Guffingford
04-07-2005, 13:27
A man in a bright, spotless white suit, except for his light green tie walked energetic along the edge of the garden. He wore a cream coloured fedora hat as gray and black hair came out underneath of the hat. Small drops of sweat pearled down his neck, into his silk shirt. A closer look revealed even more hints of his taste for the finer clothes available. Silk lapel, a belt made of the finest leather. Oddly enough, nobody paid attention to him.
The grass looks young and fresh green as the team of gardeners are watering the plants, cleaning the irrigation system and more things gardeners do. Young certainly isn't an apt description for the man who is close to sixty years old at first sight. You could hear him walking, and even a blind man can judge by the sound of his heels resting in his buckskin shoes (black leather with white leather) touching the tiles beneath his feet you hear him stepping on them, they are made for his feet only. Although the sun was burning down on all the men, women and children bathing near the pool the man didn't seem affected by it. Old as he is, he looked around and noticed another figure waving at him on the other side of the garden.
While he crossed the garden, bypassing the pool... Strange and stupid as it may sound, but it seemed if all the waterdrops coming from the playing children did not touch him.
Still spotless he inspected the chair at the table where the other man sat, cleaned the seating with his newspaper and after doing so he folded it back to a near-perfect rectengular package and laid it down on the table. His face, Spanish or Portuguese as far as I can see, told an endless story of adventure, wealth and hidden treasures. His eyes were little treasure troves, and when you looked into his deepblue eyes, you could have sworn you were staring into the void. He snapped his fingers, whispered something to the waiter who rushed to the bar. Only a few moments later he returned with a bottle of Jack Daniels, a small silver bucket filled with ice and two crystal glasses for a shot of whiskey.
'So, how is it to be back?' The man who already sat down under the umbrella started what looked like a failed conversation, no need to continue it. After the man in the white suit took a sip he answered.
'Very, very good. As a matter of fact, I never felt worse.' He did not care about looking at the listener while talking, and as he was speaking about what he did, where and when he was looking at the tall Bismarck palmtrees, and the flowering beds in the garden at the opposite side of the pool. It was late in the afternoon, closer to evening than afternoon and the sun was setting. Yes, life is good at the Cleg Islands, one of the most precious and beautiful places for a holiday. Money well spent.
'So,' the man continued, 'Our great nation has been quiet for some time. Paul Kruger's attention has drifted away to matters less important. But anyhow something has to be done. What say you?'
'Normally I wouldn't be bothered. My business is going very well and if I might say, our nation on the international stage might put it at risk.'
'I know, Mr Threadneedle, but sometimes you have to take risks.' The man in the white suit, who we shall now call Mr Threadneedle looked in an awkward manner at the man leaning backwards while he took out a pack of cigarettes, offered one to Mr Threadneedle but he politely refused.
'No', he replied, 'A Monte Cristo is more of my kind of tobacco.' He pulled out a small purse made for cigars and took one out. With a small Swiss pocket knife he snipped off the end.
'On second thought, no.' Threadneedle again took out the purse and put his cigar back in and instead he poured himself another drink. A double one.
'Back to the subject at hand Mr Threadneedle, what can we do to make ourselves known again? Many new faces have sprung up during the time of our absence. We can...'
'Yes go on,' Mr Threadneedle interrupted the other man even before he got a chance of explaining himself.
'...we can revive the plan known as The List.'
'I knew beforehand you were going to bring up this subject. It's beaten to death, it was a cry for attention and it has never been a real option.'
'Oh yes it was my good Mr Threadneedle.'
'Bram, you listen to me...' A waiter passed by so Threadneedle had to pause his anger, nodding in approval to the man and as soon as Threadneedle thought he was out of sight he continued.
'Bram, you cannot do this. There have never been plans for an operation known as The List...' But before the two could continue their little argument storm clouds began drifting in from the Inner Sea, bringing bad news to the town Oysterbaai. The dark gray sky was bound to bring in rain and thunderstorms. Bram took one last sip from his beverage before he said to move inside to take shelter. And indeed, in less than five minutes later all hell broke loose; the heavens came down on earth in the shape of rain and lightning bolts. Inside the lounge men and women of the social upper crust rejoiced in games of bridge after the splendid dinner where Mr Threadneedle presented his table, me included, a truly spectacular surprise: Chateau d'Yquem, still drinkable even though it was bottled in 1787! The price is not up for discussion, but I can guarantee you this is, for me at least, the Holy Grail of French wines.
The situation between me and Threadneedle was cooling down, and after me and him watched a few games of backgammon, played three and talking with other esteemed and distinguished members of the elite club the bell tolled eleven o'clock in the evening. Both of the men retreated themselves to a darker corner away from the fireplace to continue their private discussion. What came out of it? I don't know. But it's clear Guffingford has returned and will do something staggering. If we believe the rumours floating around Carlos Threadneedle and Bram Leopold like mist in a sheltered bay that is. If we do, something staggering will happen.
OOC: Back from my holiday!
The grass looks young and fresh green as the team of gardeners are watering the plants, cleaning the irrigation system and more things gardeners do. Young certainly isn't an apt description for the man who is close to sixty years old at first sight. You could hear him walking, and even a blind man can judge by the sound of his heels resting in his buckskin shoes (black leather with white leather) touching the tiles beneath his feet you hear him stepping on them, they are made for his feet only. Although the sun was burning down on all the men, women and children bathing near the pool the man didn't seem affected by it. Old as he is, he looked around and noticed another figure waving at him on the other side of the garden.
While he crossed the garden, bypassing the pool... Strange and stupid as it may sound, but it seemed if all the waterdrops coming from the playing children did not touch him.
Still spotless he inspected the chair at the table where the other man sat, cleaned the seating with his newspaper and after doing so he folded it back to a near-perfect rectengular package and laid it down on the table. His face, Spanish or Portuguese as far as I can see, told an endless story of adventure, wealth and hidden treasures. His eyes were little treasure troves, and when you looked into his deepblue eyes, you could have sworn you were staring into the void. He snapped his fingers, whispered something to the waiter who rushed to the bar. Only a few moments later he returned with a bottle of Jack Daniels, a small silver bucket filled with ice and two crystal glasses for a shot of whiskey.
'So, how is it to be back?' The man who already sat down under the umbrella started what looked like a failed conversation, no need to continue it. After the man in the white suit took a sip he answered.
'Very, very good. As a matter of fact, I never felt worse.' He did not care about looking at the listener while talking, and as he was speaking about what he did, where and when he was looking at the tall Bismarck palmtrees, and the flowering beds in the garden at the opposite side of the pool. It was late in the afternoon, closer to evening than afternoon and the sun was setting. Yes, life is good at the Cleg Islands, one of the most precious and beautiful places for a holiday. Money well spent.
'So,' the man continued, 'Our great nation has been quiet for some time. Paul Kruger's attention has drifted away to matters less important. But anyhow something has to be done. What say you?'
'Normally I wouldn't be bothered. My business is going very well and if I might say, our nation on the international stage might put it at risk.'
'I know, Mr Threadneedle, but sometimes you have to take risks.' The man in the white suit, who we shall now call Mr Threadneedle looked in an awkward manner at the man leaning backwards while he took out a pack of cigarettes, offered one to Mr Threadneedle but he politely refused.
'No', he replied, 'A Monte Cristo is more of my kind of tobacco.' He pulled out a small purse made for cigars and took one out. With a small Swiss pocket knife he snipped off the end.
'On second thought, no.' Threadneedle again took out the purse and put his cigar back in and instead he poured himself another drink. A double one.
'Back to the subject at hand Mr Threadneedle, what can we do to make ourselves known again? Many new faces have sprung up during the time of our absence. We can...'
'Yes go on,' Mr Threadneedle interrupted the other man even before he got a chance of explaining himself.
'...we can revive the plan known as The List.'
'I knew beforehand you were going to bring up this subject. It's beaten to death, it was a cry for attention and it has never been a real option.'
'Oh yes it was my good Mr Threadneedle.'
'Bram, you listen to me...' A waiter passed by so Threadneedle had to pause his anger, nodding in approval to the man and as soon as Threadneedle thought he was out of sight he continued.
'Bram, you cannot do this. There have never been plans for an operation known as The List...' But before the two could continue their little argument storm clouds began drifting in from the Inner Sea, bringing bad news to the town Oysterbaai. The dark gray sky was bound to bring in rain and thunderstorms. Bram took one last sip from his beverage before he said to move inside to take shelter. And indeed, in less than five minutes later all hell broke loose; the heavens came down on earth in the shape of rain and lightning bolts. Inside the lounge men and women of the social upper crust rejoiced in games of bridge after the splendid dinner where Mr Threadneedle presented his table, me included, a truly spectacular surprise: Chateau d'Yquem, still drinkable even though it was bottled in 1787! The price is not up for discussion, but I can guarantee you this is, for me at least, the Holy Grail of French wines.
The situation between me and Threadneedle was cooling down, and after me and him watched a few games of backgammon, played three and talking with other esteemed and distinguished members of the elite club the bell tolled eleven o'clock in the evening. Both of the men retreated themselves to a darker corner away from the fireplace to continue their private discussion. What came out of it? I don't know. But it's clear Guffingford has returned and will do something staggering. If we believe the rumours floating around Carlos Threadneedle and Bram Leopold like mist in a sheltered bay that is. If we do, something staggering will happen.
OOC: Back from my holiday!