Zdravka Evtimova

 

Gallantine

One of the lavish garden parties thrown by my mother marked the beginning of Gallantine's era of fame. He used to be and still is one of the exceptional celebrities in our backwater town. When God created humankind He stuffed too many teeth in Gallantine; I had the feeling he looked at me with his teeth. My mother sighed and pined for him. After she had integrated herself in the city elite, she developed a taste for refined gentlemen and Gallantine was so refined that he could hardly recognize his own image in the mirror. He was the delicacy dish on the menu of all my mother's parties. At the lavish party I'd just mentioned Gallantine courted me in the most civilized way.

Of course, I was sprawling in a custom made easy chair the size of two easy chairs. I suppose my buttocks were overflowing in pessimistic waves toward the floor as my mother hurled the nets of her eyes to catch Gallantine. That gentleman was a lawyer or was on the verge of becoming one if you judged by his great pains to stand out by juridical terms he lavishly used. So that remarkable legal figure sat by my side, stuffed a handful of wise Latin sentences into my ear, then whispered, "Can I have the pleasure of dancing with you?"

Had I been a more sensitive soul I would have eaten the carpet under his boots jumping with happiness. But I imagined he would look like an exhausted exclamation mark at the end of the interminable sentence of my body. His smile consisted of honey and syrup that'd stream down my breasts. That premonition sobered me up.

"Yes, you can dance with me but I will be free in about twenty five minutes," I declared with the hesitant voice of a beauty whom half the mankind was dying to dance with.

"It will be my pleasure," Gallantine lied.

I went on studying the group of the intellectuals invited to my mother's party: two financiers plus wives smelling sweet of French perfumes. My mother hung about them rustling the skirts of dress in a very concerned manner indeed. It was Italian and cost 6 000 US dollars that my father had paid. I provide the precise price of the dress on purpose: my mother respected people who discussed how much her garments cost. She rushed enthusiastically to Gallantine bathing him in the golden torrent of her exultant voice, "Mr. Gallantine," she exclaimed. "I suspect you might be a little bored here. Could you possibly tell me what you think about…" and he ran to tell her what he thought but returned to me very quickly. After exactly twenty-five minutes he was holding me trying to make me dance. I'd rather say I squashed him under my bodily mass the eyes of the whole party glued to us. I supposed that the prevailing part of the guests were expecting I'd trip over the carpet and spread Mr. Gallantine in a thin layer on the floor under me.

"Do you know you are a very charming young woman?"

That was the young lawyer's first sentence, and it sounded quite promising. It was evident he made efforts to smile at me watching Veronica in the meantime. She was a magnificent blonde who studied pedagogy; my father sponsored her scientific research when he was still alive torn between the blonde's pedagogical endeavors and my mother's attractions. I suspected that in spite of his immense loyalty for my mother he indulged in a little pedagogy every now and then. Apparently Gallantine was attracted by that science as well. It would be very invigorating to stick a pin into his juridical ass as we danced but the event that followed made me stare at him.
"I heard many people talk about your sharp wit," Gallantine spoke out spilling tentatively the cologne of his flatteries. "In fact let me admit I am a little afraid to share with the thing I have on my heart."

"There are no reasons to panic," I encouraged him. Wild curiosity was eating me; what sort of a favor would he ask of my mother - a big loan? The compliment he paid me made think the man had set a very high goal before him.

"Will you marry me?" he said.

It was only natural I stopped dancing. Perhaps I had stepped too heavily on his toes for his face blanched.

"Didn't your mother prepare you for … for that conversation?" Mr. Gallantine asked. "I asked her to."

For some incomprehensible reason mother had failed to provide that precious information. My suitor's zest for life had obviously abandoned him.

"Will you marry me?" the lawyer repeated this time sounding more convincing than before.

"This is a topic of a serious discussion," I remarked. I had noticed that that my prospective husband watched the blonde pedagogue putting all passion and despair in the world in his eyes.

"You do not trust me," he concluded. After a second, however, he seemed to recollect something and added, "O Key. Now it's as good as any other time."

He touched my elbow tenderly his palm sinking up to the wrist into my blubber then he dragged me towards the terrace. My father bought the marble from Torino, Italy, for mother was delighted when the elite spoke about her terrace and marble from Torino. At such moments she felt like a full-fledged lady.

"It's so wonderful here!" the lawyer sighed and stumbled over a little naked statue of Eros in the middle of the terrace, around which Torino marble vases jutted out.

"Gallantine," I grabbed him by the hand and lifted him from the pink tiles he had hit his head against. "I will marry you."

My instantaneous consent to become Gallantine's wife made him very unhappy. He started coughing; droplets of saliva flew at a considerable speed in all directions around his head. When at last his jubilation abated he took a deep breath, looked into my eyes and said,

"It is all right, dear. Now I'd like to list some conditions you must bear in mind."

*** *** ***

I'd like to tell you more about Gallantine. I knew he was waiting for me exhibiting proudly his athletic body (male athletic bodies are priority number 1 with my mother) on the divan my father had fetched from Italy. I supposed Gall would start producing convincing arguments as to how sharp my wit was, how rich and colorful imagination God had blessed me with and how well I spoke English. I could only surmise that that the attractive blond lady who constantly hovered around Gallantine and made it known far and wide she excelled in pedagogy, had probably written the text which Gallantine was going to use in order to declare how much he wanted me to become his wife. Her name was Veronica, the queen of pedagogic research.

Although I was as heavy as a combat armored vehicle I was well capable of getting on the nerves of little fluffy kittens like Gallantine. I had made him wait for me on the divan twenty-five minutes now and I hoped his syrupy face had been warped like a doormat under the burden of his wounded pride. Who the hell dared subject him to jeers of this sort? Of course, no one but me! He had probably perspired profusely and the smell of his first-class sweat ruined the aroma of the deodorant - liquid in which Gallantine swam every day. I even thought that instead of a man I'd face a deodorant spray.

I had made a firm decision to make Gallantine realize how precious I was so I intended to keep him on that divan half an hour more. That was a trick I had learned from my deceased father, "A bloke waiting in front of your door is a can of beef paste, my girl." The thought of Gallantine in the form of paste breathed new life into me.

Somebody knocked at the door. It would be more precise to say kicked the door trying to wrench it out of its fixture and that, strictly speaking was sheer arrogance. I would not allow anybody to ruin the property that my father bought at the price of his own blood - the blood of the man who fairly recently met his maker assisted by an anonymous bullet. Before Gallantine knocked once again at the door father had delivered from Belgium, mother rang me up and spoke to me in a very concerned manner, "Gall is coming to pop the question, dear," she sighed on the telephone. "Please, be friendly with him. You know how much that man loves you."

That man loved very much most of the heiresses in town but chose me in the long run. That fact apart from being a remarkable acknowledgment of my deceased father's money was a topic that gave rise to unsavory comments about me.

I switched on my computer, riveted my heavenly eyes on the monitor and called out, "Come in!"

"Good afternoon, my dear!" I was right: his mouth did look like a warped doormat. "You look swell today. Has your mother informed you what I intend to do now?"

"Yes, she has," I assured him waiting for additional information.

"You are very beautiful," my husband to be ventured and the doormat in his mouth wiped my old sandals. It was obvious he wanted to appeal to me.

"I suppose you'd say a few words on how intelligent I am," I told him discreetly. "The intelligence of a human being is invisible. You can use that - just to be on the safe side."

"But you are really very beautiful," my fiancé had evidently let his imagination run loose. "Your eyes are green like…" the comparison was too cumbersome to make and, willing to eliminate the awkward pause in the conversation, Gallantine pushed his lips into my mouth. In other words he kissed me, as a proper loving husband would positively do. "You are an exceptionally intelligent woman and I really want you to be my wife."

He produced the same sentence two months ago as he tangoed around the excessive curves of my body at my mother's party. His offer did not surprise me at all. I was interested however how much he would want in return for his self-sacrifice.

"You are a person of rich and compassionate soul…"

"My soul is another good topic of discussion," I encouraged him. "It is invisible as well."

"I am serious… and I enjoy your sense of humor, too."

"Let's drop the unnecessary procedures," my voice sounded dry like the sands of the Sahara. "In spite of all your admiration for my soul, my sense of humor, my rich and colorful imagination, let us concentrate on my weight."

"You are so pretty," my future husband repeated stubbornly. Gallantine lacked both inspiration and imagination, so he underlined again, "You are so pretty…Well, yes, you really are quite… how shall I put it… bosomy. Yes. You are fat. And fat is fat. Well, you know it's important to get on with your wife. There must be spirituality and understanding between husband and wife. But in order to understand one's wife spiritually, one needs money."

"Gallantine," I said. "How much money do you need to understand me spiritually after you become my husband?"

"You are intelligent… And I appreciate the fact you speak to the point. No prejudice, no beating about the bush."

"Yes, yes," I whispered changing the approach to our conversation."You know what? I really thank you very much. You are such an attractive man and I am such a … fattie." The clouds in the sky witnessed my humiliation. Well, my father used to say, "Let the brassy idiot clamber atop your head, my girl. Leave him there for a minute to check how deep into your brain he'll try to spit. Then squash him in the mud under your boots."

"You are fat," Gallantine spoke most sincerely the blue weighing machine in his eyes measuring the tonnage of my buttocks. "Yes, you are. You are positively familiar with the fact your mother approves of me."

Yes, I knew she approved of him on Tuesdays and Fridays in the afternoon after she had had her lunch and the beautician had refreshed her face with pineapple juice. Gallantine however decided to explain to me what that exactly meant. "She is great… You will become my wife. Mrs. Gallantine! Can you imagine it? There will be only one Mrs. Gallantine in the whole country. You will be that lady. But as you know very well everything in the world has a price," he dropped the bait of his sentence and let it hang inserting the sharp hook into my stomach.

I managed to keep my mouth shut gluing my eyes to the parquet floor. If I looked at him for a split second this hamster would burst into flames. Even Gallantine would sense I was about to shoot him dead.

"Of course, the price is high," the hamster produced the end of his statement. "Forty percent of your father's property, my dear. In return you will become Mrs. Gallantine. From diplomatic point of view, this means that you'll be welcome in all drawing rooms of the elite although I find it hard to imagine what you'll talk with these people about. Perhaps you'll have to read some books on art and law… I have built my reputation painstakingly so many years now. You'll be invited to all major receptions…"

"40 per cent!" I was about to roar but I swallowed my rage before it was too late.

"And I will be in your bed once a month on a regular basis," Gallantine assured me fairly despaired by that perspective. "Perhaps you 'll get pregnant although I strongly doubt it…"

"Thank you," I whispered carefully pulling open the drawer of my desk.

"Men should not live in loneliness, don't you think?" He said. " You and I can talk on the telephone - for example Mondays in the evening. 40 % and let us appoint the date of our official wedding ceremony."

"Perhaps all that deserves 50% of my father's property," I whispered quietly. Wild anger burned a tunnel in my brain but an adipose young woman like me should never board the train of anger. "What will you say about 50%?" I purred sticking my eyes into my belly button. I had no desire to look at him at all.

"You know what? You are very fat, but you're cool," the hamster smiled encouragingly. "50 is my favorite number."

"I don't need money," I lied brazenly. "All I need is your love. If I make it 60 % will you visit me twice a month?"

Gallantine's face lit up.

"You are very cool! Very cool indeed!" he whispered. "If you want we can make it here and now!"

I had already managed to open the desk drawer, so I thrust my fat hand into it dragging out a Makarov pistol. Makarov is a good gun and I hope my father had made a proper use of it before the guys sent him to meet his maker. I lifted the muzzle of Makarov to Gallantine's mouth although the man had already planted his hand in the warm glen between my breasts.

"What do you say about 70%?" I asked pressing Makarov against his forehead. My future husband choked gulping the air under his nose.

"Get… th…this gun aa…way!" he stammered chopping the words with the red saw of his tongue. "G..g…get it away!"

Gallantine grabbed at his stomach with both hands ready to throw up any minute now: a big blond pile of legal knowledge stewing in his own juice. He had probably wetted his first-quality pants.

"Tomorrow you will introduce me to a lawyer I am interested in," I told him calmly. "Otherwise you'll acquire an interesting part of my father's property - a bullet in the medulla oblongata. I hope it makes exactly 70% of my father's property, doesn't it?

I was afraid that Gallantine was unable to calculate the exact percentage just now.

"Dear," I croaked using up all my compassion. "Do you love me?" I pressed harder my father's Makarov against my future husband's forehead and got no reply.

It is difficult for a human being to speak with a muzzle of a gun between his or her teeth but Gallantine coped with this impossible situation.

"Yes, I love you," his words did not sound sad although I saw tears in his eyes.

"Well, I love you, too," I told him admiring his complexion.

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