The Contesta de Claude raised her hand to stop the estate's gardener from further talk. She wanted to finish reading the paragraph in her book. The poor gardener held still and waited to further his plea. When she was finished, she turned her attention to the hapless man. With her lips fastened into a slit for a smile, her left eyebrow raised slightly, she stared back at him until he looked at the rich carpet beneath his feet.
"The fact remains that you are incompetent. I said dark then light for color arraignment and you have planted light then dark."
"Please Contesta, I will pay for the mistake from what little I have but do not fire me. My wife will be having our first child soon."
The Contesta chortled, "Monsieur, it is I who pay you. You want to pay me with my own money? Is that it? No, I will not have my garden path further defiled by your incompetent work."
"Please, I beg you. We have no place to go."
The Contesta looked at the butler near the door and signaled with a snap of her finger to rid her of the gardener. The butler immediately went to the poor man and took his arm to raise him from his knees. As the gardener sobbed, he gently guided him to the door. Once there, the butler reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a hundred franc note placing it in the shaking hand of the fired man before he shut the door on the gardener.
When the butler turned to the Contesta to see if she wanted anything else she said, "Make sure they are off the estate by sundown."
His eyes held back the glare of hate he had when he snapped his shoes together, bowed and left the room.
Deep in the estate's castle, there was shouting when the French goalie blocked the soccer ball. It was followed by a shriek of pain from a man pedaling a bike fastened to a generator. The man was thin and weary, his body covered with sweat and ugly red marks on his back. His hands were chained to the handlebars of the stationary bike and his feet fastened with straps to the pedal. Jean Claude had just delivered another blow to domestic's back with a willow branch. Hung around the tortured man's neck was a sign, 'Girlymann's Whore'. His eyes were sunk and the top tube of the DeRosa he was fastened to dripped with the beaten man's sweat and the spit of Jean Claude and his friends.
"Pedal you Belgian bitch." Jean Claude screamed at him before he sat back down in the comfort of the sofa along with his friends. The glare from the fifty inch screen of the television showed the soccer match with the French team winning. One of Jean Claude's friends when finished with his beer, threw the empty bottle at the domestic strapped to the DeRosa. A low groan was all he got from the tortured soul.
The Belgian, again, mustered his strength to continue to pedal with little food or water to sustain him. His head drooped, unable to hold itself erect from the hours and hours he was forced to pedal fastened to Campy's DeRosa. A human dynamo to make electricity for Jean Claude's play room. The DeRosa was smeared with dirt, the bright blue paint and the lovely rose decal barely showed through the grime heaped upon it.
To be continued....
No comments:
Post a Comment