act with him grabbing her stuffed fluffy purse and heading for the Arc de Triomphe screaming French obscenities, she hobbled after him, police finally swooping on him, the old lady catching up and beating him almost to a pulp with her umbrella, rightly accusing him of theft, the fluffy stuffed purse flying through the air with the greatest of ease powder puffin’ the robust policeman where it hurts.

  In between rounds at the planetary dome, Iranian bread baskets filled with assorted puff pastry treats filled them to overflowing and Aussie mango split drinks at the food fest made their mouths water for more.

  At the close of the day the cool evening breeze sent them on another feeding frenzy tucking into Italian meatballs and Pasta, Ravioli, pumping 16-inch thick lasagne and British porky pies till they turned into cot cases in the wee, wee hours of the morn, both complaining of aches and pains to the ignorant midnight manager – the chef in the moon and yelling through their open window, “LIFE’S NO BREEZE! IT’S ALL HOT AIR RISING!”

  French Welfare Services readily allowed Malachi to temporarily take Jiminez in until permanent arrangements were settled.

  “France is even-handed and open-handed,” boasted Malachi to Angea-Lea’s parents and his own over the telephone hours before he left with Jiminez to Switzerland. He decided to keep the idea of the journey to himself.

  * * * * * *

  Two wild goats perched loftily on steep rugged rocks, their oriental sword-like horns bolted together, follo
wing sneaky swift stabs at the losing opponent, separated by a fierce lightening bolt prior to an out of the blue thundery shower causing them to bolt from the blue as the Peurgeot Mountaineer climbed higher and higher up the Alps.

  Syphoning every ounce of energetic strength from the bolt of lightening that hit the knife-sharp edge of the mountain crest that split open the chest of the Ibex to reveal a small cross-shaped bone close to its heart (believed to hold miraculous powers), it cantered wildly over the alpine meadows and ascended the soaring peaks.

  Malachi swerved the vehicle in an effort to avoid hitting the fleeing loser, but fearing it was being hunted it spun on the spot and scurried back onto the road colliding head on with the mountaineer, the vehicle killing the beast instantly.

  The pair alighted the car and ran to its lifeless side. The mystical bone had popped from its slashed chest and lay in a bloody pool on the head of a glacier white puffball mushroom.

  Without a word from either one of them Malachi dragged the Ibex into the middle of a nearby forest and buried it at the base of a red fir.

  He dropped to his knees beside the mound of soil and cried heavily as words of apology spilled from his trembling lips.

  The chiming voice of an angel broke the minute of deathly silence that followed saying: