Mid Sunday afternoon, a certain Most
Noble Adriana Testaferrata-Abela, routine in nature, took her weekly stroll
through the Upper Barracca Gardens. Though portly, her firm figure was tightly
encased in her heavy, period-piece dress. Her healthy bosom and stately air
exuded the importance of centuries. She
strode along the outer walk toward the corner of the gardens. The gravel crunched
beneath her shoes with the steady rhythm of her march.
The Grand Harbor to her right lay in
the bright sunlight, placid and calm. Echoes of dockworkers at the Pinto Wharf
bounced upward from the rocks. The bells of St. Angelos across the way announced
the afternoon prayer. The coralline limestone of Malta rose regally out of the
Mediterranean representing the timelessness of her imperial presence.
At the corner, standing at the rail,
her cousin Eugenia Testaferrata waited. Theirs had been a routine to meet on
this esplanade established since they were children in the Second War when the
telephones were down. From their vantage overlooking the harbor and city they
shared news of the happenings in Valletta. Descended from centuries of regal
countesses, they certainly had the news.
"Eugenia, dear," Adriana
greeted her cousin with a lightly brushed kiss on her cheek and a squeeze at
the shoulders. "I'm most really upset over the vandalism of the Mnajdra
Megalithic Temple. How awful."
"I hope you didn't march with
that crowd," Eugenia responded preparing for indignation.
"Heaven's no. I wouldn't get
lost in that horde."
"I was horribly shocked to read
how our dignitaries undignified themselves by participating. Can you imagine
Michael Refalo or Francis Zammit Dimech in that crowd?"
"Gracious no. That old Dimech
is always minging populist causes left and right."
"He's a queer one, to be
sure."
"How is it promoting culture
that Culture Minister Louis Galea would walk with such riffraff?"
"I'll never understand
democracy and this commingling with the rabble."
"Excuse me," an unfamiliar
voice chirped in. "Did I just hear you mention Culture Minister Louis
Galea?"
"Yes?" the two ladies
turned sedately to inspect their visitor.
"Oh,
it's you, Angiolina Azzopardi. Come join our conversation." Andrea
Testaferrata-Abela invited. "Did I
see you at the Valletta Festival Bandu on Monday?"
Angiolina
was a younger woman in modern dress. Although upper class, she was known to be
quick-witted and spunky, not the sort to be always trusted. She was not a
populist and flitted among the parties and events held by the upper classes.
However, one could not be too sure of her. A rumor had her at The Pub, toasting
frothy-headed beers with Oliver Reed during the filming of The Gladiator. That
was certainly not the behavior expected of the Social Elite.
"Why
yes."
"Your
costume was lovely. Where did you have it made?" The cousins looked
wickedly at each other at the implied insult.
"Why
I believe the tailor Jean DuPard made it for my Great Grandmother the Countess
di Mont Alto in 1889." By that, Angiolina established her heredity and
authenticity.
The
cousins shared impressed looks.
"I didn't mean to interrupt
your conversation, but when I heard Louis Galea's name mentioned I just had to
interject."
"Yes, we were observing how
common it was of him to be marching with that protest crowd over the
vandalism."
"Louis Galea is such a
boor."
"Why how do you mean,
Angiolina?"
"I mean he flirts and cajoles
like the greatest Don Juan, but in the bedroom he's out of wind."
The cousins shared shocked looks,
inhaling to their majestic heights. Then a sparkle entered Adriana's eyes.
Throwing caution into the Great Harbor, she turned to Angiolina.
"Then, I'm lucky to have gotten
to him before you, Angiolina. I found him quite studly. But of course, this was
in the 70's before he married that awful witch, Marie Moroni Viani."
Eugenia let out a laugh that shocked
them both.
"I suppose I had him
mid-stream. I believe it was '94. They say I inspired his divorce!"
The women giggled together in their
newfound commonality.
"Eugenia, I'm surprised at
you," the cousin newly enlightened.
"Adriana, you know I'm always
following behind you and your prodigious family."
"And how did you find him,
Eugenia?" Angiolina asked.
"I think it's safe to say that
our Cultural Minister wilts with age!"
The ladies snickered and snorted,
and then looked about quickly to make sure no one had overheard. Eugenia had
the habit of speaking quite loudly when she was excited and her last was an
outburst that might be heard in the quays.
"Now, Stefan Ash, there's a man
who does not wilt;" Angiolina was emboldened to confess, "and a lion
in bed, quite manly and bold; fond of displaying his prowess and dominance. He
loves like a storm that sinks ships."
"Stefan Ash?" asked
Eugenia. "How do you come to know Stefan?"
"He's quite The Scene. He's
everywhere anyone wants to be."
"That doesn't sound like the
Stefan Ash I know. Though it's true he's as erect as the Bell Tower."
"How do you know Stefan, cousin
dear?" Adriana posed with a quizzical look.
"A regular Casanova that one
is. However, I find him most tender and dear. Stefan is the gentle lover I had
always missed in any other. He visits my boudoir every Tuesday night."
"And mine on Thursdays,"
Angiolina added with gathered courage.
"Aha! It is clear the kind of
man Stefan is!" Eugenia commented. "On Mondays he is the Knight
Templar, chivalrous and gallant."
"He satisfies each of us!"
"And each in our own way."
"Nor once have I ever seen his
flag furl, not even during the longest sessions."
"Nor I."
"I have, but only once,"
Adriana surprised the other two. "He says it's because of his sash. Shall
I tell you the story how he got his sash?"
"You mean that crinkled thing
he's always wearing about his waist? That is a most awful habit."
"You know about his sash,
Adriana?" Eugenia asked. "For all the trysts we've had, he won't
remove it once."
"He is peculiar that way with
me too, Eugenia," Angiolina recalled. "He never once removed it, nor
would it ever slip off, even in the most active moments."
"Yes, tell us," the two
chimed together.
"It was several years
ago," the Most Noble Adriana Testaferrata-Abela began, "when I first
invited Stefan into my bedroom. At first, he was shy about removing his
clothing. I coaxed him with my own quick defoliation. This did indeed work on
his fancy. In seconds, his shirt was off. I noticed some embarrassment as his
hands worked on his pantaloons. When he
saw me watching, he turned away to work in private.
"He cursed aloud. 'Damn
Buttons,' he said as he struggled and writhed.
"'Let me help,' I offered and
pulled him by the belt loop to the bed. As he turned, I noticed his magnificent
stuffing and knew the cause of his plight. His sagacious mast had uprighted.
The taut cloth of his pantaloons left no slack to slip off the buttons.
"'I'll handle this,' I offered
and stroked that stiff saber. To my surprise, I was sharpening that blade and
the cloth stretched even further. I would not let myself be outdone. I
continued faster and warmer, now with both hands. I heard the threads ripping
and thought that soon he'd find release if I added my hot breath as I ironed.
"Now what do you know, those
buttons released altogether and flew about the floor. The pantaloons slid away
and out popped that obstinate obelisk.
"'Aieee!' I screamed. 'I've
ruined your pants!' I protested loudly, but could not take my eyes of that
specimen which I continued to fondle with increased desire.
"'I have another pair,' he calmed me and
began his engagement.
"But my shout had been heard
throughout the house and soon there came a knocking. Both of us jumped and
scurried about. He gathered his clothes and hid behind the curtains while I
robed and went to the door.
"My husband came in, asking
what the screaming was about. I said it was nothing, I'd woken from a dream,
and told him to go back to bed. Once secure, Stefan stepped from behind the
drapes. Alas, the spirit had broken. His wilted wand was no longer keen. Try as
we might, it would not regain that masterly form. We set another appointment as
he dressed. Where his buttons had once secured, a big hole loomed and he could
not escape through Valletta without notice.
"'A sash,' I cried, 'will do
the trick,' and ran to the curtains, pulling away the ribbon that held them
open. As I wrapped and tied it about his waist, and shaped and smoothed the
pleats to cover him, I noticed renewed life within.
"I'm never one to pass up an
opportunity such as that and quickly undressed him. He would not allow me to
undo the sash, which he kept wrapped round his waist. We went about it until
daylight; never before had I been so sweetly exhausted.
"'I'm not one for
superstition,' he said, 'but, I've never been so stoutly proud. In memory of
this night, I'll never remove this sash that has come to my aid."
Adriana finished to the gleeful gaze
of her companions showing gratitude. She noticed a look of puzzlement on
Angiolina's face.
"What is it dear?"
"I'm just curious. Who do you
suppose Stefan is seeing on Wednesdays?"
