...and going to state...action.
The jade edge of the writing compartment showed luminescent in the venetian-split rays of an afternoon sun.
Pillar Vas-Gurta gestured a heavy mop like hand towards the cigar case.
Take as many as you like, he mouthed. But everything suspicious
caused in me an urgent decline. You are always too generous Pillar,
I uttered with feigned diplomacy; the dense undertow carrying off the forfeit.
Why are the Arm-ericans not displaying a greater sense of co-operation,
Pillar questioned the telephone in thick Polish, and to me the single nod of a telephone rung off, his reply was as good as a grunt.
As he finished the call; Ah now, come sit young Valentin, if you’ll none of my Cubans come sit and sip Cognac with me at least, spend a moment with an excellent mint.
Untroubled by the American question, Pillar, eyes like hurricanes, hair curled on his forhead with the oil of a whistle, teeth forged, as if by a village blacksmith, patient and keen to devour conversation, was not a man to be declined twice in one afternoon.
Pillar was a man who’s stubble grew as he considered each of his thoughts: and the skewer fed silence that connected fear with steel.
I sense Valentin you are withholding something, are you troubled, rumbled the Polish border, is the Cuban smoke a little too dense for your sensibilities, My friend, my friend you are troubled, so tell me.
Please. I answered for the cognac. And for the writing compartment.
I see it is from Gabriella. His flash, dense and swift as a school of minnows turning their escape into silver, caught me unaware; the weight in my question.
He loves this woman. Here it is then. Even Pillar is vulnerable.
You do not answer Valentin. No I’m sorry, I mumbled. Something troubles me. Please tell me Pillar, why am I here, why have you called me.
Ah the question that cuts to chase the rabbit. As you say. Or something like that, no. You are here Valentin because I like you. You may think, there is nothing I like, and that also may be true. But the cigar must be smoked to appreciate its fullness.
And it that moment, Pillar reached for the razor in his sleeve. Before he was aware, I had seen the gesture. The heel of my shoe captured his nose. The cognac glass filled slowly; a distortion of colour. Pillar sat motionless at his desk. Draining with the final swill. The jade edge of the writing compartment offering a seal of approval; Gabriella's last kiss.
The cigar case remained open and untouched.
I had taken as many as I'd liked.
...and Cut..
This was an attempt at a 'thriller' poem written a while back.