7.1 Thru the Fire

Thirty minutes later, we were dressed and rain ceased just on time. Sophie wore a long-sleeved orange shirtdress, white bell-bottoms and high heel shoes – kind of 70’s fashion. And for me, Amelia brought a grey colour shirt and dark blue trousers. I tucked the shirt inside like Sophie would love it and slipped on those light grey pair of shoes.

We walked down the silver corridor in the gloss of white lights. I noticed a couple at the restaurant lit in bright orange lights. We came out of a rear gate that open to a sand-filled road behind the cemetery. I was about to ask when she answered my question.

“We are going to a small restaurant on Avenida Medio because I am expecting some guests here tonight and I don’t want to see them before the meeting starts at eleven-thirty.”

“Why so late?” I asked.

“Guests are arriving late.”

I could hear my shoes scraping on wet soil as I walked up the lane. “Come this way!” She paused in front of the back gate to the cemetery.

“That is the cemetery!”

“I know. We take a shortcut.” It made sense.

Behind the gate, I saw an empty ground lit in the main streetlights. I stepped on wet soil covered of Goat’s Foot Morning Glory that creep amply on the beaches and picked a trail down the middle of the graveyard. Patches of cloud traversed in the sky and lit in the city lights. Rain unpredictable at the hour. A dark wall to the breadth of the expanse loomed in front as we advanced towards the gate. It was very quiet and none of us said a word. I could feel she was wobbling on her steps in those high heels to walk on soft sand.

We reached the pink gate and swung open one wide leaf of the door. Traffic lights and motorists, crowds passing and chaos, beeps and rush. I stepped down to the main street first, meaning a foot below. Nobody noticed us step out of the gate. She even closed the door behind. I felt like entering a different world.

We penetrated through the crowds of passers-by and shoppers on hurried walks up and down the uneven pavement that made noises of the sewer wells beneath. Bang! Bang! As a kid I knew, when we cross the roadside beside the cemetery, we walk fast to cover the breadth of wall quickly for it was believed to be spooky under that wall. We crossed Avenida Medio and entered a dark lane to attain some comfort from the traffic noises.

Ambar Restaurant was a quiet place on the first floor with white interior and red cladding. It was rather empty. Food was excellent, served of creamy mushroom soup, curries with strong aroma of mint leaves to go with a warm dish of rice and hard-to-chew beef, a dessert that burst into my mouth with a definite taste of vanilla and something odourless.

At dinner I asked about Amelia, “What is the real name of Amelia’s place?”

Sophie responded to say, “I don’t know how they call it now but, in our day, that place is called Corales.”

“Are you related to them?”

“No. I come here with young boys. It’s a very safe venue.”

“Young boys?”

“I call them young boys. Twenty years younger than me. It is a big secret but no more. When I was married to Gabi, I did not want anyone to know.”

“Why do you like young boys?” I enquired.

“Because I have a big tortilla.”

I chuckled.

“You can’t fuck this thing enough!”

“Really!” She was becoming more fun.

“Maybe a diver who can do three dives a day can screw me enough.”

“Is there a hint?”

“No,” she shook her head, “Say, a stevedore.”

“A stevedore!”

“Yes, I am talking about an experience that truly did kill me. A young bloke who works at the port.”

“Mi falda!” I murmured.

“Patas! Patas! Like firecrackers. He didn’t stop.”

“You enjoyed it!”

“I did,” confessed Sophie Nadz, “I do not get too many chances, in my field, it is rather scarce.”

“You give boom-boom!”

“What do you mean?” she continued, “Yes, if you put it that way, yes. But if only I like the guy.”

“I get it,” I nodded.

“Are you shocked?”

“Yes, very much. I wasn’t expecting that.”

“Nobody is that innocent,” she carried on, “At this age, anything is not good enough.”

“What is your age?”

“I’m afraid to tell you, Kawla. I’m over fifty,” she whispered, “Let’s go!”

“It’s very titillating.”

“Yes, indeed,” we got up to go, “I can make boys rock hard in the classroom by talking to them. That’s how I picked my handle coquette.”

We returned at the back gate taking the long way walking on Orange Hill Road from Avenida Medio and in a light drizzle. We headed straight to the lobby where she passed the pen drive to Amelia to make colour prints of the images.

After that we were back in the room very briefly to gather her folders and stuff. I took the liberty to smoke a cigarette and a sip of gin.

 

Five tables placed together and covered with a white sheet of cloth. Decorated with foxtail orchids in a couple of ceramic vases and two glass bowls of perfume placed with lids slightly pulled back. The swimming pool lay lit with underwater lights and connected to overnight recirculation pumps. Mosquito repellent lanterns around the perimeter.

To my utter shock, the first person who greeted me that evening was my mother. “When did you come?” I asked.

“I came very late this evening,” said my mother.

“What are you doing here?”

“This is about Sophie. Did not she tell you that? Sit down, Kawla! I hope you’re not smoking these days.”

“Mom, you don’t have to remind me every time I see you. And this is no place for such talk.”

“Are you praying and behaving properly?”

Next delegate who showed up was Colonel Keré Manik, my father. He wore a jacket, dark blue jeans and a cowboy hat. He did not bother to greet me or my mother and he was very unhappy to be here. He was discontented to know at this point that I would sit as a witness at the table. He even chuckled to say, “You have chosen my son, the right man to hear my confession to all my doings.”

He nodded at me. He wore a very sarcastic look, a smile, like telling me you are a foolhardy son. His smile that conveyed a message that I did not belong here.

Shortly, others arrived and we were introduced briefly. All took to their seats and this meeting was to be chaired by Murshid; Sophie Nadz’s lawyer.

Sophie whispered in my ear, “Don Mohora is a meticulous dresser. Notice his shirt under his jacket. It is stitched with a tie.”

I never heard anything like that in my life. In a second glance it looked flat, static and perhaps ‘stitched’ down the placket.