I’m still working on my writing style, having trouble finding my niche. I’ve previously posted some imitation Hemingway.
See links below.
Now it’s on to some bad imitation Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Enjoy.
Dreams of Summers Postponed
A storm was brewing within the bowels of Don Claudio Raphaelo Machiavelli as he breakfasted on anisette and plantain, inconsolably thinking of the unrequited love of Violante Garbanzo. His mother loudly catalogued the many things she needed to purchase in the market, and pointedly lamented that she would be gone for hours. As she climbed into the sedan carried by a troop of four dour-faced Indians, she instructed Don Claudio Raphaelo Machiavelli to check on the new maid, Maria, to ensure she was cleaning the chambers upstairs and not idling.
Don Claudio Raphaelo Machiavelli stood up from his breakfast, and as usual left a bite of plantains for the iguana that guarded the kitchen. He went to his laboratory and desultorily lubricated his astrolabe with the oil of radish he had bought from the itinerant Portuguese merchant, Simao Carvalho. Upon deciding that his bowels would not move that morning, he resolved to inspect the Maria’s work, then write a love letter to Violante Garbanzo.
He found the maid in his room, happily humming to herself as she cleaned. She was standing on his bed reaching high with her feather duster to clear the top of his painting of the eruption of Vesuvius, her short tunic tucked into her girtle, exposing her girlish curves. With a start, she turned, and exclaimed, “Don Machiavelli! You startled me!”
“Maria,” he nodded in greeting. He paused, and added, “Have you no underwear?”
“Yes, Don Machiavelli, but today is Tuesday, and my grandmother is doing the wash.”
Maria stepped down from the bed, and pulled the mop from the bucket. She began to clean her side of the room, bending far forward to reach beneath the bed. As she got on her knees to wring the mop into the bucket, her tunic reached the floor, wetting the edges.
“This is my only clean tunic until the wash is dry!” she cried, and hastily stood up to take it off. She hung it carefully over the chair of Don Claudio Rapahelo Machiavelli’s writing desk, and returned to work. “I will be done soon,” she added, and proceeded to make quick work of the floor, now there was no danger of soiling her clothes.
When she finished, she said “Don Machiavelli, I will need to fluff your sheets. Your mother wishes for you to sleep comfortably, for she knows you have been suffering insomnia these hot nights. Can you get into bed?”
“Certainly,” Don Claudio Raphaelo Machiavelli replied, climbing into bed and laying on his back, thinking of Violante Garbanzo.
Maria was quite surprised. “Do you sleep in your laboratory clothes then? No wonder you have insomnia.”
“Of course not,” Don Claudio Raphaelo Machiavelli responded, “I sleep in my underwear.”
“Then please get in your underwear so you can be comfortable.”
As Don Claudio Raphaelo Machiavelli undressed, Maria took his laboratory clothes and carefully hung them in the wardrobe. He laid back in the bed, and Maria ruffed his sheets in the air, and laid them carefully over his body, starting at his feet and bringing them up to his chest several inches at a time. She straightened them out and patted them flat on his body.
“Are you comfortable?”
Don Claudio Raphaelo Machiavelli thought a moment and said no.
“It’s too hot in these summer months,” Maria responded, and quickly pulled the covers off. She thought a moment, and said, “There is always a night breeze. Close your eyes.” Don Claudio Raphaelo Machiavelli complied, and he felt Maria leaning in over his belly. She gently blew through pursed lips across his stomach, up to his chest, down his right leg, and up his left leg. Her breath had the fresh smell of camellias and lightly fermented cane liquor.
“Are you comfortable now, Don Machiavelli?”
“That’s better,” Don Claudio Raphaelo Machiavelli assented, for the cool air made him think of nights watching outside the window of Violante Garbanzo.
Maria thought a little longer, then suggested “When you sleep, you dream. And dreams come to you as light as a feather.”
She sat on the bed next to him, and ran the feather duster slowly and lightly across his torso and legs. After several moments, she asked, “Are you comfortable now, Don Machiavelli?”
After a pause to think, Don Claudio Raphaelo Machiavelli answered, “Perhaps.”
Maria said, “As I sit on the edge of the bed, it leans to one side and perhaps you are anxious you will fall off.” She climbed over him and lay next to him. After a moment, she said, “Perhaps dreams come to you not as a feather, but as a hand of the divine.” She lightly stroked his face and massaged his scalp. As he relaxed, she proceeded to knead the muscles of his chest and thighs.
After twenty minutes, she said, “Don Machiavelli, they say you are a great writer of love letters. Can you tell me what you write? For I am but a lonely and unmarried woman who lives with her grandmother, and I want to learn very much about the love of a man for a woman.”
Don Claudio Raphaelo Machiavelli thought of Violante Garbanzo, and he began to declaim upon the loveliness of first love, and the torments of desire, and how sweet love makes a guava taste, and the thousands of things he had learned through his years of love from afar.
Maria nestled against him, and said earnestly, “Don Machiavelli, you must learn to whisper these things into an ear, for the way to a woman’s heart is from the words she hears, not the words she reads. We will learn together.”
And so Don Claudio Raphaelo Machiavelli redoubled his efforts, pouring a torrent of impassioned phrases into Maria, a jumble of poetry he had written and fine words from the finest writers of Old and New Spain, rounded out with Shakespeare and Donne.
After the storm of words died out and they lay in silence, Maria asked, “And when does a man give a woman kisses, Don Machiavelli?”
“When the woman is ready,” Don Claudio Raphaelo Machiavelli answered solemnly.
“And how does the man know?” Maria asked, stroking his chest and breathing swiftly with the excitement of this new information.
“Love tells him,” was Don Claudio Raphaelo Machiavelli’s assured reply, content in the knowledge that he would recognize the signs when he was alone with Violante Garbanzo.
They lay in bed in silence until the bells tolled for noon-time Mass, and Don Claudio Raphaelo Machiavelli stood up and congratulated Maria on her good work in his room that day. She begged him to promise her that he would instruct her further in the arts of love, at least on Tuesday when his mother was at the market. Don Claudio Raphaelo Machiavelli, inspired by the practice, whole-heartedly agreed, and provided discourses to his eager pupil on the theme every Tuesday until the season of the rains began.
That’s it for now; GGM is a new found author crush for me, and I hope this little work did him some justice.