Colonel's Story

The rose blossomed splendidly overlooking the courtyard; a fresh
raindrop glistened upon its scarlet petal. A pearl dove circling the
fountain careered off course and landed on the Colonel's white-painted
balcony, its beady eye peering through the netted curtains, waiting for
its tasty morsel. Half an hour later, a figure silhouetted behind the
pane of glass, which slowly opened and a hand holding fragments of
stale crust passed through it.

'I did it my way..regrets, I've had a few..' the Colonel's voice echoed
across the courtyard. He pulled up a wicker chair on the balcony and
moulded into it, observing the grandeur of his majestic courtyard.
Slowly, he unfolded his 'El Pais' newspaper and took a swig of his Jack
Daniel's whiskey. The morning was particularly humid, yet the Colonel
seemed unperturbed by the stifling heat. His cream, starchy trousers
clung to his legs, immaculate, a specimen of orderliness and his blazer
adorned with various metallic achievements, hung proudly on his
shoulders.

'Amelia', the name passed through his lips. He reached out to the
single rose, growing directly underneath the ledge and pulled it from
its roots. The Colonel inhaled deeply and then hurled it over the
veranda, watching it cascade to the ground.

Her coffin had been made from oak wood, tarnished and polished,
beckoning one to touch it, to smell it. The Colonel had hurled a single
rose onto it as it was lowered into the ground.

The dove remained motionless on the edge of the balcony, its morsels
untouched.

The Colonel reminisced about his love affair. Amelia Garlett-Jones was
a society girl. She had offered him a canap? and a glass of white wine.
She didn't really make much of an impression on him, for she was a
society girl. Amelia played a piece by Brahms on the grand piano, fluid
and assertive, whilst he drifted in and out of a reverie. But he did
recall the way she danced. She had taken off her exquisite shoes to
deliver a fine dance, a single-minded outburst lacking in both rhythm
and social graces.

His hand shaking, almost unnoticeably, he refilled his glass. 'Hay mi
manera..' he bellowed incoherently. The Colonel has spent the past ten
years residing in Granada, his Spanish almost to mother tongue standard
and his popularity high among the locals. He holds a deep fondness for
naval stories, in particular those which carry an underlying General
France theme.

'If only General Franco had succeeded in his pursuits at sea'. The
Colonel had voiced at a luncheon.'You see, his brother was a strong and
efficient navy captain, his father was so proud of him. But poor Franco
had a lot of expectations to measure up to, and he was not in the
fittest shape of health. Tsss, what could have been, the paths we
take'.

The Colonel never married. He went from post to post, had a girl from
port to port but he has a stubborn heart. It was during his post at Abu
Dhabi, that he met Amelia, he was 39 years old and she was 21 years
old. He had not yet been honoured with the title of Colonel and was
working his way up the ranks. He had met her at a ball held at the
barracks. Her father had organised the whole event and had invited
every name in the military arena. Of course, she had a line of suitors;
navy captains, sergeants, generals, but since when had the Colonel ever
failed in his convictions. Not until the very day that her father put
it plainly to him, that under no circumstances was his daughter to be
seen in his company. You see her father worked with agenda's and
bribes, he was simply radiating in dollar signs.

Amelia and the Colonel both belonged to the same social club in Abu
Dhabi. It held dances and had an outdoor pool to bathe in under the
sweltering heat. They grasped every opportunity given to rendezvous at
this particular location. Sipping ice-cold tea together, playing cards,
taking long summer walks outside the premises, all of this before her
father's revelation and then all contact was broken.

In deep despair, the Colonel fell into drowning his sorrows in local
bars. His officer in command advised him to return to his senses,
highlighting the severity of his malpractice. The Colonel retaliated by
working himself into the ground with hardly a spare moment to
himself.

One could say that he is catching up on that lost time now.

The sun drew back behind the clouds and the Colonel lifted himself up
from his seat. He retreated back inside the living room and turned on
the radio. Sitting at his desk, he pulled open the top drawer, bringing
out a bundle of letters tied together with a frayed piece of ribbon.
All of them decorated with Abu Dhabi postage stamps. Filtering them one
by one, he eventually selected a letter and laid his hand down firmly
on top of it.

The letter was official, written by hand but approved by the
authorities. It was the declaration of Amelia's death and her last
wishes. She had succumbed to ill health after a period of mental
illness. Her sister wrote of her deep depression after her marriage and
the terrible loss of weight. She had suffered from pneumonia in her
final weeks. Along with the news, were the details of a property in
Granada, Spain, and a set of keys. He opened up a random letter and
held the scent to his nostrils, breathing in the dust and perfume of
the dried rose petals that had covered it so discreetly.

Releasing a sigh, he refilled his glass and drank it all in one
go.

'Amelia' he shuffled into the kitchen only to re-emerge with a handful
of sunflower seeds, which he scattered onto the balcony's wide
ledge.

'Amelia.., my sweetheart, come to me'

The dove hobbled a few paces forward and settled a couple of inches
away from the Colonel's full palm. Its feathers ruffled and its eyes
alert and watchful.

'Why do you look at me that way, cari?o' he whispered.

'Remember when we danced by the pool-side, God, you were so
beautiful'

He held his hand out to the dove. 'Come here my love, I'll take care of
you again, like I used to, just you and me'.

The dove hopped onto his palm and the Colonel placed it upon its bird
perch.