Metanoia Page 3

  “Tell us what you heard,” he expressed divertingly.

  I was caught off guard, and unsure if I should continue or leave.

  The photographer pressed, “Come on, boy, Tell us.”

  Reliving the Storm

  I had told no one, not even my chaperone of my sighting, yet a compulsion washed over me to reveal what I had witnessed; since Mario and I had been in situations where difficult topics were openly discussed. I was confident that the couple will not ridicule my unprecedented disclosure.

  I began, “I suffered severe seasickness when I was in the Murashshahaan on the evening of the thunderstorm. Amidst howling winds and roaring waves, I puked above deck. That was when I heard a series of faint whistling noises whisked through my ears.

  “I am certain the whistling voices did not come from the sheik, Master Tad, Curt, and Andy who hollered at one another to stabilize the boat; but from the depth of the ocean…”

  Andrea queried before I could continue, “Were the whistling voices melodic?”

  “It was doleful as if someone was wailing or pining for a lost love. It was otherworldly,” I declared.

  Mario encouraged me to continue.

  “I didn’t pay much attention as I was in physical disarray but when I leaned over the boat’s ledge to puke, the voices grew stronger. I thought they were distress calls from other dinghies, but the wailing sound persisted. I’ve never heard such soulful voices until then. The music transformed into a mournful chant.

  “When a series of lightning flashed and illuminated the turbulent waters, I noticed a shoal of bright objects circled the Murashshahaan as violent waves crushed the sides of the rocking boat. Tad came to my rescue. He pulled me to safety. Otherwise, I would have fallen into the ocean,” I related distressingly.

  “Did you see the Piscean shoal again?” Mrs. Swarovski questioned.

  “What’s a Piscean shoal?”

  Andrea explained, “It’s a group of amphibious creatures that thrive on land and water. Piscean is a derivative from the Latin word Pisces, meaning fishes.”

  “After Tad hauled me into the cabin, I never saw the Piscean shoal again,” I replied.

  Since I had no intention to bad mouth my patriarch to anyone, especially to his friends and acquaintances; I omitted to inform them of the athlete’s displeasure with me below deck.

  “Why didn’t you tell me your encounter with the sirens earlier? Is that the reason you’re intrigued by the book I was reading?” the widow promulgated excitedly.

  Surprised by her exhilaration, I muttered sheepishly, “I’m piqued by Auntie Mary’s mer-people and siren illustrations. I want to be sure what I saw resembled the mer-creatures in her drawings.”

  “Who is Auntie Mary?” the Count enquired.

  “Andy’s aunty. We stayed at her home, Fay Haven a few months back. She’s a superb illustrator and novelist on praeternatural topics, and she taught me a lot about mythical beings,” I declared.

  “Oh me! Oh my! You do get around, boy,” Mario teased.

  Mãe das Águas

  Mrs. Swarovski expressed, “Joking aside, ancient Tupi and Guarani mythology have it that ‘Mother of the water bodies’ or ‘Water Queen,’ Mãe das Águas, also known as Iara and her shoal of water nymphs, sirens or mermaids were spotted in this part of the world. They are beautiful women with green hair, copper-colored skins and brown eyes with a body resembling glistening dolphins, manatees or fishes.

  “They sit on rocks and lacustrine places combing their hair or dozing under the sun when the waters are calm. They also sing sweet lullabies to lure men into their duplicitous web. Under their spells, men will abandon their sanities to live with them underwater forever. Though they cater to her lover’s needs; which isn’t necessarily bad, they’re also implausibly vindictive if they discover their lover’s infidelities.

  “It’s known that their aggravations will churn up storms and destroy everything around them. Little room is left for escape, especially for men at sea when they hear their bewitching songs. They view the male species as betrayers of their love.

  “It’s documented that they beckon men to follow their whistling tunes and doleful chants. When tempestuous lightning strikes, those bewitched are drowned. Their spites are anguish cries for lovers lost and injured pride of their tortured souls.”

  The Italian quipped, “Aren’t most women like that?”

  Andrea gave a hearty laugh. “Indeed, we are. Don’t you ever cross us, or you’ll suffer our wrath.”

  With her sharply manicured nails, the widow pinched the playboy’s nose before she inquired playfully, “Now, tell me about Tad.”

  “I’m sure Young can tell you more than I,” the photographer parried.

  I did not know how to respond, so I stood silent. As if by divine intervention Sheik Fahrib appeared at our side.

  “Oh! Here you are. Taddy (the sheik’s nickname for Tad) wants to see you. You’ll find him in his suite,” the doctor called to me before he joined the Count and the ‘Countess.’

  I excused myself.

  Come Here You!

  Although the Enlightened Royal Oracle Society (E.R.O.S.) rules that recruits are to have their respective Valets/’Big-Brothers’ present when summoned by their patriarchs or their guests; I took matters into my own hands and went unaccompanied to see my Master. Since my chaperone was out rowing, and I’d spent time alone with Tad, I decided to venture into the athlete’s boudoir alone.

  I knocked on the door, and my Master hollered for me to enter.

  “Shall I wait in the lounge?” I chirped.

  “Come into the shower and join me,” he instructed.

  I stripped down to my briefs and entered the steamy stall.

  Sprays of cascading aqua careened down the Arab’s Herculean back and streamed down his firm buttocks before they glided down his muscly legs. He drew me into a passionate embrace, and my excitement sprang to attention. I melted into his musculature when he pried my lips open to receive his yearning tongue. Our throbbing mightiness slithered in anticipation as the water roused us to throb against one another. The athlete encased our carnality into a cocoon of heated passion as if I would evaporate into the steaminess that veiled our enclosure. He, unwilling to relinquish our probing kisses, reached to twinge my perkiness and spawned my libido to propitious intensity.

  As much as I cavort my ‘Master’s’ commanding presence, I had also promised my Valet that I would reserve myself for him, and to both yachtsmen whom Tad had warned us to avoid. Since I did not expect my ‘Master’s’ lascivious summon that afternoon, Andy and I had arranged a secret rendezvous with Ronnie and Iian. I had assured my guardian that I would be chaste for the day; in expectation of an unbridled tryst that evening.

  I would have capitulated to this rousing intimacy with gusto if I had not pledged chastity to my beloved. As inflamed as I was to surrender myself to my Master’s fervor, I had to assess ways of pleasing the athlete without sacrificing my fealty.

  As I knelt in supplication to the sportsman’s drumming masculinity, my nimble fingers reached to squeeze his hairy chest and spurred his pounding velocity to heady intoxication. He drove into my oral hollow to euphoric groans of spasming ecstasy while I gleaned his rosiness with cherished insobriety.

  Afraid I would relinquish his cherished offerings; his fiery cogency exacerbated to brutish urgency as his forceful hands clenched my cranium to receive his gushing potencies. I encircled my tongue to suckle his prized possession until he reluctantly withdrew his luscious trophy; only to share his tasty treasure in sweet kisses. Without having to renounce my rectitude, I guzzled the champion’s remains with glee.

  “You haven’t cum, boy?” my Master commented before I departed his love chamber.

  “As long as you are satisfied sir, so am I,” I announced appreciatively.

  On that note, I disappeared down the corridor with my integrity intact as I had promised my beloved.

  By Divine Grace (Chapter Four)

/>   “One creates oneself.”

  Grace Jones

  1968

  Hotel Casablanca, Acapulco, Mexico

  As I headed towards my suite, Señor Victor Angel Triqueros, my ex-Assalamu Alaikum professor was exiting his chamber, located on the same floor as Andy and mine. Under Dr. Fahrib’s auspice, he was the acting tutor to a couple of new E.R.O.S. recruits stationed at the sheik’s household. Although Victor was no longer my official tutor, our ex-student/teacher relationship continued to flourish.

  The Señor enquired, “Young, where are you hurrying to?”

  “I’ve to dress and be ready for a dinner engagement,” I replied.

  “Are you and your chaperone joining our entourage for supper?” he enquired.

  I blurted in haste. “We are meeting Ronnie and Iian…”

  “The Sheik and Tad’s yachting competitors?”

  “Err… Yes,” I stammered.

  “Be careful boy, you may get burnt if you play with fire,” he advised before disappearing into the elevator.

  La Cabana

  The duo was already waiting at the open-air seafood restaurant when my chaperone and I arrived in our summer fineries.

  “Oh, me oh my! The both of you look like you’d just stepped out from the pages of Esquire,” Iian quipped when we shook hands.

  “We weren’t sure to dress casual or formal? So, we went midway,” my Valet quipped.

  “We’ll have to peel them away as the night wears on, wouldn’t we,” Ronnie teased and gave us wicked winks.

  The captain was upon us before we could continue.

  “Welcome to the ‘famous diamond necklace,’ where the beautiful Señorita Taylor married her beloved Mike Todd.” He paused before he resumed, “And Elvis Presley had ‘Fun In Acapulco.’ This is also where the sassy Ms. Zsa Zsa Gabor jumped naked into the swimming pool, while Señoritas Gina Lollobrigida, Brigitte Bardot, Rita Hayworth, Hedy Lamarr, Lana Turner, and Ava Gardner made headlines at La Caleta,” the captain bloviated while handing us the menu.

  “Besides silver screen divas, La Cabana also entertains famous bullfighters and international songstresses.”

  “Need I add Olympic champions to our list of distinguished guests?” It was evident that the maître d’ knew who our companions were.

  I questioned curiously, “What’s the ‘famous diamond necklace’?”

  The man pointed to the brightly lit bay before he replied, “You see the sparkling lights? It forms a perfect U, like a diamond necklace. We refer to Acapulco as the ‘famous diamond necklace.’”

  “And what’s La Caleta?” I asked.

  “The place where you’ll find topless and naked sunbathers soaking up more than just the sun. It’s the ‘hottest’ and ‘sexist’ beach this side of the cove.”

  He burst out in laughter and waved his hands to the sides of his face pretending to fan off the heat.

  “Since Errol Flynn’s arrival in the forties, this sleepy fishing village had transformed into a tropical paradise where Hollywood comes to play and…,” he paused before he added jestingly, “…Sinatra’s escape from the mob.”

  “Now. Gentlemen, would you like to start with ‘coco locos’?”

  “What’s ‘coco locos’?” I queried.

  Iian quipped, “It’s a ‘cock-tale’ served in a green coconut.”

  Ronnie laughed at his friend’s tongue-in-cheek remark.

  Our flippant chitter-chatter progressed throughout our delicious meal. By the time dinner was over, the captain had recommended we head over to Tequila a Go Gó; the ‘In’ place to party.

  “Tell Teddy Stauffer, ‘Mr. Acapulco,’ the nightlife impresario I sent you. He’ll make sure you boys will have a good time,” the captain grinned cheekily.

  Tequila a Go Gó

  The discotheque was already in full swing with a queue that stretched beyond our periphery. When the doorman and bouncer spotted the champions, they waved us through without checking our I.D.s; much to the roisterers’ chagrin.

  When we were guided to the cordoned VIP section of the club, it was apparent that my Valet and I were in the company of famous yachtsmen.

  Within this smoke-filled establishment, the star-studded cast that occupied the stage and dance floor certainly made up for the lack of space. Stoned revelers with arms swinging, hips swaying and feet tapping, they gyrated to the latest disco beat.

  The two DJs in their respective booth competed fiercely in the art of record spinning while performers and Go-Go dancers enraptured the audience’s attention to heights of narcissistic ecstasy.

  As if I would deliquesce by these uninhibited carousals my gallant lover wrapped his arms around me.

  Iian grimaced over the loud music. “Are you afraid Young would be escorted out of the premise?”

  “The lad is in safe hands, except ours,” Ronnie sniggered.

  Just then a Junoesque woman clad in thigh high patent leather boots appeared from behind a velvet curtain. She was naked except for a skimpy patent leather G-string that exposed her shapely buttocks. Draped on her bonny neck was a giant boa constrictor which coiled artfully around her voluptuous bosom. The excited crowd retracted and created a path for her grand entrance. Her geometric coiffure accentuated her angular features, and her sultry voice matrixed by the song made famous by Édith Piaf would soon propel this Jamaican singer/model to international stardom. She was none other than the Grace Jones.

  The moment I saw the elegantly composed diva I was bewitched by her hypnotic performance. The Brobdingnagian serpent was but a fashion accessory to her resonating vocals and charismatic stature. A decade later this supermodel goddess and songstress became a blatant provocation to both the fashion and music world.

  That evening at Tequila a Go Gó my companions and I were smitten by the ‘Grace’ bug as was the corybantic audience who went hysterical over her performance.

  I noticed three familiar figures at the bar when I was whirling on the dance floor to Ms. Jones’ rendition of La Vie en rose.

  For a fleeting second, Tad’s eyes met mine. I was startled by this unexpected fortitude and turned away rapidly. I did not know how to react. I rustled loudly into my Valet’s ear to whom I just saw.

  Fortunately, the throng made it impossible for Tad to jostle his way towards our direction.

  “It’s too late now to retreat. Play cool!” Andy counseled.

  The ‘Countess,’ the Count and the athlete were next to us as soon as Grace disappeared backstage after her act.

  Mario announced, “What an incredible performance! I’m going backstage to meet this amazing woman.”

  “You must feature her in Vogue Italia. She’s magnificent!” Mrs. Swarovski endorsed while my Master glared at me forbiddingly as if I’d committed an atrocity. I dared not look him in the eye.

  The charismatic Arab greeted his opponents cordially when he introduced the Count and the ‘Countess’ to Ronnie and Iian.

  My chaperone and I knew we would be summoned by Tad upon our return to the hotel. But within this playpen of the rich and famous, we played along to my Master’s tune.

  Besides being bowled over by the ‘Grace’ bug, Mario was as enamored with Ronnie and Iian like Andy and me. Before the evening was up, the Count had arranged a photo-shoot with the British yachtsmen; much to the chagrin of his pal, Tad.

  Andy and I were left in the company of Tad and Andrea when the photographer, Ronnie, and Iian disappeared backstage to congratulate Ms. Jones.

  My Master vociferated to me privately, “You’re not of age to be in a discotheque. Leave now, before I have the bouncers escort you out. And meet me in my suite when I return to the hotel….”

  Before he could continue, the coquettish Mrs. Swarovski had draped herself onto the athlete’s shoulders. She coaxed him to the dance floor and later for an after party nightcap at her boudoir. I was glad that the widow extricated me from my Master’s wrath, if only temporarily.

  To my chagrin, my chaperone and I never got to see Ms.
Jones’ second act. She had appeared as a ferocious tigress while crooning the song, Nightclubbing and ripped the pants off from several male admirers along the way. That evening, her intercellular presentation was an advent to the post-disco Eighties where matrixical sounds veered towards a contemporary musical delivery. This divine ‘Grace’ was a decade before her time.

  At the time I did not realize that Ms. Jones’ style would impact my future design philosophy. The diva’s collaboration with the late fashion illustrator, Antonio Lopez, solidified her as an international fashion icon. This rare bird of paradise had unconsciously substantiated my style philosophy that of Less is More.

  Andy and I did not have a chance to bid the British yachtsmen farewell from our hurried departure. But from Mario’s beaming comportment the following morning I was sure that he had substituted my lover and me in their boudoir that night.

  Third Week of June 1968

  Bassenthwaite Lake, English Lake District

  Aunty Mary had packed her nephew and me a picnic basket for our day’s sojourn. She had much to complete before her upcoming vacation and declined our invitation to join us at Bassenthwaite Lake.

  Mary had professed during one of our conversations, “The lake, waters, meres, tarns, and mountains this side of England have become my landscape, my real world.”

  It was one of those lazy, hazy magical afternoons that Auntie Mary had described in one of her novels when Andy and I laid our picnic blanket around a plat of wildflowers by the lake.

  Our conversation drifted to my chaperone’s aunty.

  I opined, “Mary is a cultivated lady.”

  “She is, and I love her dearly, but at times she gets carried away by her faery lore,” my lover remarked.

  “Do you not believe what she says?”

  “That’s debatable. My aunt claims she encountered sprites and had entered their domains. I find that difficult to accept.” Andy asserted.