Serving Madame Dollarangelle and The Cockroach Prophet at Lunch

Chapter I: Arranging the Meeting

Giving a zippy scratch of my nails on the rattan screen between her boudoir and the walk-in closet where I conduct business, I clear my throat and announce my purpose in interrupting her slumber:

“Madame … we’ve just got word that Mr. C. G. Soluary approved your request for an audience; does 11:30 brunch suit you?”

:: nothing but silence beyond the rattan screen, or do I imagine a soft rustle as she shifts in her silk sheets? ::

“He’s able to come here, so no need to leave Sanctuary. I can serve you privately on your lanai or reserve a cabana?”

“I don’t believe I know a Mr. Sardinary … and I’ve never requested an ‘audience’ with anyone in my life so what the devil is the meaning of …”

I hear her voice faintly from beyond the rattan. It sounds like I’m eavesdropping on a conversation between herself and the ceiling fan above her bed.

“It’s Mr. SOLUARY, Madame. Mr. C. G. Soluary. But you are correct: we never requested an audience with him. Not formally.”

“Well then NO. No thank you! You can inform this Mr. Salivary I withdraw this imaginary request for audience he or his people cooked up.”

“Certainly, Madame, I’m happy to decline on your behalf, but I wonder if you’d like to consider his … reputation. Before I leave word?”

:: the lazy ceiling fan on its slow morning setting whispered three seconds-worth of rotation ::

“Madame?”

She sighs and directs me (or the fan?) to “continue, then.”

“It seems Mr. Soluary is held in very high regard on the island, including here at Sanctuary. He’s an entity every islander with money, position or influence seeks to consult with. Furthermore, his acceptance communiqué came in writing. Presented on very nice stationary but, I’m afraid, without a return address or any sort of contact information. The only way to decline his invitation would be by leaving word at the front desk that you do not wish to receive him. Are you certain you want to miss an opportunity to introduce yourself?Or worse, risk making him feel unwelcome?”

While my mistress considers this information I replay the scene where I came by this information; when I inquired about him at the front desk - in a discreetly subdued voice, even - all Sanctuary staff on my side of the lobby turned their attention towards me and lost their professional composure for just a moment, as though programmed on a gut level to respond to the mere mention of Mr. C. G. Soluary with a kind of reverently rapt state of waiting.

Under the circumstances of Madame Dollarangle’s necessary and tenuous residency on island, I recognize the extension of this odd invitation from Mr. Soluary is, at best, not an opportunity we can afford to miss. At worst, I fear offending Mr. Soluary could seal Madame’s fate and leave us with nowhere to run.

“One more thing, Madame: Mr. C. G. Soluary is not known by that name alone …”

“Ugh … Mr. Chardonnary has even MORE complicated syllables to dignify him?”

I look at the thick card that came inside the invitation, and read the title in raised golden letters on an iridescent background containing all the shimmering colors of a peacock’s feathers at midnight.

“That he does, Madame. Mr. C. G. Soluary is also known as The Cockroach Prophet.”

**********

:: the unmistakable sound of all my mistress’s silken bedding being thrown to the floor, her weight leaving the bed, and her footsteps fast approaching ::

I step back from the rattan screen just as she comes around it stark naked, reaching out for the red feather-edged robe I have draped over my arm at the ready for this moment.

“It’s eleven o’clock now, Madame … I’ll make preparations for the meal and refreshments immediately while you put yourself together. Shall we receive Mr. Soluary here and dine on your lanai? Or would you prefer one of the cabanas by the pool?”

She freezes in the middle of pulling on the robe with one long tan leg, a patch of unruly pubic hair, and one large breast still hanging out, swaying while the rest of her body stands stock still considering the question.

:: a loud knock with the rhythm of housekeeping, but lower down on the door, like kicks with a pointed shoe, makes us both look at the door while her breast still wobbles ::

I approach the door with urgent officiousness but not before it begins to open on its own. Slowly, so slowly. No sound of a key in a lock. No turn of the knob. Completely silent except for a strange atmospheric awareness that seems to surround us both, like the sound of a dark tunnel to a subterranean vault opening up. I have never seen the hallway behind this suite’s door so dark and deep.

My hair feels stirred ever so slightly by an inquisitive directionless wind before the hallway returns to normal. Empty.

I turn back to my mistress to gauge her reaction to this strange sequence of events. I see with some relief she has tucked most of her body into her robe now, but she’s staring with her mouth open at the floor of the entry in front of my feet.

“Madame?” I whirl back towards the doorway to see what she’s looking at.

Not a newspaper. Not a tray left over from room service not yet picked up by housekeeping. Not an envelope containing an itemized list of costs we’ve incurred.

There at the entry on the other side of our mysteriously opened door stands an extraordinary beetle the size of a fat tailless squirrel with an ebony walking stick and a hard shell-like body glistening with the same peacock-feather colors of The Cockroach Prophet’s card.

“May I come in?”