Sylvia’s Retirement
by Monti Sturzaker
[this is the second in the three part series–
read Madeleine’s Wife from the beginning]
Sylvia’s Retirement
São Paulo
February 8th, 1979
My Dearest Madeleine,
How grateful I am that you insisted I go on this solo trip, Darling! I do now see how disruptive my empty nesting must’ve been for you, especially when our Clem is doing so brilliantly at Harvard. I’m missing you terribly, of course, but it has been a wonderful adventure, reminiscent of our youthful romps around Europe before the war. You were right (as always!), retirement has been splendid. I wonder – has the Times covered the passing of one Wolfgang Gerhard, by way of stroke? Perhaps he is too insignificant to have made the New York news.
Darling – yesterday was the most glorious day of the trip so far. The sun has never been so dazzling, the sky so breathtakingly blue. On such days, the tourists all conglomerate in Bertioga. It is no wonder, with its postcard-perfect beaches and sapphire waves. I do so loathe the beach, Madeleine – there’s absolutely no way to keep intimates free of sand, is there? Nonetheless, I packed my small bag (with Ted Hughes’ The Iron Man, sunscreen, a few cruzeiro and a hypodermic needle) and joined in on the frivolity. Not even ten in the morning and it was already crowded! Positively bursting with hourglass-figured young women (exactly as we once looked), families huddled under vibrant parasols, and altogether too many men.
Oh! But I have not told you why I was even on that ghastly beach. You see, four days ago (not long after I landed in Brazil) I received a call to my hotel room. The mysterious caller uttered only a dollar value and a single name – not Gerhard’s, by the way – repeated himself and hung up. I suspected his accent was Israeli, perhaps even that lovely Mr Navon we met several years ago at the embassy – I hear he’s even president now, isn’t that nice? Well. Assassinations are more your specialty, Darling, but I simply couldn’t resist the thrill (and the money)!
Anyway, yesterday. By the time I spotted my target – instantly recognisable from the lopsided moustache worn under similarly lopsided eyes – it was well into the afternoon, the sun charring any beach-goer who dared leave the safety of their parasol. Unfortunately, he could not be dealt with from under the umbrella, and as it was too hot for the sand I was forced to wade towards him in the water, my little bag suffering from the lashings of spray. I shan’t be able to finish the book now – but not to worry, it was utter drivel written by a terribly boring man.
Can you pinpoint the exact age we turned invisible, Darling? I refuse to believe anyone who gazes upon you isn’t awestruck by your beauty – you’re even more radiant now than when we were young, like a fine French wine. It’s the reason I forget, I think, that men no longer notice me – and the reason (as I waded towards my target) that I was struck in the face by a volleyball. The teenaged boy who threw it gave only silence by way of apology, as if he couldn’t see me at all! I have a deep aubergine bruise today, Madeleine, the perfect match for that gorgeous velvet dress of yours.
Much to my annoyance, when I regained enough vision to resume stalking my target, I was aghast to find him removed from his cerulean parasol. In my agitated state, I splashed about so that a lifeguard (whose face bore a striking resemblance to a pig) appeared and forced me from the water! Concerned about a repeat performance once I had my target under thumb, I decided to first find a suitable distraction.
It took me longer than I care to admit. By the time I did, my knees were protesting and I had begun to wonder if you were correct in your assertions that retirement necessitated no further work on my behalf. It was a relief, therefore, when I spotted an attractive bikini-clad young lady sleeping under an umbrella quite close to the lifeguard’s watchtower, a pair of exquisite lace gloves on the blanket beside her. As you well know, arthritis has been giving me some trouble these days, but my fingers are still very sticky and it was inconsequential to wander past and acquire her gloves. Ignoring the pain in my legs, I clambered up the watchtower and showered the guard in gratitudes while I slipped the gloves under his plastic throne. After, I returned to gently nudge the chartreuse umbrella over, awaking the lady. Discovering her gloves’ misplacement, she let out a squeal (indistinguishable from a pig in heat), summoning the lifeguards.
The thick crowds, while oft an aid for this sort of mission, slowed my progression back to where I’d last seen my target – thrice I spied a person of similar impression, spending valuable minutes to ensure they were indeed different men (aren’t they all so boringly similar, Darling!). Eventually I uncovered him a little ways offshore, having graduated from sunbathing to swimming. He was only slightly older than I – but still male – so to him I was practically invisible and he utterly failed to notice my approach. Perhaps I should give him more credit – at the time, a pretty lady on shore was wailing accusations about pig-faced lifeguards pinching exquisite lace gloves.
I was ever so surprised by the speed at which rat poison injected into the man (if you were here, Madeleine, no doubt you’d have dreamt up a more sophisticated method) completed the job – he was breathing water and sinking before I’d even left the ocean. A fitting end, I think for Josef Mengele, given the war crimes of which Auschwitz’s ex-doctor was accused. Of course, the papers all believe him to be Gerhard, as that’s the name he’s been using lately.
You know, retirement is far more thrilling than I anticipated, and perhaps I shall retire after all. Next time, however, let’s holiday together, my love!
Always yours,
Sylvia
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