This Is Your Carstairs SpeakingChapter 9 Open Sushime
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“Okay, so maybe it’s me. I’m on TV, sometimes. I did a movie. Someone made a painting and thought of me. Or they saw an ad or something. This happens to Emma all the time.”
Melody shook her head.
“Except in her case they Photoshop her face onto pornography. That’s her actual face, not a portrait. This is one, and it’s fairly well done. The painter wasn’t very experienced, but certainly talented. I’d say he used a live model, not just one reference picture.”
When Melody says these things, that carries weight. But in this case I took it as evidence against this bizarre story. If I didn’t know any better I’d say I had been set up for a practical joke, but she had me pick the museum earlier today and besides, it’s not something Mel would do. Too weird. Too convoluted. Kate? In a heartbeat, although it wouldn’t have anything to do with a painting. But not Melody.
“Well then there you have it. Can’t have been me. Look, a lot of men look like me! If you describe a younger Bruce Willis or Patrick Stewart or uhmmm ... Jason Statham to a police sketch artist, the result is going to look like me as well! You know, a forty-something white male with advanced male pattern baldness.”
“But ees you,” said the guard.
“No it isn’t! I didn’t look like that fifty years ago. I wasn’t even born yet! Look, how ordinary can a face get? No scars, no facial hair, blue eyes, perfectly normal nose ... I just don’t see it. And besides, she says this painting is fifty years old!”
“At least,” said the lady, who was shamelessly listening in.
“Good. That settles it.”
“Can we have the painting? Buy it, I mean?” asked Melody.
“No, sorry. Eet ees still museum eh ... property. But you can taik picture! Allora, we would laik a picture, too. Ees okay?”
I sighed and had a photo session with a mediocre painting. Both Melody and the curator made me hold it up and took out their phones. Some visitors stopped to watch us and asked the guard who I was supposed to be. That’s a nice thing to hear, by the way, ‘supposed to be’. But the guard just shrugged.
“Televisione Inglese,” he said, which made the tourists look disappointed. That didn’t stop them from trying to taking a picture, but if you’re THAT disinterested I don’t want anything to do with you so I told them to fuck off. The guard apologised on my behalf and shepherded them away.
“Ees vaffanculo,” he said, grinning.
“What is?”
“Fuck off. In Italian. Ees ‘Eh! Vaffanculo!’”
“Don’t encourage him,” said Mel, taking my wrist as if I were a naughty toddler. The curator started to hang the original painting and I learned a neat trick: they put marbles between the back of the painting and the wall! Unless there’s an earthquake the marbles just sit there undisturbed, held up by the weight of the painting, which will always hang slightly forward. But if you try to take the painting off the wall, the marbles will fall to the floor and make an almighty racket. That hopefully stops the odd chancer who tries to walk out with a souvenir in broad daylight, which happens more than you’d think. Mel told me this was a classic low-budget security system and helped the curator out, handling the painting with calm confidence. I enjoyed watching my wife in her natural element.
“Okay, grazie. You have my number, let me know if I can buy it. Arrivederci!”
“Ciao, signora. Ciao, profeta.”
I thought that was it, but now Mel stopped and jerked me back.
“What? What was that?”
“Profeta. Prophet. Ees on the back. See?”
And indeed, in barely legible pencil strokes someone had written ‘profeta’ on the frame. That could have been anyone. But then, the painter could have been anyone, too. Mel snapped a picture of the back of the painting and then we were finally on our way.
“I’m hungry,” I announced, as we made our way to the exit. We still had at least eighty percent of the museum to go, so that would have to wait until tomorrow, at the earliest.
“It’s not even three o’clock.”
“I didn’t have lunch!”
Mel often skips lunch when she has art on her mind. Me, I like a painting as much as the next man, but I like sandwiches too.
We went back the way we came, or we’d have to do the full circuit. That meant we’d never even pass the restaurant. Some museums have pretty decent restaurants nowadays. They’ve discovered it as a great revenue stream, rather than a necessary evil. Some are so good you need a reservation. If you’re ever in the Musée d’Orsay in Paris, have a pistachio millefeuille. It’s probably not made on the premises but it’s lifechangingly delicious. Ought to be, at nine euros. Anyway, I had high hopes for the restaurant in the Galleria Nazionale.
“Can we wait until after we’re back at the hotel? There’s a bakery across the street. I’d rather you didn’t have a full lunch, Martin. That will make you sleepy and I was kinda hoping we could...”
“Could what?”
I knew what she meant. I just get off on women asking me for sex. That just never gets old after half a lifetime of being expected to initiate it. Mel and Kate both know this, so they’re not shy. As soon as we had descended the stairs outside, she pulled me close and whispered:
“We could have sex ... Because, you know ... When in Rome...”
How can you not kiss a woman who looks at you like that when she asks to be fucked? There’s an expression in Dutch that doesn’t translate very well but amounts to ‘eyes that ask for semen’. That woman has eyes that are asking for semen, you might say to a friend. Zaadvragende ogen, in case you’re wondering. It’s a bit of a misnomer, because if women want to convey that emotion they mostly do it by forming their mouths into an ‘o’-shape and licking their lips. Mel did that, too. Combined with her fluttering eyes it was enough to make me kiss her right there, in public. I was so keen that it made her laugh.
“Sorry,” she giggled. “I didn’t think you’d actually kiss me here. Want to find a tree to hide behind?”
I was a bit embarrassed, because who likes to see the woman they’re about to kiss burst out laughing, but Mel hugged me and took my hand, rather than my wrist.
“Come on. Save it for the hotel. You can have a snack with your tea and then you can work up a real appetite for tonight.”
“Sold!”
Mel and I always have fun together. She’s a cheerful person, which balances out my more sombre disposition. Not many people know this, I guess, but I can be a bit cynical, sarcastic even. No, seriously! I come across as a happy go lucky sorta guy, but that’s just the outside. But when I’m with Mel, I just want her to be happy and if at all possible to make her smile. Freud may have something to say about that, about a subconscious need for approval or something, but the alternative is that I don’t make her smile and who wants that? Besides, I’m more of a Jungian: Mel is my opposite in many ways, though I prefer to think of her as the one puzzle piece that fits exactly. This is assuming the existence of some sort of weird, horizontal puzzle that’s only one piece high, where I’m the end piece. Or maybe Kate is the piece that connects on the other side? Look, if you are going to get all hung up on similes, like a ... I dunno, some sort of thing in a ... in another thing, then stop reading smut and get a proper book.
Anyway, Mel and I got lost. It’s a big park, I was teasing her about her newfound obsession with the painting and we got distracted by a picture of Edwin in an outfit we hadn’t provided but that Mel identified as something from Petit Bateau (which is a brand that caters to the sort of parents who buy white Land Rovers), which meant he’d been out shopping with Caroline. He looked very happy regardless and we were also informed of his bowel movements, which is of great interest to young parents. Seriously, you have no idea. Mel once messaged me a picture of a brown pea in a diaper, taken just after Edwin had moved on to solid food. I had never zoomed in on a picture of a miniature turd before. In fact, I hadn’t looked at pictures of faecal matter in my life. Funny, how parenthood changes you.
“Uhm ... This is not where we came in,” said Mel, as we reached the edge of the park. I took out my phone and tried to find us on Google Maps, but the circle covered half the park.
“I think we’re fairly close to where we want to be. Hey, there’s a sandwich shop across the street, do you mind if...”
“Martin, don’t load up on carbs now. We have plans!” Melody pleaded.
I don’t want to be the overweight guy always thinking about food, even though I am and I do. And so I let it go.
“You’re right. Let me look at my map ... Bloody hell, my phone is on GPRS speed now.”
“Mine too,” said Mel. “But we just passed a thing. The Goethe thing.”
“Oh yes, the well known Goethe thing,” I said, mockingly. Sorry, low blood sugar.
“That means we’re close to the exit we want,” said Mel, patiently. “If we just exit the park here, we can probably find our way back.”
“Okay, you’re in charge.”
“I’m always in charge, daddy bear. You just don’t know it.”
Half an hour later we were still lost. I couldn’t help but hum the Teddy Bears’ Picnic tune, while Mel tried to work out where we were. We had left the park and found ourselves in a neighbourhood with narrow streets, none of which were exactly horizontal. Clearly we had been relying on our phones a bit too much, because we simply had no idea where we’d come from and in this area our data connection was almost non-existent. It also didn’t help that Mel found one nice shop after another and was in no particular hurry to get to the hotel. You know women: shopping always trumps sex. I was about to ask a local for help, but it was proving hard to find one who didn’t have a phone glued to their ear, who was young enough to speak English and who wasn’t currently doing fifty miles an hour on a Vespa. Mel asked a lady in a shop that sold fabrics and I asked a greengrocer, but they both looked at me with uncomprehending eyes, as if I’d made up the Via del Babuino as a poor joke. Well, it does mean ‘baboon’. The street got that name after a particularly ugly fountain was installed there in 1581. I guess these Italians just weren’t in the mood to help a tourist dressed as the man from Del Monte and his far too pretty, far too young wife.
“Let’s find a taxi stand and get a ride home,” I suggested, as we turned into yet another narrow, cobbled street that went slightly uphill. It was surprisingly busy there: three priests, or at least men dressed in black cassocks, walked behind a wooden pushcart that held plastic bags filled with vegetables and a massive steel kettle with a lid on it. That would be a sight to behold in, say, Amsterdam or London, but there are nuns and clerics everywhere in Rome. They’re like pigeons. (Hang on, are nuns clerics too? And are all men in cassocks priests? I know nothing of religion.) You’d think they mainly loiter around the Vatican, which was at least two or three miles from here, but there are convents all over town.
God alone knows what these people do all day except bother him with prayer, but this trio seemed to be involved in the catering business. The oldest one, with a massive white head of hair and a nose like an ice pick, was pushing the cart, more of a wheelbarrow really. Then there was one with ridiculously dark sunglasses and the most obvious toupee I’d ever seen and a third one, quite a bit younger than the other two but still easily fifty if he was a day, sporting a very dour expression. He was the only one wearing a hat, which looked like a square fez with a pompom. He also wore a crimson cape that came to his waist. I have no idea of priest hierarchy, but he looked like the most important one.
Two businessmen in cheap suits walked close behind them, chatting quietly while lunatics on scooters tore through this street as if it were a Ferrari test track. The street was curved and the buildings looked to be a bit older than what I’d seen of Rome so far, save for the monuments obviously. I’d put the houses at about eighty years or so, but they might very well be on streets that dated back hundreds of years or more.
“OH! Can I just ... I won’t be a second, promise!” said Mel, as she discovered a shop which sold handmade jewelry. I sighed, but managed to keep my mouth shut while I did it.
“Sure. I’ll go on ahead, there’s a statue...” I said, but she smiled and ducked inside before I could finish my sentence. Then I began to trudge uphill (being Dutch, any slope over five degrees is a hill to me), stepping inside a doorway to let the priests pass. Toupee guy noticed it and smiled. Next were the business men. As they passed I could hear them speaking German with a heavy regional accent. I speak a bit of German, but that’s ‘Hochdeutsch’, the official, classic version. Their accent was to Hochdeutsch what the meanest Texas drawl is to Received Pronunciation, so I couldn’t really understand them, nor did I care. I nodded to them and turned into the street.
After a few metres the hysterical whine of another moped grew louder and louder, so I stepped aside again and watched a young lady on a fancy, red Piaggio turn a corner and drive straight at me. She was driving with one hand and held her phone in the other one, smiling as she looked at the screen. I turned around as she passed and saw Mel coming out of the shop, just as the priest were passing by. There wouldn’t be any room for the moped to pass.
“MEL! WATCH OUT!” I cried. Mel looked up, screamed and stumbled. She fell against the cart, which immediately toppled forward. The priest with the hat jumped out of the way, shielding the other two and clearing a path for the moped, while the Germans tried to steady the elderly men as they stumbled on the cobblestones. Mel pulled her leg out of the way of the moped just in time. Meanwhile, the contents of the cart spilled out into the street.
The girl finally looked up and found herself driving between a small avalanche of bell peppers and onions, carried by a stream of what seemed to be soup. The pan seemed to have been secured to the cart, but now that the cart had toppled over, most of its contents gushed out. Have you ever been to Universal Studios? Did your tram go past the sleepy Mexican village that is suddenly washed away by a flash flood? Picture that, only with onions in the mix.
There was also a big cloud of white dust, which turned out to be flour. The girl slowed down for an instant, then realised the mayhem she had caused and decided she wanted nothing to do with it. Her engine roared and she sped off, disappearing around another corner in an instant.
I ran back, obviously, to help Mel. The old priest seemed to have taken a nasty fall and was speaking to toupee guy while the Germans sat him upright. He was clutching his hand. One of the Germans looked alarmed as I came running, but then he seemed to recognize me from a few seconds earlier and turned his attention to the chaos in front of us. Everyone but Mel was covered in white powder, which came from an industrial sized bag of flour that had been at the bottom of the pushcart. The first onions, peppers and zucchinis were just arriving at the next corner, where most of them neatly disappeared into a storm drain, embedded in the sidewalk. The smell of beef stock wafted through the street.
I helped Mel up once we’d established she only had a few minor scratches on her hands. Then we turned our attention to the Men In Black. Everybody spoke at once, but it was clear the old guy wasn’t going to be playing snooker any time soon. He was clutching his hand. Toupee guy looked very worried, but seemed to be okay. Hat Guy stood aside, as if the whole thing didn’t concern him and he was annoyed about the delay. He kept looking up and down the street.
“I think he needs to go to hospital,” I said to Mel. The old man didn’t seem to understand English, but now Hat Guy piped up and translated my statement into Italian.
“No! Non c’è tempo. Devo cucinare di nuovo!” came the answer.
“I have no time, I have to prepare new food,” repeated Hat Guy in a bored monotone.
“Padre Luigi, dovrebbe fare come dice lui,” pleaded Toupee Guy.
“You should do as they say.”
“You’re a regular old Babelfish, ain’t you?” I couldn’t help but say to Hat Guy. “Well, as long as you’re here, tell him I’ll take him to First Aid. We’ll get a taxi.”
I don’t usually put myself in charge of situations like these, but falling can cause a host of other problems in the elderly and this guy was already turning white. From the tourist book Mel had brought along I had already learned that ambulances in Rome can take a while to get there, unless you happen to have an accident near the Colosseum.
“Ma così non avranno niente da mangiare!”
“But they will have nothing to eat,” echoed Hat Guy to nobody in particular, like he didn’t even know he was doing it.
“Luigi, ci penso io,” said Mr. Toupee.
“I will take care of it,” came the translation.
Mel also noticed the old man slowly turning white as a sheet. Just then, a taxi cab passed on the intersection at the bottom of this street. It was going very slow, there not being much space. Mel stuck two fingers in her mouth and whistled so loudly we were all startled. The cab braked so fast its nose dove down.
“OI! CABBIE! DON’T MOVE!” she yelled. “Okay, Sir, you’re coming with me. I’m taking you to first aid. Martin, bring him over. You can help the other guys. I did this, not you.”
Without waiting for an answer she ran towards the taxi, to stop it from driving off.
“Vi porta lei in ospedale,” translated Hat Guy. Mr. Toupee seemed to approve of that idea and together with one of the Germans he picked up Methuselah and bundled him into the taxi, where Mel was waiting for him in the back seat. When they drove off, me and Mr. Toupee turned round at the same time and surveyed the damage. The street was a mess. The dust had settled, but the cobbled stones were covered in a grey slush of flour and stock.
“Grazie per l’aiuto,” said Rome’s answer to Rip Taylor, as he shook my hand. And then he braced himself, ready to go and pick up the cart.
“Thank you for your help,” said his echo, who now sounded downright depressed.
“Hang on, I’ll help you. I don’t suppose you were going very far, what with using a wheelbarrow.”
“Ci vuole aiutare,” explained Hat Guy. Mr. Toupee insisted that wouldn’t be necessary, but he didn’t keep that up for very long and I ignored him anyway. He was well into his seventies, he was clearly shaken up by the incident and besides, I liked the guy. He was genuinely concerned for his friend, unlike our translator. We picked up the cart and discovered there was still some stock left in the big metal kettle, specifically the meat flakes that always sink to the bottom. Even that was still a good four to five litres.
“You very kaynde,” he said, in a strained accent, as I lifted up the cart. “What ... your nayme?”
“Martin. I’d shake your hand, but...”
I nodded at the cart, which really needed my undivided attention. How that old geezer had managed to guide it downhill, or even pick it up and push, was anyone’s guess.
“Martin. Thank you.”
For some reason he wasn’t going to introduce himself, so I asked. Like I say, I’m not religious. There’s only one person I’ve ever called ‘father’ and that’s usually when I’m taking the piss out of him with Kate. Still, if he introduced himself as Father suchandsuch, I’d have to be polite.
“So what’s your name, if I may ask?”
Hat Guy piped up:
“You may call him...” he began, but Mr. Toupee raised his hand and smiled.
“George. An’ dees ees Father Vincenzo. He ... ees ... my ... assistant.”
Father Vincenzo just nodded curtly. Very conspicuous outfit for an assistant.
“Sorry ... my english ... not good. I can ... eh ... listen ... but not eh...”
That sentence took him at least twenty seconds, so I said:
“Well, as long as he’s here, you can speak Italian. I understand a little. If not, we can ask him,” I said, nodding to Vincenzo. We passed the storm drain and Father George looked down it with a wistful look. He stooped to pick up some vegetables that hadn’t fallen into it, but they were really too far gone for human consumption.
Father George told me it wasn’t very far, which suited me fine. He made small talk with me via Father Vincenzo, which was odd because now it sounded as if he really didn’t give a fuck about the answers.
“So, was that lady your friend?”
“That was my wife. Her name is Melody.”
“Oh, your wife,” repeated Vincenzo, in the most disinterested tone. “She is very beautiful. Has she given you children?”
“Yes, we have a son. He is almost a year old.”
“Wonderful. Any more?”
“Well, we’ve only been married for eight months.”
I could practically hear them doing the sums. Yes, Edwin was conceived and born before we were married. Big fucking deal. I changed the subject:
“So, I guess someone’s ordering pizza tonight?” I said, referring to all the food that was lost.
“Don’t concern yourself with that, please. Left here.”
We turned into another street, just as narrow as the others. Next to an unassuming door was an aluminium shield with the words ‘Rifugio per senzatetto’ stamped in black letters.
“What does that mean?” I asked Vincenzo.
“Homeless shelter.”
“Oh? I thought ... This was for your monastery or something.”
“Monastery? No.”
“Martin, non è un problema tuo. Hai già fatto abbastanza.”
“This is not your problem, you have helped enough.”
I pushed the cart through a narrow gate, which led to a small, tiled storage area like you might find at the back of a restaurant. This was clearly the service entrance.
Father George knocked on a door. A few seconds later it was opened by a young woman wearing a headscarf in a muted shade of blue. That’s probably not the word for it, but even as a layman I could tell that she wasn’t a nun yet, but a novice. From the neck down she was dressed like a waitress, although she also wore a kitchen apron. When she saw Father George she bowed her head and curtsied. Father George smiled and briefly clasped her hands in his.
“Suor Rebecca.”
“Vostra Santità...”
When she looked up, she realised something was wrong.
“Oh! Ma cosa è successo? Dov’è Padre Luigi?”
“Abbiamo avuto un incidente, ma abbiamo anche trovato un nuovo amico.”
“We had an accident, but we have also made a new friend,” murmured Vincenzo behind my back. We all bustled in, because I felt I might lend a hand in putting the almost empty but still rather heavy kettle where it was supposed to be. There was a debate between Sister Rebecca and Father George, of which I understood just about enough to realise they had a big problem.
“Can I help?” I asked. Rebecca turned to me and offered her hand, which surprised me. I shook it, obviously.
“Hello, please excuse my manners. I’m Sister Rebecca. I hear your wife is taking Father Luigi to hospital?”
Her English wasn’t quite flawless, but close.
“Yes. He fell on his hand. My wife stumbled into him when she was nearly run over by a girl on a moped. I’m afraid we also lost most of the soup and the vegetables.”
“And the flour...” she said, inspecting the torn bag that wasn’t even half full yet.
“I’m afraid so. Now, I didn’t catch all of it but am I right in thinking there are people coming over for dinner?”
“Yes. We expect about one hundred and thirty people tonight. There was supposed to be bread and minestrone soup on the menu ... Now I have to figure out what to do.”
“I don’t suppose we can just go to the supermarket and get some soup?”
“For that many people? The supermarkets around here barely have five of anything. They’re corner shops, more than supermarkets. We’d have to go to an ipermercato, like a Carrefour. That’s half an hour from here. Excuse me ... Reverendi Padri, posso prepararvi un caffè?”
Yes, the gentlemen clearly would like some coffee. While Sister Rebecca made sure the old men were out of the way, I inspected the kitchen. This was a professional operation: six gas burners, three wide ovens, all the pots, pans and knives you would want and a selection of oils and condiments. There was a small room with a double sink where you could wash and prepare vegetables, a large restaurant fridge, although that was almost empty and hadn’t been running lately, and there was a rack the size of a small wardrobe closet that held thirty sheet pans. It took me a while to figure out what it was for, but then I understood it was to let dough rise quickly by circulating warm air so the yeast would spring into action. Next to it was a professional mixer, a big metal vat with one of those big kneading hooks.
Everything was clean, but it was clear this kitchen was in daily use. The floor tiles were worn, it smelled of cleaning agent and spices and all the surfaces were dinged. One door lead to a dining hall without windows, that had seven long tables in it, lined with chairs. The décor was a bit bland: just some pictures of Jesus, a woodcarving of him on the cross and some candles. Even so, there was a small bar to serve tea or coffee. It looked like the canteen of a very pious badminton club, except there were no sports trophies. There was an entrance on the other side of the hall, from which there came daylight. Rebecca made coffee for the two priests, who had taken seats near the kitchen.
“Sorry about that. They looked a bit shaken up,” said Rebecca, once she found me in the kitchen. “Can I get you anything? Or do you have to be on your way? Before you go, can I have the number of your wife’s phone? I’d like to know how Father Luigi is doing.”
She had a smartphone in one of the pockets of her apron. I was a bit shocked, to be honest. Because I hardly ever meet clergy I have no real idea of what to expect of them, but of course they drive cars and use email and have smartphones. Maybe not the ones who lock themselves up in a monastery or convent, but the ones who are out there doing good have as much use for WhatsApp and Google Maps as the rest of us.
“Sure. I’ll call her for an update, shall I? But here’s her number. Uhm ... hang on ... Maybe I can text...”
She explained to me (TO ME!) how to transfer a contact via Airdrop and then I called Melody.
“Hi, how are things at your end?”
“Oh, don’t fucking start!” she said. It came from a tiny speaker, but it echoed through the kitchen, which was tiled. Sister Rebecca just smiled as Mel unloaded on me.
“He’s getting a cast now. Complicated fracture of his hand. The cab ride here was enough to drive me insane, then I practically had to kick him into the X-ray machine myself, now he doesn’t believe he’s got a fracture and to top it all off he is going completely mental about some people he’s having over for dinner.”
“Some people? Try one hundred and thirty.”
“WHAT? So that’s what all the food was for! I just thought it was the weekly shop for his convent or whatever.”
“Yeah, no. I’m in a soup kitchen. He was going to bake bread and make soup for the homeless. Hence the flour.”
Mel sighed.
“No he’s not. He’s not even going to be stirring his Bovril any time soon, Martin. They’re keeping him here. The old fucker’s got a raging case of diabetes! Blue toes and everything! Never been treated.”
Sister Rebecca could hear her word for word. Her face cycled through a range of expressions, from suppressed giggling to concern for Father Luigi.
“Mel, you wanna tone it down a little? People can hear.”
“Oh. Right. Sorry. I’m just upset. Am I on speakerphone?”
“No, but they can hear all the same. I’m here with Sister Rebecca. I’ve given her your number, so she may call for more news if this takes a while.”
“Yeah, it’s gonna take a while. We’re not going to be ... doing ... the thing we planned on doing.”
“I gathered. Okay, so I’m...”
“Martin, he’s going to have to be sedated. He needs to be medicated for his diabetes and taken in for observation. And now he’s worried sick about those people he can’t feed. Would you sort it out, so I can promise him it’s taken care of? I’ll pay for one hundred pizzas, if that’s what it takes. It’s my fault, after all. Oh God, there’s the Italian rozzers. I have to give a witness statement. Martin, will you fix it?”
No lunch for me then...
“I’ll see what I can do. Bye, sweetheart.”
“Yeah, bye. Thanks. Love you.”
As I put my phone in my pocket, Sister Rebecca said:
“So your name is Martin?”
“Yes. Oh, sorry. Forgot to introduce myself. Martin van de Casteele. Hi.”
“Do I know you from somewhere?” she said, giving me that squinting look I know so well.
“What, me? I’ve never been here. Now, can we do something about the food? We have a kitchen here, after all. When do these people show up?”
“Eight o’clock. But we have nothing and I don’t know ... I mean ... I’ve only been here for a week. I usually set the tables and serve drinks. Father Luigi made the food.”
William Shatner and Rosetta Stone wandered in, having had their coffee.
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Monday, July 13th. Gatwick Airport. What the hell was wrong with me!? Why had I worked so hard to get here? How did I not realise that pretty much the last thing I ever want is to be away from my family, particularly my little boy? Why the fuck was I going to a country where I’d be practically illiterate, dependant on the good will of the very people I was going to spy on to speak English with me! And how in the world was I going to be a spy when I had a sodding Wikipedia page and an IMDB...
Today Sinterklaas arrived in The Netherlands! If you have no idea what that means, why not read my short story ‘Best Sinterklaas Ever’, available on this very website? It predates the events in ‘Best Sister Ever’. – RD Having all that security gear installed in my house made me a tiny bit paranoid, I don’t mind telling you. It’s not as if I’m planning to assassinate the Queen or overthrow the government when I’m pottering about in the kitchen, but my private affairs are rather unusual and I...
The last time I was at Hamad I had been escorted off the plane soon after landing. This was much better. For some reason we didn’t use a jetway to get into the terminal building, so I was treated to a blast of the familiar heat of Doha. It felt strangely comforting, for some reason. It’s not quite the same as the heat of Los Angeles, or Las Vegas. Maybe it was because we were so near the sea. For the first few seconds it felt a bit like a warm hug. Isn’t that odd? An airport bus drove us to...
I suppose it’s only normal that you take on the English accent to which you are most often exposed. In my case it started when BBC 1 and 2 were made available on the Dutch cable network. I loved almost every show they put on and that shaped my theretofore rather unremarkable Dutsj Ekssent. Well, Lexy grew up watching shows and films like Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Beverly Hills 90210, Clueless, The Twilight Saga and related TV trash. Not every character on those shows speaks Valley Girl, but...
Saturday June 27th, 2015. Dallas Road, Ealing. “Good morning.” “You’re up early?” said Kelly, who I found scooping yoghurt into a bowl of muesli when I sauntered into the kitchen. She’d spent the night at my house, in her own room. “Are you kidding? It’s five minutes past eight! I’ve been staring at the ceiling for half an hour, trying to get back to sleep.” “Well, give it another go. Or give me ten minutes and I’ll come and wear you out.” “Cheeky cow,” I muttered, as I filled the tea...
I signed another document and followed Miles into a cavernous space, which was rather dark. Two men in lab coats scurried away. Miles waited until they were gone and then flipped a switch on the wall near the door. Bright lights in the ceiling clacked on and unveiled a turning plateau with a car under a black tarp. I could see the tyres, but not much else. Miles and Hugo shot each other a look and grinned. “Carstairs! Your new vehicle! Feel free to do the honours.” I stepped onto the...
I woke up around eight in the morning, an hour later than I’m used to. I walked to the other side of the house, to Asim’s bedroom, and heard snoring. That was good. I had a quick yet annoying shower and took some time to spruce myself up. I’m not one of those men who are completely hopeless when they’re single, but what with Mel being a professional make-up artist and hairstylist, amongst many other talents, I rarely needed to groom myself nowadays. But now I was spending time shaving around...
It was about ten minutes to showtime. I’d be at the mosque in three minutes or so, although K-T would drop me off at the mall entrance and then proceed to another destination. We were making good time, because although some traffic kept moving, many cars just pulled to the side of the road wherever there was space near a mosque. Sometimes cars were abandoned in the middle of the road, blocking each other in. The police never made a fuss: after all, everyone was supposed to be praying. Men...
Kelly was very quiet on the ride home, but fortunately (and I use the word fortunately as in: ‘I have learned to live with this as a project in personal growth’) my driver, Ali, has absolutely no problems filling a gap in any conversation. Even when no actual conversation is presently occurring. Kate texted with Melody about the contents of our fridge, so I could prepare a shopping list. Okay, so I’m now officially a guy who pulls up at a Waitrose in a chauffeur driven car, but then I buy...
Still Monday July 7th, 2015. A government building somewhere in London. (smiled.oddly.hosts) I was made to sit alone in a room for about ten minutes, so ordered by a man who clearly had no intention of getting me a cup of tea. And I did ask, twice. He was a bit shorter than me, but also a bit wider. Instead of a suit he wore something that was supposed to give him a military look but made me think of a fisherman: a brown shirt, brown carpenter pants, army boots. He was ginger, but his hair...
“Crank up the A.C, sweetheart. Let me get some water ... Oooaaahhh...” “Sweetheart? Again?” “Yes. I suddenly cared for you in the wilderness, in the land of great drought. And especially for that bag with bottled water. Let’s get a move on. You drive.” “Destination?” “The most expensive hotel in Al Hofuf. Unless you can find one with a charger?” “I cannot execute that search. We will reach Al Hofuf in two hours.” “Okay. Then I’ll do a search and you drive. Stop at the next empty rest...
Tuesday, August 25th, 2015. My garage. Total.hilltop.digital. It was about one a.m. when the door to the garage opened and K-T rolled in. I had called ahead, to let Anaïs know that I was fine and on my way. “How are you doing?” “I am drinking water and eating uh ... Maltezers. Very poor chocolate.” “Yes, it’s English chocolate. Could be worse, though.” “Hershey...” she shuddered. “Exactly. I’ll be there in about twenty minutes. Can you hang on?” “I can go nowhere else, Anglais. It is...
If you’re anything like me (but maybe you got lucky and you’re not) you’ll know this feeling: there will be something on the news that makes you explode with rage. Say, some idiot gets behind the wheel, drunk as a skunk, kills three people who were just standing at a bus shelter minding their own Instagram and then he sues the bus company for placing the shelter near a pub. That sort of thing. Or a Belgian man locks up some girls in his basement and starves a couple of them to death before he...
They waited until her heart stopped pumping blood, which took about twenty seconds or so. Then the pressure got too low, and the trickle stopped. Two men dressed more like medics than soldiers came out of the main building with a stretcher. They wore gloves and aprons. Hurriedly they placed the body on the stretcher. The executioner helpfully placed the bag with the head above the neck, but only after he was done wiping down the blade and carefully sliding it back into its sheath. The Imam...
There were also some messages. One was from Mr. Constable, the MI6 officer at the embassy. He told me they had analysed the recording, but that I’d have to come to the embassy to read the transcript. By appointment. But not on Thursdays. Another message was a transcript of a text message from Asim, which contained an invitation to join him on his next visit to Dubai. It seemed he was in the mood to catch a movie, and Dubai had cinemas. Well, two. The third message consisted of a somewhat...
Sunday, 30/8/2015. Saudi Royal palace. My day started slowly, with breakfast being served without any extra items. I called on Anaïs with an eye on a cheeky kiss or a bit of a fondle, but was told by a rather indignant Malaysian chef who caught me looking around in her kitchen that she had been seconded to another palace for the next few days, to help prepare for yet another banquet. He then demanded to know how I knew her and what my business was with her, but I just told him I was acting...
I’ve never been one to make much of a fuss over cars. I mean, I enjoy comfy seats and power steering as much as anyone and it has been said I’m a tiny bit obsessive over vehicular cleanliness, but by and large I am not very interested in the roar of an engine or how many horse power it has. So it was odd I found myself so completely enthralled by this Aston Martin Vanquish. Not just the paint job, which was a deep, dark, shiny, sparkly, magnificent blue, but the stitching on the seats, the...
I was met by Kelly in the hallway. “Hi,” she said, leaning in for a kiss. A chaste one, on the cheek. More than enough for me, thanks. Although admittedly I’d have been disappointed with less than that. “Hello, gorgeous. I think you might have come at an awkward...” “Oh, I know. I was summoned. Caroline has been here all afternoon. She even had a lie down, because of a headache. Mel and Kate know everything.” It was ominously quiet on the other side of the door that led to the living...
I woke up at nine, which was fine except a bit too late to attend the buffet in the main building. Never mind: I called the kitchen again and ordered breakfast. It would take a while to reach me, but as long as I didn’t order any hot items that was fine. Yoghurt, a bun and some jam would do me. I selected a suit and showed up just in time for my daily session with Alexandra. Technically this was the start of a new week, although neither I nor Alexandra got any days off. It was crunch time...
As meetings go, I’ve had worse. I had no particular reason to doubt John Stein, but you never know what Americans are really up to. The Saudi government is only one of many undemocratic regimes they support to the hilt. They’re also not particularly interested in bringing people to justice. Generally all they need is a set of coordinates, a license plate number or the exact time their target will be driving past a hospital or day care centre. I was fairly sure a couple of terrorist attacks in...
Caroline summoned me to my office on Friday. My ticket for travelling the next Monday had just been arranged. I was actually discussing something with Daphne, which always takes a while, but Alice, her secretary, was quite clear: I was to report to the fourth flour at once. “Sorry about that, but I think you got the gist of it. Winston will certainly be able to flesh out the code. It will give you a chance to hang out together.” “I still want to know why you’re leaving,” said Daphne, trying...
I went over the call with Kate in my head, slightly upset at the fact I had broken off our conversation just to get out of the heat. Maybe it hadn’t been the heat so much as the fact I didn’t want to be reminded of how much I missed her. That girl isn’t just catnip to me: she’s oxygen. And every time we were apart, there was nothing for it but for me to practice holding my breath. I also worried about the fact people had started to miss me, all over sodding Doctor Who! It’s the shittiest...
Friday, August 28th, 2015. Royal palace, guest annex. The next morning I called Asim and offered to cook for him, so I’d be able to intercept any packages that might be delivered to his house. He was glad to have me and I took delivery of five boxes while he was out. I made us roast duck (honey roasted, with creamed cauliflower) and an old-fashioned trifle and then I stole one of his outfits: guthra, igal, thobe and sandals. Two thobes, actually, just to be sure. He only had fourteen left, I...
Darkness had come and gone. Musa and I had worked all through the night. When I had answers to all the questions I could think of, and had copied the contents of the SD-cards to my laptop to make space on one of them, I had written a script for him to read. It was based on what he had told me, but we still went through it line by line. By that time he was struggling to stay conscious. The wounds on his wrists in particular hurt terribly, so much in fact that I had to cut him loose and bandage...
The trip back home was luxurious but uneventful. I had taken Caroline out to dinner for our last night in Doha, after an afternoon spent in Souq Waqif. I liked it there, because even though it was rather sanitized, there was more than enough to see, smell and taste. Sure, one or two of these hole in the wall shops sold the inevitable Gucci handbags, but it was actually fun to learn from Caroline how to spot fake goods. “Take this GG canvas horse bit hobo bag,” she said, while the salesman...
Hi! This story contains some sudden scene transitions. This seems to confuse many of you. In the print version these jumps are clear(er) because only new paragraphs get a blank line. However, on this site every hard return gets a blank line. Fixing this would require going through the entire book to add the right display codes, and I can’t be bothered. So if you’re suddenly confused, just go back a few lines and you’ll likely figure it out. Cheers! RD. On the way out I shook quite a few...
So there I was, in a homeless shelter somewhere in Rome, with a nun, a priest, my wife and the head of the Catholic church. So the bartender says... Okay, there was no bartender. Too bad, because this was supposed to be a vacation, damn it! A honeymoon! But what do I get? I get to go from one potential aneurysm to the the next! Someone walks in on me fucking my wife! Then there’s an orgy in my apartment! I seem to be on a painting made well before I was even born and to cap it off THE...
“Martin, get up. It’s gone ten. The Pope has been up for over five hours, you know.” “Good for him. Show-off.” “You’ll miss breakfast!” “I told you: get them to deliver a tray to the room.” “I don’t want to eat in the room! I want to eat on the rooftop terrace again! Come on, you can’t stay in bed all day!” “Yes, I can. I’m on vacation.” I was being truculent, although I like to think it was in a playful way that women secretly find boyish and charming. Mel would probably not agree. Nor...
I knew Mel was all talk when she said she could easily leave Edwin in Caroline’s care. But I didn’t blame her. I just sat on the couch, next to Peter Fox, in Caroline’s luxurious apartment on the corner of Hyde Park, just over the Aston Martin dealership. He lived there now, on a trial basis. “It’s a much shorter commute,” was all he said about that. I knew his home. The man liked marble statues, preferably with a penis or at least a six-pack. (No replicas of David, then.) He liked Persian...
Well, there we are: the final chapter. You have until January 1st to read this story before I make it available to premium members only. Your comments are welcome and if you find you like this sort of thing: there’s plenty more available on my site. – RD It rained. I think it should rain, at funerals. Most people stood under black or transparent umbrellas, but I wore a Macintosh over my black suit and I just didn’t care. I needed to focus on not crying. Rain on my face might help to conceal...
All was well until we arrived at Paddington. It was busy, but not too busy for the crowd to give us half a second so we could lift Edwin’s stroller over the infamous gap and onto the platform. But then there’s an escalator, a fairly long one that leads back to street level. You see, the track slopes downward from Edgware road to Paddington. Trains aren’t generally good at inclinations, but it’s a fair distance between those stations. One of the escalators was being serviced: a man in a blue...
Right. How to get to deck four, and more specifically into Omar’s private quarters? Doors wouldn’t be a problem: only the guest rooms had those card readers. Deck four was for family only. No, my problem was with the guards. One had already denied me access once. But there was that lift near the pantry, so that’s where I was now headed. I passed the Sayada lounge, where two guards eyed me as if I was going to take out my dick then and there and burst into the room, turned a corner and found a...
I had to put my jacket back on in the hallway, so quickly was I ejected from the kitchen. Two phones really weighed it down, but if the Professor had recorded the meeting, I was sure my spymasters would want me to hang on to it. The pen had served its purpose, so that went into the water as soon as possible. And then I felt really odd for a minute. A man was dead right now, because of me. He was hardly the first, but it was different from all the other deaths I have caused. I planned this,...
I like to think I’m a decent man. I don’t leer at women, not even when I’m absolutely sure they’re not watching. I don’t turn around to check out ‘cabooses’, I don’t call women ‘darling’ unless I know them very well indeed and by and large you can trust me with your daughter. Unless she’s REALLY insistent and/or has grown legs and breast that make Marilyn Monroe look like a coat hanger. But even then I try really, really hard to ignore that. But being in a country where women were nothing...
When Asim and I came home, it was as if nothing had ever happened. I examined the lock, but that was only because my instructors had told me it’s a good habit to see if you can spot the scratches most lock-pickers leave. This guy was good: there were no scratches at all. I also reviewed the footage from my spy-cam, but learned nothing more. I also had no idea what prince Omar had been doing in other parts of the house, because I only had enough gear to monitor my own room. By the looks of...
As soon as the rolling door had shut behind me, I began to undress. The plastic segments that allowed in some sunlight were so badly scuffed nobody would be able to see inside. Not unless they pressed their face up against them, anyway. My suit was in tatters. I wasn’t even sure why I wasn’t wearing my slacks and button down shirt. It’s think it may just be that wearing a suit seemed suitable for the occasion. If you’re going to commit mass murder, you should at the very least dress for it,...
Indru tamil kama kathaiyil ilamaiyaana magalum pinbu vithavai ammavaiyum eppadi usar seithu matter poten endru ungaluku solugiren. Suvarasiyam athigam irukum kama kathaikul selalam vaarungal, en peyar karthik. En veethiiyil oru pen ilamaiyaaga sexiyaaga irupaal, avalai thinamum sight adithu kondu irupen. Thinamum aval kalluri sendru varum pozhuthu iru velaiyilum sight adika arambithu viduven. Aval peyar nandhini vayathu 21 irukum, avaluku veetil aan thunai kidaiyaathu. Veetil oru amma iru...
Note : This story is completely fictional!In nineteen forty six Thelma Lou Anderson was married with three kids. Linda was the oldest. She was sixteen. Guy and George was ten and Guy seven. Thelma owned a beauty shop in Kansas City. She suspected her husband Lawerance was cheating on her again. She followed him one day when he thought she was at work and saw him go into a house. A woman opened the door and he went in. That was all the proof she needed. She went home and packed her suitcase and...
IncestMother Ethel always enjoyed the short walk to the train station. It was beautiful Autumnal morning and Mother Ethel took the opportunity to walk to the train station as she knew that she had a very busy day ahead. Those that saw Mother Ethel along the way bowed reverently,they knew that Mother Ethel was a Nun of the Monastery of Repentance and when a Nun or a Monk walked past it was polite to bow, for many knew what the Nun's and Monk's of the Monastery were capable of. As Mother Ethel strolled...
Dot, Dorothea, and Dick Chapter One Dear sister: I found this letter among some others, scrolled up and tied with purple ribbon, in a chest belonging to our great grandfather. The name Charles has belonged to several in our family line, but I believe I know the one who received and saved this letter, and kept it preserved for so many years. I believe the letter speaks for itself, so I will now offer it up to you. Dearest Charles: I hope this missive finds you in such good...
Our Last Day of School. I can’t believe it. This is my last day of school, I thought, not sure how I felt now that the long awaited day was here. Stepping out into the beautiful sunny afternoon, heading toward the group of waiting yellow school buses I breathed a sigh of relief. I was glad school was finished. Throughout High School like a ship at sea, I had plotted my course, studying hard. However, the Scholarship that many felt I had rightfully won had somehow ended up going to one of...
“What’s wrong? What’s wrong?”Anthea looked up at her mum as she sat down at the dining table. “Nothing is wrong,” Anthea responded watching as her mum hurriedly dried her hands with a tea towel.“Is the baby okay? Are you okay? Is Jack okay?” she asked as her husband came into the room and pulled up a seat at the table.“We’re all fine Mum,” she responded exasperated with her mum’s anxiety. “I have something to tell you.”“Sit down Helen,” her dad snapped. “Give the lass a chance to speak.”Anthea...
My Golden Summer with Blythe – Part 2 Josh’s childhood dream girl visits him in San Francisco. The Return of Blythe Coming from a small farming community, San Francisco proved to be everything Josh had ever imagined – and then some. He loved the freewheeling atmosphere – the friendliness – in short, he fell in love with the city by the Bay. Because of early retirements, and dedication to his work, he had advanced much quicker than he had ever expected. Arriving at his chic little Apartment...
Uther By Ellie Dauber (c) 2006 Introduction According to the legends of King Arthur, Merlin changed Uther Pendragon into a double for Duke Gorlois, so he could spend the night with Ygraine, the Duke's wife. Ygraine and Gorlois had three daughters: Elaine, Morgause, and Morgan le Faye. During their time together, Ygraine became pregnant with the child who was to become King Arthur. Uther's men killed Gorlois that same night. This is my TG (of course) version of what...
Chapter 11: Althea, the School Girl The infernal screeching of the alarm clock awoke Cal from his reverie. He had been up for about a half-hour, but he had only been lying in bed next to the love of his life. Althea's arms were still clutched about him as he stealthily clicked the snooze button, assuming that it was six o' five in the morning, his usual waking time during the school week. He had been thinking long and hard about the previous two nights. Evan... what have you become? He...
edited by Master Ken Wednesday, September 4th, 2013 "Hi, I am Miss Blythe," I said to my class, writing my name on the whiteboard with a red dry-erase marker. "I will be your World History teacher." It was the first day of the new school year and, as I launched into the course syllabus, my thoughts kept drifting to that day in June at the end of the last term, when my Living God, the Holy Mark Glassner, walked into this very classroom and changed my very outlook on life. I didn't know...
The the wind howled around the quayside as I stepped onto terra firma for the first time in weeks, the wind threw sharp shards of ice to sting our faces as we looked up at the sails as they were finally furled and stowed as our captain grinned at our discomfiture, "Au revoir!" he joked as if he knew we should soon be recalled. Those such as were left, and we were few enough, I shuddered. My best uniform packed securely in my Valise, awaited me, and just a few more duties before I...
As he approached one of the hall's long mirrors he stopped to inspect himself. It was a familiar sight, the flowing, billowy French maid outfit surrounding his body. His arms and legs were outlined in silky, white stockings and arm-gloves. He wore pearl earrings and the lacy white collar around his neck was adorned with a beautiful pendant. It was a gift from mother that he wore every day, without fail. Jon's painted red lips and neatly applied eyeliner and blush were evidence that he was...
PREFACE:There are no sex acts in the story but the patient does have an orgasm as a result of the Ther****t’s physical examination. Part 1 is the Sex Therapy appointment from the patient’s point of view and part 2 is the same examination seen through the eyes of the Ther****t. I don’t think it matters which one you read first.I hope you enjoy it and will let me know what you think in any...
Katherine stepped into her elegant living room and took a book from the shelf. She sat in a plush lounge chair, specifically selecting a chair in the back corner of the room next to an old dumbwaiter that was once used to ferry delicious meals from the downstairs kitchen to the dining room table. She planned to read the book for a short while, but she already knew her attention would soon be diverted. Tonight the dumbwaiter would once again be placed into service, except this time it would be...
Do you know of the porn site Motherless.com? You should. I’ve reviewed it a few times on my site, The Porn Dude, although it was for different genres every time. This time around, I’m going back to this place and looking at a specific and niche little category many of you are just begging me to cover. We’re looking at vintage porn today. While it doesn’t have the same resolution and quality as the porn you can find today, it’s definitely a genre of porn that has a lot of personality to it and...
Vintage Porn SitesI should have known better. I should have remembered that old saying, "If it looks too good to be true, it is." I was in love. She was damned near all I thought about with the exception of my studies and it didn't make sense to me. I prided myself on my intellect and my ability to think logically, but there wasn't anything logical about the way I felt about Althea. She was beautiful, smart and very popular and I was not. I wasn't a bed looking guy, but I was nothing exceptional. I was...
Motherless. A one-word website title that says everything it needs to say. This is a site where the rules are, more or less, completely thrown out the window, morality means absolutely nothing, and there is nobody to save you from it. Hedonism is God here.The site likely is also called this due to the fact that the girls who end up on motherless.com likely have no positive female influence in their lives to keep them from it. Motherless is the place parents spend their whole lives fearing that...
Porn Pictures SitesI always considered Motherless the “4chan” of porn. Not only because Motherless was somewhat popularized there, but because Motherless also encourages users to share their own content in a very open way. This means minimal bullshit like moderation and censorship, and a strong “anything goes” attitude that leads to free and extreme content. It encourages people to create and upload their own homegrown content, like videos of their girlfriend pissing or spycam videos of their cousin....
Amateur Porn SitesWhat is it about Motherless that makes me fucking cum every time? Maybe it is how raw and amateur the porn on the site comes across as, or the content is just that fucking hot. Perhaps it is the fact that there is an astronomical amount of pornography just waiting for a dumb fuck like you to beat off to! I really don’t know, and frankly, I’m not going to pretend that I do.But what I do know is that if you love BBWs, the Motherless.com homepage will not be of much use! Preferably, head on over...
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