Maltese Ribaldry

            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?"