090221 - “Pre Extinction People” · Chapter 7

Chapter 7

When Pasqual woke, it took some minutes to orient that he was on another continent; the smell of black coffee mixed with the scent of petrichor from a gentle rain outside his window. His bag had remained packed; his body reeked of travel and anxiety. The temperature was oppressive; the location of the fan stand at the foot of his bed made sense once the blades began to purr. A shower and change of clothes enlivened his appetite and encouraged his curiosity about the sounds outside his door.

A powerfully petite woman greeted him amicably at the utility closet outside his door. “Chào buổi sáng” she chirped, meaning nothing at all to Pasqual, but possibly hello.

Guided by instinct and smell, he pinched his fingers together miming gulps while pointing in the direction of the strong aroma of fresh brewed coffee; the pretty woman returned to her work pointing down the covered hallway with a knowing smile.

He entered the compact dining room, taking a seat closest to the door he’d entered - two young couples were engaged in serious destination research and took no notice of the bedraggled caffeine junky jonesing for a fix.

No longer the enchanting local ingenue from the night before, Thần the homestay owner placed a piping hot glass of Ca Phe down with a menu and a distant smile in a warm kind of way before turning back to her staff and guests. Thần’s brother, Luong Ngon stuck his head through the door and handed a folded paper to Thần, disappearing as quickly as he’d appeared. Pasqual ordered eggs from the menu and waited; halfway through the finest cup of coffee Pasqual could remember, Thần returned with his eggs and handed the folded paper to Pasqual explaining it was a contact who might be able to help with both of his inquiries from the night before.

Impossibly, the breakfast was more invigorating than the coffee elixir, but when Pasqual stretched out on the bed when he returned to his room, he woke 8 hours later trembling from dreams he could feel as though still asleep. Sweating like a pig in the darkening room, and ravenously hungry, he ventured out the door in search of food. The kitchen was dark and dining room locked. He took out his keys and ventured into the streets of a foreign nation. Stopping at the first restaurant he found that had a sign he could decipher, “Cafe Banh Mi Diámetro,” Pasqual stepped inside and took a seat miming to the waitress for a menu by unfolding his hands. She returned a minute later with a menu; he chose “The Hoi An Buffalo Burger” with a boilermaker, though he had to explain the concoction, pointing to items on the menu.

Finishing his meal Mordecaise’ “Mephisto” began chiming on his phone. “Hello, Boss,” was as far as Pasqual got, and settled into stunned silence scribbling quickly, punctuated with periodic “Holy shit’s”. When it was his turn, he asked the phone, “Please number, from hot to cold; I just woke up and won’t be renting wheels, until i know whether to hire a translator and a car, or wing it on a Moped,” after the two out-of-place ‘suits’ had entered the bistro, Pasqual told Mordecaise, “I gotta go,” and kept texting. He’d already motioned the waitress over and held  his phone up so she could read the google translation: “Please bring my bill and include the tab for the gentlemen who just came in, please tell them dinner was on me.” Leaving three times his bill on the table in Dong, Pasqual rose from his seat and hailed a cab that was stopped at the light.

He gave the driver the address that Luong Ngon had given Thần that morning, then slouched low enough to observe if he’d been followed or the two suits just fit the profile of professional goons. 

The address on the note directed the cab out an artery East through rice fields toward what he thought was the beach; the taxi veered off just past a dog leg in the road leading into a small hamlet with older housing stock; the cab stopped in front of a weathered habitation deceptively tall with a traditional tile roof - a single lantern lit the covered porch. Getting out Pasqual paid the fare and turned around to ask the driver to wait, but he was already gone.

Pasqual’s knock on a massive, finely-crafted door opened to a birdlike man incongruous to the task - “Xinh Chao Anh Pasqual,” · closing the great door with but a breath. “I am Trâu Bet, Ong Luong said that you would be calling with questions regarding an ancestor of yours, and seeking information about a foreign resident of Hoi An who had died in Hue 6 months ago. I hope you are rested from your travels and find some comfort in the cool of the night. Our climate can be disorienting.” The gentle motions of the man seem to guide Pasqual into a large room laden with powerful “color field” paintings that defied description as landscape, skyscape, or seascape, or undulating visual anomalies. Trâu Bet waiting patiently while Pasqual disentangled himself from the labyrinth of color.

When he finally sat down, a glass of fragrant tea appeared at the low table next to his chair. Trâu continued to study his guest; Pasqual had never worked as an artist model, but found the gaze of this artist disconcerting. Eventually he remembered the purpose of his visit and glad that language was not a barrier as he tried to explain the reasons he was searching for information about someone presumed dead for over 60 years. Trâu Bet listened with the same intensity that he had looked at Pasqual. When Pasqual finished his story, Trâu Bet wrote in a small sketch pad, then handed Pasqual a note with a name and address explaining, “Ong Pasqual the way you have described your uncle and his relationship to your family, it is easy to understand your reasons for wanting closure, I will look into the matter. 

As it happens, I knew Reynaldo Schmuck, and may well have been the last person in Hoi An to speak with him. I had driven him to the bus station when he went on retreat to the Từ Hiếu Pagoda. Here is the name and address of a homestay in Hue which has close contacts within the Pagoda, if anyone can help you gain information about Reynaldo’s death it will be the people at the Purple Haze Homestay. I have called you a cab, for I can only imagine your fatigue. It was a pleasure to meet you, thank you for coming; I hope you will come again.”

There was nothing left to say, and Pasqual followed Trâu Bet back to the entryway where, again the massive door seemed to open by fingertip and breath to the waiting taxi.

A little over 24 hours in Vietnam and Pasqual felt comfortable with what he’d accomplished but unprepared for what he found in the dimly lit kitchen upon his return to the homestay - Thần was beside herself in a fit of pique; her stolid wise-eyed mother stood on while the enchanting hostess from the night before railed tearful imprecations. Pasqual was at a loss, feeling very much the intruder within a cauldron of profound emotion - in an act of solidarity; he stepped to the mother’s shoulder; as she glanced up from her deep contemplation, Pasqual thumped his chest with a closed fist over his heart standing as close as he could for as long as possible; before retreating; he paused at the seat of Thần’s beatific face and looked as deeply as he dared into the unmasked pain of her expression; all he could conjure was a slow shallow bow, Thai Style, hopefully honoring the depth of her sacred emotion; he left quietly to a nearly sleepless night alone in a foreign land. 

The Pretenders “Working on a Chain Gang” chimed at 6:30 that next morning, “Bonjour mon ami,” Leslei was full of bon vivant, “What?” without the slightest curiosity is the best the groggy Pasqual could muster, muttering to his co-operative “Thanks for reaching out, it’d be better to talk later - are you safe, are you okay?” .  ..  ···

(˚ ㄥ _˚) 

jts 09/02/2021

http://ExtinctionChronicles.blogspot.com 

http://JosephTStevens.blogspot.com 

http://stoanartst.blogspot.com

prohibited from AI sampling in any form

reprinted with permission; all rights reserved

∞

030221 - “Pre Extinction People” · Chapter 6

Chapter 6

It was late Thursday; Guildern grinned to himself anticipating Angela’s return, so he was not prepared when 3 members of the Cuban Rasta band “Venceramos Brigade” reappeared spilling through the doorway climbing on stage and looking around for an audience. “Jefe, ese - que pasa, ¿donde estan las ovejas?” Jaime Quixote hollered to Guildern, though Jaime was not the front man, he coordinated schedules and logistics, so Guildern was not backward in his reply.

“Da’ fuck are you doing? ¿Donde has estado ESE?” Guildern asked, climbing up onto the dais and into Jaime’s face - being an efficient manager and unassuming personality; Guildern’s taut workingman’s physique was not what Jaime expected to be dealing with when he entered the bistro and he backpedaled quickly to a stool looking up from under downcast eyes. 

“Si, maestro. Discúlpeme Señor - la cárcel de Buenos Aires: el Che golpeó a un policía el miércoles por la noche por una multa de estacionamiento, Solo nos liberaron porque se inspector se entero de que éramos headliners en el Crocodile Café de Montevideo. Tu eres famoso, solo lo liberarán cuando confirmes y compones 2 noches por cuatro personas - Por cierto, debe saber que el Che estaba tan agradecido que le dio un gran beso húmedo en los labios del inspector.” 

(Yes master - in jail in Buenos Aires - Che slugged a cop Wednesday night over a parking ticket. They only released us because the inspector learned that we were headlining the Crocodile Cafe in Montevideo. You are famous - they will only release him when you confirm and comp 2 nights for four people. BTW you should know Che was so grateful that he planted a big wet kiss on the inspector’s lips.)

Pasqual had been gone since Saturday; Angela since Sunday; and Mordecaise since Monday - Guildern had never felt so lonely laughing so hard. 

+-+-+

Mordecaise was landing in Mexico City when Pasqual landed in Da Nang: Mexico was the last entry on Domhall’s passport and Buena Vista Oaxaca C/O Carina Abeja was his last known address. It did not explain how Domhall Schmuck’s corpse arrived in Montevideo, Uruguay minus documentation or how Carina Abeja came to be executor of the estate. Gonzo Veneno was at the departure gate for Oaxaca when Mordecaise finished with customs. “Don Liszt, it is good to see you again - ¿cinco anos, no?” Mordecaise nodded, glancing toward the departures screen.

“At least; far too long. Thank you for meeting me and arranging my flight to Oaxaca. What have you discovered about this mysterious Sra. Abeja?” The visibly fatigued man folded his lanky frame into one of the too small seats of every airport lounge in the world, guiding his friend Gonzo by an elbow to an adjacent seat.

“Mysterious: but practical and consistent; she has been widowed 3 times in 12 years; each time to a wealthy older foreigner in poor health without a hint of scandal: each spouse died of natural causes, and no heirs claiming. Domhall was the only intestate decedent.” Mordecaise showed no surprise, listening impassively. “When Domhall disappeared she immediately notified the authorities and was, by all accounts, distraught. I’ve made no effort to contact her at her artist commune in the hills outside of Oaxaca.” Gonzo finished his report waiting while his friend digested this information.

Eventually Mordecaise took out his notepad, making notes and thumbing through pages placing marks at previous references. He looked up at Gonzo with some surprise at the presence of an old friend. “Gonzo, that is excellent work. What is your sense about how Domhall Schmuck ended up dead in another country with no record of travel? Does Ms Abeja figure in the mystery according to any  local authority you’ve spoken with?” Gonzo did not answer immediately, though his expression made clear that he’d thought much about the puzzle. Mordecaise asked, “Have you had any communication with Lammele Dama? the executor of the parent’s estate” leaving out that he had.

“There is a sealed codicil is all I’ve learned; Sr. Dama has not responded to numerous inquiries,” again waiting for his friend’s reply which never came; instead Mordecaise rose when boarding for Oaxaca was announced, embraced Gonzo and kissed his patient friend on both cheeks never looking back as he trudged toward an antsy boarding crowd, taking no notice of the 3 ‘suits’ in line watching him trudge from over their shoulders while Gonzo snapped telephone photos that only Mordecaise would see.

+-+-+

13:30 Pasqual pulled up in a cab to “Duyên Dáng Homestay on Cua Dai in Hoi An, about the time Sysa Phish was hissing “stupid cunt” imprecations to an indifferent Angela late on what would be her last Thursday night shift at the Excelsior in Punta del Este. The rancor of her manager had become scar tissue rather than foundations for professional development; Angela knew the job was over; any perturbation was not worth the compensation: Angela calculated her exit thankful for Guildern’s open invitation for a home at the “Croc;” With more than her typical attention to detail, she eyed the Digital-something CEO and his consort homesteading table 2 for the past 3 1/2 hours, on their 4th magnum of Dom Perignon, with no more than hors d'oeuvres on their tab to show for it . ..

.. . “Mijchaa” he slurred onto her hip when she passed their table, “deze oystures, son muyie mahlo - nongonna payie fur dem. Poot da’ bille on hour rooom; n’ send dos mas botillias champagnee y’ bettur oystures, tooo room 666. Mebee estupido tu gunna ghet a beeg bonus fur beaan soo damm ‘Purty.

Angela smiled inwardly, “I’ll be happy to arrange that for you; if you want to go now, it will be there when you get to your room. Please sign this for your receipt, handing them a blank sheet. Thank you very much for your patience with our poor service.” She waited until they had stumbled toward the lobby, nodding luxuriantly in their direction. After she’d cleared out her locker, and filled in their order on the blank sheet, she stopped to confer with Sysa Phish; “the guests at table 2 are waiting for 3 liters of ‘Gusano Rojo Mezcal’ and a kilo of Escargot to be sent to their room; I’ve added it to their bill.” Angela handed the authorized order to Sra. Phis, saying sweetly, “Thank you again, Sysa for giving me Friday night off - it means the world to me.”

+-+-+

Pasqual had not had a drink since Angela stabbed him in the liver 7 years earlier, nor did he understand exactly why he’d ordered a bourbon neat when the flight attendant was providing refreshments somewhere over the Pacific on his flight to Viet Nam. But when he had arrived in Hoi An after a 36 hour journey with two 6 hour layovers and the glass of warm scented water when he arrived, the beer and glass of ice cubes, the kindly proprietress offered him seemed heaven sent. The innkeeper was a chipper lass full of winning ways and an inscrutable grin beneath her twinkling almond eyes framed perfectly by her heart shaped face. Pasqual was seated at a low bamboo table with a taciturn, but not unpleasant man that turned out to be her elder brother and a leading figure in the community. Bowls of noodles and spring rolls appeared at the low table and Pasqual’s glass was never empty for the next 4 hours while she pumped him enthusiastically about his life abroad and his reasons for being in Hoi An.

As a latino raised in Brownsville Texas, Pasqual was accustomed to being interrogated, but never so kindly; he felt no threat from the proprietress, Nữ Thần Ngon’s questions, rather flattered by the attention of an attractive Vietnamese woman. The brother’s prior silent attention was piqued when Pasqual mentioned Hue; he then queried Pasqual further after it was understood that Pasqual’s journey included archival research concerning two decedents - Pasqual’s uncle, “Missing in Action” since the Tet Offensive of 1968, as well as information about the death of an expat, Reynaldo Schmuck who expired near the Từ Hiếu Pagoda in Hue, a little over 6 months earlier, though the death certificate was issued in Da Nang, he’d been a resident of Hoi An. An hour later feeling more like an alien transported into another realm than a seasoned operative on a mission in a foreign land. He regrettably excused himself and sought the sanctuary of his nearby room, being asleep within minutes of his head falling onto a crisp cotton pillowcase.

+-+-+

Mordecaise rose from his 1st class seat the moment the aircraft door opened and the passengers began the slow shuffle to exit. He did not check any luggage and had passed through the exits of the terminal in search of a Taxi, when two refrigerator sized hombres materialized on each side of him flashing official badges with a bearing that Mordecaise recognized as authentic functionary. The long executive model police vehicle at the curb waiting with open doors confirmed his guess. He entered the vehicle minus his two escorts who closed the door behind him. He found himself facing a portly fellow who spoke English with a slight German accent, Sr. Liszt, so good to finally meet you. We’ve been waiting anxiously for your arrival with questions regarding the disappearance of one Domhall Schmuck. Please accept our hospitality during this investigation pertaining to our National Security.” The rotund face contained pinkish hued jowls and pursed lips giving him the appearance of a hamster chewing when he spoke. When the man finished, he sat back in the ancient leather seat looking for all  the world like a senior citizen resigned to waiting for a bus. 

“Am I in custody?” Mordecaise asked gazing tiredly in the direction of his captor. 

“Si señor, but we prefer to think of it as a professional courtesy,” the fat man responded gazing out the car’s darkened windows.

“If I’m in custody, what is the charge¿ may I ask?”

“Manipulation of the Sovereign Currency of Mexico.” The portly man said simply without a trace of guile, watching Mordecaise’ face intently while he said it.

“Am I allowed a phone call” replied Mordecaise, raising his empty palm, more as command than polite request.

“Cierto.” Mordecaise’ phone materialized on his open palm; rather than return the phone, he placed it in his jacket pocket, where it stayed for the time being.

+-+-+

Guildern was ecstatic when he learned of Angela’s decision to remain permanently in Montevideo. His joy seemed to resonate from the stone walls that Thursday when she surprised him with her early entrance. “Che and the Venceremos Brigade” had won the toss and played the first of alternating weekends that Guildern had mandated the night before, after the two bands tried to settle their conflict using egos and butter knives. Guildern brandished his machete from behind the counter which ended all discussion.

“Querida,” Angela peered into Guildern’s darkened eyes when the “Brigade’s” tempo had slowed and the two had taken to what dance floor a repurposed room like the Croc could provide. The band could have been playing “La Cucaracha” for all the two of them cared; Guildern tenderly danced the “her” of his world around the dance floor. Ever the perceptive professional, the front man Che Quimera conjured Bob Marley’s “No Woman, No Cry” from the band when Angela’s luminous eyes moistened during the slow rhythmic dance. Alas the universe wasn’t buying sentiment that night, and just for emphasis, Guildern’s phone began chiming Liszt’s “Mephisto” - Guildern had no choice but to break the spell and connect with the traveling Mordecaise.

+-+-+

“Amigo, this had better be good,” he answered in a not unfriendly way.

“I’m in jail in Oaxaca, Carina Abeja is not picking up: It’s a bogus charge of mistaken identity based on a doctored photo from from an airport rent-a-cop with too much responsibility and a passion for detective magazines.”

Guildern didn’t know what to say. “You’re kidding, right?” He was used to peculiar events following his friend like hungry puppies, but this was new. “Have you told the authorities that you had been a judge for the Miss Universe Contest?”

“What’re you a fucking comedian! I’m in jail, without sleep, 10s of 1,000s of kilometers from home, and you want to crack wise? Da’ fuck is the matter with you?” His friend’s complete lack of humor should have alerted Guildern who was just realizing he’d better calm his friend down before someone got hurt.

“I know an Abogada in Oaxaca, Sra Luz de Ley - she will be there within the hour, will you be okay that long?” Guildern knew his friend would be okay when he replied in rapier fashion .  ..

“Unless a rabid chupacabra gets me first,” Mordecaise had hung up while Guildern chuckled to himself.

  

 (˚ ㄥ _˚) 

 

jts 03/02/2021

http://ExtinctionChronicles.blogspot.com 

http://JosephTStevens.blogspot.com 

http://stoanartst.blogspot.com

prohibited from AI sampling in any form

reprinted with permission; all rights reserved

∞

290121 - “Pre Extinction People” · Chapter 5

Leslei was landing in Paris waiting for her flight to Marseilles when Pasqual boarded his flight for Viet Nam. She was curiously refreshed though she’d had 3 glasses of wine and had been flying against the Earth’s rotation; not so giddy to ignore the 3 conspicuous “suits” making every effort to not know each other. Filed away under: questions for Mordecaise. Until their international channel could be synced, it was unlikely she would be receiving much information from Pasqual, nor was it a good idea until the “muddy water” cleared. There was little left but to savor the gentle rhythm of the french language, and to acclimate back into the oenophile culture she remembered so fondly from her days as an art student, and so conjured a Merlot for company while she waited to board.

Her acute vision was an invaluable asset for her work as an operative in the nebulous and increasingly lucrative field of estate recovery; from her perch at the airport bar, she was able to easily discern the 3 suits picking through the news stand glancing to where she was seated rather than the boarding gate. She’d forgotten the fun of field work - the cat and mouse exchange of who’s doing who, and the role of the unexpected. He wore well traveled draw string muslim pants, an overloud Hawaiian print shirt, sandals and dark glasses inside the terminal - reading a book rather than scrolling a handset and took no notice of his surroundings. Leslei was not comfortable when it became clear it was she whom he eventually took notice; even behind dark glasses she felt his scrutiny.

If not her hackles, certainly the fur on her forearm rose when he sat down in the aisle seat to her window seat. Nor was his obvious, nearly rude attention discouraged by her pointedly aloof replies, all that had happened since the appearance of “Mr. Shades” was losing track of the 3 suits. Finally her hackles did rise as she exited her cab heading for the lobby at the airport hotel after their flight when he fell in step, oblivious to her unwelcome, he seemed cheerful and courteous to the clerk inquiring about the food at the hotel restaurant; turning to Leslie he asked “would you care to join me for a bite to eat?”

In a voice that could curdle butter, Leslie smiled and replied, “I’d rather have a boil lanced.” 

Alone in her room with the travel and turmoil of the past 20 hours catching up, she puzzled over the strong antagonism she felt toward the stranger in the dark glasses. She knew nothing about him except his forthright visual curiosity, and after a very few minutes of increasing emotional confusion, she lay back into the pillows and was in a deep sleep when the lights shut themselves off, not waking until the automatic drapes began to open with the morning sun. By the time she’d showered and was waiting for the shuttle to the car rental, she’d nearly forgotten her peculiar experience from the night before.

+-+-+-

Pasqual did not remember the mind numbing boredom of airport terminals, but after 6 hours into his 10 hour layover in Seoul South Korea, it was no longer a memory, the boredom was driving ceaseless steps back and forth across the length of the international airport. It seemed an eternity to him that he would not be in Da Nang, until 10:00 the following day, with no idea how long from there to Hoi An - the last permanent address for Reynaldo Schmuck though he died at the Từ Hiếu pagoda in Hue.

Pasqual’s tote began to chatter from his phone’s vibration, surprising him that it wasn’t off. “Hello,” he answered not looking at the number.

“Buenos Dias young traveler.” Mordecaise had a unique phone voice like that of a trusted news announcer. “We had no time before your flight; we need to get on the same page” Pasqual had retrieved his sketch pad where he had started notes for the journey, Mordecaise continued his soliloquy “Interesting information has come to light about the Schmuck Estate, Information from the probate files of the Executor of the parent’s estate, Lammele Dama; it became public at the death of Domhall Schmuck, the eldest and apparently last of the line, are you getting all this?” 

Mordecaise had worked long enough with Pasqual to leap right in when necessary, and enjoy the niceties of social convention when possible. “I want you to take precautions during this trip, hyper-vigilance if you will; not just with the case data, but the unknowns of your journey. How are you, where are you, what do you need from me?” Pasqual appreciated his employer’s concern, more so when it was least expected.

“M’good - Seoul, here for four more hours. Da Nang by 10 tomorrow; can’t say about Hoi An or Hue” checking his list, before answering further - “a contact within the civil-authority, politburo, and National Bank would help if shit goes south · more simple the better, like you taught me. What about the Renoir, are you tracking with DHL?” 

“The painting is traveling slowly and surely; I have calls in for contacts in VN, waiting on replies. There is an open traveler’s insurance account with ‘Sojourner Fidelity’ under your name, and the Embassy in Hanoi has your estimated itinerary filed; contact the undersecretary Phuc Yeu for anything: we’d gone to school together at Berkeley, just make no cracks about her name - it won’t play well. I am serious about the Hyper-Vigilance, the delicacy of this file has increased by an order of magnitude is all I can say until we are on a more secure channel, got a call, gotta go.”

Pasqual stood staring past his phone into the cavernous terminal with 3 hours and 50 minutes left before take off. Leslei’s txt msg only read “Watch your back,” alone again, searching for any face searching for him.

+-+-+- 

The “Croc” was always too empty for Guildern after Angela left for Punta del Este; he was relieved when Mordecaise sat down. “Have you spoken with Pasqual about what you shared with me? Will ya’ have some asado with your wine?” Guildern asked scrutinizing what he could about his friend’s bearded expression.

“Yes, and thank you; that would be good. No, he hasn't got the full story. He needs to get his ‘sea legs,’ travel is a job in itself.”

Guildern returned from placing the order and brought a 3/4 pitcher of Tinto Rojo from the cask of good stuff. Pouring liberally into Mordecaise never-quite-empty goblet, Guildern tried to be helpful. “He will be in greater danger the longer he doesn’t understand it’s: billions not millions you’re playing with.” A flash of fury lit Mordecaise eyes if one knew what to look for, then it was gone. “Even as a trained accountant, I cannot conceive the amounts represented by the strange codicil of the Schmuck estate; now that it’s public record, there'll be blood in the water.” Mordecaise nodded with a “d’ya think?” expression.

“Alerting the lad before we know more would only blunt his native instincts, and possibly telegraph unnecessarily our knowledge; right now it’s routine, let it stay that way for as long as possible.”

+-+-+-

When Leslei arrived in Aix, she drove straight to Demsford’s cottage near Bibemus Quarry. She learned from the landlady that the stone enclosure had been converted from a stable by she and her husband just before he died a year before Demsford took out a twenty year lease. Her ruddy face betrayed a faraway place as she recounted the kindness of a stranger. Leslei also learned that Demsford had not actually died in Aix-en-Provence, but at the Plum Village monastery of the late Thich Nhat Hanh. Demsford’s body had been shipped to Aix by the executor of his estate, Lammele Dama as a courtesy to the Buddhist community. His body was eventually cremated and scattered over Mont Sainte-Victoire. 

On a whim Leslei inquired whether the cottage was available; the landlady chirped happily, “Oui”! pulling Leslei along a shaded path to a massive stone archway, large enough to contain french doors and a diamond shaped stained glass faithfully replicating one of Paul Cezanne’s paintings of the Bibemus Quarry.

Leslei had just put away her purse having counted out 3 month’s rent, when a Sherwood Green Aston Martin ground to a halt splaying gravel and spitting out an ascot-throated cartoon character, monocle and all. “I say, I’m here for the advertised ‘Rustic Cottage’,” pulling his Gucci suitcase from the trunk, placing it into the confused arms of Madame Ouvrière who spoke no word of English.

“Sir,” Leslei advised gently, “that property is no longer available;” holding the keys up to his furrowed gaze for inspection.

“I beg to differ, young Miss,” no longer looking at Leslei, but speaking directly to Madame Ouvière having no idea still that she understood nothing of English. “You see, I just concluded a call with my solicitor in London to secure this property for a month commencing today,” addressing the mystified Madame Ouvière, who was shaking her head while clutching his suitcase to her chest as though it was a towel and she’d just been interrupted coming out of the shower. His aristocratic aplomb was beginning to flake and his privilege was turning to bluster. Facing Leslei while extending a belligerent upturned wrist, pinky pointing into her face as though he’d expected the house keys to materialize in his palm.

“Yes of course, I see how you might imagine that to be true, but if you don’t get your hand out of my face, you’ll be retrieving a bloody stump · is that clear enough?” She said this quietly with venomous menace; the flustered gentry pulled his pinkish paw close for inspection, maybe looking for a wound, but certainly feeling the pain of humiliation. “Perhaps if you contact your solicitor, he or she might be able to find you another accommodation¿ Had you been a tad less pretentious, you could have enlisted Ms Ouvière’s help for local knowledge.” Leslei said this glancing at the stranger’s suitcase toppled in the grass where Madame had dropped it as though it was plague infested when the stranger stuck his hand in Leslei’s face.

“That is your reply?” Having recovered his dignity, poise following like a spoiled child. “Clearly you have no idea who I am, or the enemy you have just made. I am The Earl of Rye, 3rd Duke of Avignon; Monsieur Archdai Tryump at your service. You will be hearing from my solicitor.” Pulling up his suitcase like a boss, tossing it into his vintage vehicle with complete disdain for quality, value or propriety, he gunned his engine and was happily gone like a hangnail.

She heard “The Pretenders” chain gang playing on her phone and knew that Pasqual had left a text message.

    "thru customs da nang - china reported 314 cases covid at vietnamese border · wish me luck"

     

jts 29/01/2021

http://stoanartst.blogspot.com 

all rights reserved