A song in two tongues

A song in two tongues


You take my hand luggage out of the car. After kissing her, I place Hunnie into your right arm. In your left – the travelling bag. You stand in front of me disarmed, your unbuttoned shirt revealing black curls. I sink my fingers into them and press my sunbleached mop against your shoulder.
“Go!” you say.
“Mm,” I whine, “I just dooon’t want to leave you for two days...”
“... for others!” you tease. “See that you don’t slip yourself!”
“One cannot  slip on such!” I stiffen my trained ivory legs in the hot pants, as you tease, painted barely halfway down my rear.
“You’re wrong, all the swarthy wildlife slips on pale ones like crazy – French, Spanish, Italian…”
I close your mouth, greedily inhaling all of the mockery that might follow, then I grab my bag and disappear into our native airport.
Soon a text message arrives. Immediately, laughing, I call back:
“But I you even more!”

*

A huge airport. I am greeted and brought to the hotel. In the lobby, I greet other participants sitting at the bar, and I go to my room.
Everyone is staying in cosy two-person rooms. I have an amazing roommate – a giggly middle-aged Russian.

*

The introductory session begins at five. I notice him immediately. Besides the seminar’s greying host – the only male. Dark, curly, silvered temples. His tight shirt clings to sculpted shoulders. The pearly teeth revealed by his smile seem too dazzling to be genuine.
My place at the round table is directly across from him. I sit down, cross my legs, tug my mini down and try to settle in at an angle, to avoid staring at him the whole time.
One by one, we introduce ourselves. He is a Greek. Important, from the international committee. “Love him and indulge him!” the host jokes.

*

Dinner at a restaurant. I come in late. Everyone stares. He – in an elegant suit, the ladies – some still in track pants and sweaters as in the seminar, others dressed up in jeans and t-shirts. I’m no good at that. My cocktail dress, ascetically closed on top, uncovers, as you tease, my stocking-seams from the upright heels up to the very surprise.
I search for a free spot. One is beside him. The smile by pearly-teeth seems too sincere to be genuine. Before I’ve decided on where to sit, he stands and pulls back the chair.
We chat with the ladies all around. I avoid turning to him by chance. But I feel I am talking for him. I’m very witty.
He is very witty.
A text message arrives. I smile and reply.

*

After dinner, everyone goes to their rooms. The Russian and I – to the Old Town.
We haven’t gone far when we meet the host and him. We continue together, the four of us.
„What is that monument?” I ask the host.
A light touch on my shoulder:
„Let me tell you!”
For a moment I listen earnestly. Then less so. He knows nothing about the monument.
For the rest of our walk until midnight, I laugh. He keeps on commenting, just commenting – on everything that we see. Nothing he says is true. Just babbling, like you: cleverly and sweetly, without sense but with elegance.
He opens the door for a lady, extends a hand – not only to me. Just a trifle, but nice.
The good-night is friendly and reserved. The sincere pearly smile is genuine.

*

The next day – practice in the dust of the arena. I wear the stretchy jeans not only for comfort: my legs gain from not improving their shape.
I know my job. Better than the rag-doll Europeans. He sees this. I want him to see me all the time.
He sees me very much. All the time.

*

Dinner in a restaurant. I come in late. Everybody looks at me. I am in a purple gown split up to the stocking-lace. My marble shoulders are tanned, as you tease, black like ivory by the end of summer.
This time, there are fewer jeans and sweaters; other participants have also changed into women.
I search for a free spot. One lies diagonally from the folds of his dinner jacket. I pull back the chair. He stands and nods his head. The pearly smile is too genuine to be merely sincere.
We chat with the other women. I speak unnecessarily loudly. I hear him well, too.
We are very witty.

*

„May I invite you for a walk to the Old Town?”
„The only way to find out – to invite!”

*

We sit in a cosy cafe. He talks all the time.
A piano is playing unobtrusively.
Suddenly his fingers are playing my sunbleached palm unobtrusively, not interrupting the conversation. I laugh and I laugh.
„May I smoke?” he asks permission, as always.
„And me?”
He makes me a roll of his shag incense, too. Generally, I don’t smoke. But his smoke is very delicious.
The sincerely genuine pearly smile is suddenly very delicious, interrupting the conversation.
A text message arrives. I smile. I’ll reply later.

*

„Can I show you my room?”
„I can show you ours – everyone has the same!”
„Not exactly the same,” he looks roguishly straight into my eyes, „I changed mine this morning. To a delux suite.”
„Wasn’t fine enough for you?”
„Expecting guests...”
„So late?”
„Yes.”
„But will we manage to tour your suite before your guests?”

*

The boudoir is fit for kings. And a sirtaki is playing: a lovely cliche souvenir for me, knowing little about Greece, from him, knowing nothing about Latvia.
A vase of red roses on the table. Thirteen!
„For the guests,” he explains and lights the candles.
Beside the bed, behind the night-table, is a curtain. I pull the string: a shower’s glass wall appears.
„Also for guests?” I tease. „Hang on, just a moment!” I slip behind it and pull the curtain closed.
Water runs. I write a text message.

*

My unprotected back writhes and trembles beneath just barely bearable feathery touches – as if evading, as if begging. He wraps my arms around his neck and plays them like a clarinet. He drinks in my lips, ears, neck, shoulders, the hollow between my clavicles, until he tears the red curtain down and, like molten lava over sun-bleached tundra volcanoes, erupts over the peaks capped with pink snow. Then he lifts me up light as cotton and pours me over the blanket heavy as gold.
Black nylon melts in incandescent lips. Wandering fingers feverishly fold purple waves higher and higher. My souvenir: no barrier underneath, just a bare, enticing, northern rose-miracle in a frame of white fuzz – refreshment for eyes tired of black-velvet-draped cerise.
With the chiaroscuro of candles, a pearly dazzle descends into my lap. In an ivory throne between night-black lace, over lips dewy and greedy for kisses, pours a song of passion in a foreign tongue – sultry and sweetly intoxicating…

*

“I’ll take a shower,” he says.
“A Greek habit after making love?” I tease.
“After? No, between!” Gently, he rearranges my dress back over my breasts. “Watch what you like meanwhile,” he turns on the TV, “but you’re not allowed to undress: that is not women’s work!”
I change channels. A text message arrives. I smile and quietly call back, then switch off the TV and… throw open the curtain!
Weeping glass. Laughing – dark, muscled, in soapy curls from chest to full stop, handsome in his speechless surprise.
“?!”
„I watch what I like!”

*

The airport. Crowd. After scarce minutes of sleep in the seat, a still-blind look is searching for you...
There! A purple-bright shirt with black curls between open buttons.
Red roses. Thirteen again! Together – like my upcoming birthday.
The kiss is long, hot and greedy.
„How I waited for you!” you whisper.
„I want you!” I whisper in return.
„I’m available.”
„Where is Hunnie?”
„With mother.”
„I’ll die, by the time she’s asleep.”
„Mind you don’t fall asleep first!” you tease.
We drive. I describe. You want to hear everything. How I arrived, how was greeted, how were the rooms, the seminar, how...
„Where?” Suddenly I don’t understand – then suddenly I do. „We’re not going home?!”

*

The boudoir is fit for kings. With a jacuzzi.
„Hang on, just a moment!” I slip into bath.
Water runs. I cast a glance to the mirror and smile at myself: „Before? No, between!”

*

Your feathery touches beneath my blouse – just barely bearable. You wrap my arms around your neck and play them like an oboe. You drink in my lips, ears, neck, shoulders, the hollow between my clavicles, until you open up the curtains over snow-bleached tundra volcanoes with rosy lava capping their peaks...
A text message arrives. You smile:
„Ah! Now he – us?”
I’m no good at teasing now. I relish in quiet.
„And what did he do next?”

*

Deep in a Grecian marble-white valley, an enticingly sweet rose-petal crown resounds with a song of love in the native tongue – gentle and mildly reverberating…