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Short story

Santa Maria
Chronicles of Fredrick D. Sauma

 

 

June 26, 2006
ranian.com

'Are you Greek? I turned my head toward the table next to me.

'I'm half Cyprian half English. But my cousin is Cyprian. And she doesn't speak English.' She tells me with a friendly smile that made me feel relaxed.

'Are you Italian?' She asked me.

'No I'm Iranian.' I told her.

'Persian. Ha?'

'I guess so.' I didn't want to confuse her with my complex ethnicity.

'Are you visiting Bonn?' I asked her, thinking they might be tourists.

'Visiting and living.'

'Can I join you?

'Of course,' she replied.

Her cousin sat quietly, smiling at us with a modesty that only pious Orthodox women can display while we conversed in English and sipped our coffee. Every now and then she translated for her some of the funnier things that we're talking about and her giggle made us all laugh.

Maria's father was a diplomat working at the British embassy. She was studying political science at King's College, London and flew to Germany during her vacations to be with her parents. Her cousin, also Maria, was visiting them on her summer vacation from Cyprus. Maria agreed to see me the next day for a date. I pointed to my apartment from where we're sitting in the coffee shop.

'Very handy.' She said to me, with her sexy voice and sensual smile that brought more awareness to my restive libido.

'How long have you been living there?'

'I moved there just recently. I was lucky to find it. A friend of mine from the Malaysian embassy knew the landlord. The Germans prefer not to let their places to foreigners I've discovered.' Her facial expression was one of diplomatic immunity, I was familiar with it, for once I had it myself, as all our affairs were organized through the embassy without us having ever to lift a finger.

I was prepared, at any point in our conversation, to tell her the fictitious story I had made up about my 'position' at the American embassy. Working there as a translator of documents and news. But all my anticipation for her to ask me about my job status came to nothing. I felt, very strongly, that she was interested in me, the real me, regardless of my career or the level of my education. I was naturally interested in her: the curves, the silky blond hair, blue eyes, sensual lips, voluptuous breasts, and the sexy voice that tickled and teased all my corresponding nerves.

The next day I waited somewhat anxiously for her to arrive. The cool air was changing rapidly to a warm, humid weather. The town's square was filled with people as I peered outside from my widow. It was only a few days ago that I bumped into Christine. She was with a young man, out of all, an Iranian called Rocky. He was a jovial chap who had been living in Switzerland and now with his parents in Bonn. Rocky asked me if I wanted to have a drink with him sometimes. I don't know if Christine had told him that we used to live together briefly or not? He came across as somebody who just wanted to socialize, and didn't care if I were his girlfriend's ex's or not. Foreigners seldom choose their friends or partners as freely. They tend to cling on to whoever is like them, separated, dispossessed, drifting insouciantly in time.   

I didn't know why he was called Rocky. His accent sounded like one of those Italian-American working in the New York seafood market. What an interesting replica, I thought. Even if it was purely out of curiosity I had to meet him again. I wanted to know what he sounded like when he spoke in Persian, or German. Since my stay in Germany I've become interested in people's accents, voices and above all their behavior as foreigners in other people's territory.

Maria arrived exactly at 11.30. Her dress matched the climate with its bare minimum. A surge of eroticism spiraled in my being. It was our first date and I didn't want to ruin it, giving her the impression that I was desperate, unrestrained and promiscuous. We hardly knew each other. I had never got physically intimate till the third date, even then it was perhaps a kiss on the cheek or merely holding and rubbing hands. But then again oriental girls were different and that's where I'd learned the rules. I felt much more relaxed with Christine. I didn't have to pretend that I was going to marry her or throw money around like a rich man trying to impress her as I usually did. But the less we played games, the more the intricacies and insecurities of our soul came to surface. In those seemingly tactile gazes, passionate kisses, reluctant goodbyes and sensitive touches there are always many hidden uncertainties, fears, unfulfilled fantasies and a few old wounds still throbbing here and there. And because on the surface everything feels so deceptively good, you think you can penetrate the depth and level things out; but it never works that way.

I made her a cold lemonade. She sat on the brown, faded couch opposite me with her legs straddled and began to fan herself with the hem of her skirt. I noticed that her thin underwear was pressing hard against the opening of her vagina, she smiled at me as if she knew what I was looking at and thinking about.

'It's too hot! You don't mind if I take off my bra?'

'No, not at all, You can stand by the window, you get a nice, cool breeze coming from the river. It's a good way to cool off.'

She gets up and unhook her bra with one hand and with the other pulls it out swiftly, her breasts moving freely inside her dress. And I get an erection.

'I feel much better now. Let me have a look at your view.' Her voice carries a new sense of freedom.

She walked toward the window. I got up and stood by the far side of the window.

'Come, come closer,' she tells me, ' can you feel the breeze?'

The top fleshy part of our arms touched each other. She leaned more toward me and I put my arm around her. She turned and looked at me the way she peeked at the view outside, admirably. I kissed her profile slowly, her ear, cheek and neck.

Her light dress dropped magically to the ground. I scurried toward my stereo and put some music on. I've got to have the music on. It's my way of recording the fleeting moments onto the wavelength of my mind. Different music for different personalities and nationalities and occasions.

'Who is it?' She asked, while standing naked by the window.

'Michael Franks. Haven't you heard of him?'

'No.'

' I'll change it if you don't like it.'

'No, it's nice. It's soft. I like it.' She tells me reassuringly.

'I knew you'd like it.'

I sprawled over my two-sitter lounge. She came over and began helping me undress.

'Have you heard of the Stray Cats?' She asked me.

'They are a punk band, aren't they?'

'Yes, sort of punk, new wave. They have a song that you might like to hear. It's called 'Storm the Embassy.'

'Why do you think I'd like that song? I asked her while my hand moves down to her pussy, caressing her pubic hair, my finger playing with her clitoris.

'I don't know, because it's political, I thought you might be interested. You come from a country with a turbulent political history.' She grabs my penis in her hand, sliding it up and down with a fine rhythm.

'Which embassy?' Dipping my hand into her warm, sweaty vagina, using her natural juices for lubrication. Hoping our conversation wouldn't distract us from the task ahead.

'The Iranian embassy in London.'

'I think the Iranian embassy was stormed?' I tell her, while I moved down to her belly, kissing it with the intention of going further down that smooth path rather than the rocky road of politics.

'I think they are saying that the authority should close them down.'

'I agree with them. I think all non-democratic governments should not be allowed to have embassies in democratic countries, but it's not going to happen, it's against the international law. It only isolates them further. I don't think any of the Stray Cats members will make it as diplomats. I hope they are not on your course reading list.' 

I inserted my finger into her pussy and began to stimulate her clitoris. With my thumb I rubbed against her G-spot at the same time, like a state of the art vibrator. There was no room for any further political discussions. She became excited, telling me how wonderful she was feeling, I nearly ejaculated but tried to distract myself by thinking about something else, and I don't know why Rabban came to mind. When I got kicked out of the embassy I cursed him for it. I knew if it wasn't for him I would have never strived to become a diplomat and subsequently a refugee. Now my body rubbing against hers I didn't blame him as much. And I wondered if he ever got tempted by the ladies he encountered during his travels in Europe? He said he liked everything that he saw. One can assume everything.

I went down on her and saw that her pussy had a unique character of its own. Her pubic hair was darker than her blond hair. It was also curlier, but wonderfully soft, like a silky Persian carpet. Her clitoris was cutely small. Her mucous membranes stylishly curved down.

'Fred, please come into my mouth. In my mouth.'

'When?' I asked her while thrusting with a combination of gentle and vigorous rhythms.

'Now!'

I was reluctant to leave my old fashion missionary position, nuzzling her breast, sucking her nipples. It was a subconscious choice. It allowed me to look at her wholly, right underneath me, no blind spot to block my view, nothing left to the imagination either. A free, effective and above all, pleasurable form of therapy for any lack of intimacy that I might have carried with me from infancy.

I dismounted her and crawled on all fours until my genitals cast a shadow over her face. But as soon as she began to call my name again, I came, shooting my semen into her face instead.

She laughed. I laughed too.

'Sorry, you shouldn't call my name. You excite me too much. I couldn't help it.'

We went to the bedroom for the afterplay. 'What do you do for a living?' She asked, resting on our sides naked sharing a cigarette.

* * *

Maria asked me to go and see the Dali exhibition with her. A collection of his early drawings and sketches was touring the country. It was held in a big hall on a country estate to the north of town. We caught the bus, holding hands and kissing passionately like two horny teenagers. Once again I was feeling the groove just as I did with Christine.

'What's your cousin doing today?'

'She's staying home with her aunty. She only goes out with me.'

'I feel bad for taking you away from her.'

'Don't feel bad. We spend enough time with each other.'

'She looks so modest. Is she religious?' I asked her.

'She is very religious. She wanted to become a nun a few years ago. But her parents managed to dissuade her. She prays and read the bible every day. She told me the other day that she liked you. She thinks that you are a pious man, with good morals. I think because she thinks you look like the medieval Greek Saints.'

'Do I? I never thought of myself as a Greek Saint.'

'You do you know. There're resemblances- bushy eyebrows, big lips, Grecian nose, penetrating black eyes that make you feel guilty even when you haven't done anything wrong.'

'Do I make you feel guilty?'

'Oh yes.' She squeezes my cock.

'What does she think of us together?'

'She thinks we look good together. When I told her that we're holding hands, she bit her lower lip and told me that physical contact is only permissible after marriage vows have been exchanged.'

'When is she going home?'

'She's coming to England with me. She wants to visit a few more Cathedrals and Churches. That's all she's interested in.'

'When are you going to England?'

'One week from today.'

When are you coming back?'

'During my next holidays. In four months.'

'What? That's a long time.'

'I'll fly over at least couple of times before the Christmas break. Are you going to miss me?'

Naturally I told her, not knowing exactly what I'll do with myself, when she's gone.

I wasn't prepared not to see her for that length of time. We're together every evening, eating, drinking, smoking joint and making love. I'd never enjoyed sex so much. I thought about marrying her and finally getting a job at the British embassy with my British citizenship. Then I could be truly squared off with Rabban who inspired me to become a diplomat. I could then say that the inspiration I felt was true and it wasn't just a whimsical feeling stemming from my selfish ambition. That it was my destiny to follow in the footsteps of my great ancestor. And that the passing of time, although by a millennium, did not break the link between us. And history, despite its tenebrous and jagged road, had managed to preserve for me what was truly mine, my preordained vocation .

When she asked me to visit her in England, I said that my work commitments didn't allow it at least till the Christmas holiday. I prayed that by then my political asylum will be approved and finally I could obtain a passport and travel wherever I liked. I offered to buy her a plane ticket for an extra flight to Germany, perhaps even a weekend away to Hamburg. She liked the idea.

The bus was almost empty with only a few elderly people in the front talking among each other. She started to rub my cock with her warm hand. I was falling in love with her I knew it.

There was nothing in Maria that I didn't like. I can always find a few things that I dislike in a woman. With Christine it was her fingernails. They looked unfeminine, short and crooked, that's why I never could kiss them. But I could lick Maria from head to toe till my tongue melted away. She was my favorite three course meal. I imagined us tucked away in a luxurious retirement village somewhere in Spain by the ocean, practicing Tango and having sex with the same salaciousness as when we first met. I couldn't wait till my first dance lessons.

The bus sped up as it entered the narrow country road. I began messaging her breast from the side. Then she bent down and started giving me a blowjob. The bus stopped to pick up a hailing passenger. The elderly woman smiled at me and took her seat in the middle of the bus. I began combing her hair, messaging her scalp. My fingers began caressing her face. I gently pressed against her eyelids, then inserted my fingers into her mouth. A few more passengers got on the bus and I had to lift her up. We kissed till our stop.

A ten minutes walk along the dirt road, shadowed by thick, leafy trees, brought us to the exhibition hall. It seemed as if we're the first ones that morning to see the exhibition. A man at the door greeted us and didn't even ask for the entrance fee. The big hall looked abandoned. How could they leave Dali's work unguarded like that I told Maria. We went through the exhibition twice. At the north flank there was a small alcove, separated from the main hall with only a few frames hanging there. We paused there and began to kiss again. I pulled her skirt up and tried to penetrate her as she leaned against the wall. She crossed her leg over my thigh and lift herself up, breathing heavily as if it was going to be our last sexual encounter. I managed to slide my penis into her vagina but it popped out a few times before I secured it in, finding my rhythm, balancing myself against her weight. As her voice echoed in the hall, like music accompanying poetry- I looked up at the Dali's sketch hanging above my head with a renewed sense of wonder and curiosity. After I ejaculated we toured the exhibition again, looking at those drawings one more time. We found ourselves in the alcove again, kissing. We heard some footsteps, we straightened up and went through the hung frames one more time. We left with a deeper appreciation of Dali's early drawings and sketches.

Sauntering back down the dirt road, we veered off onto a narrow track and rested on the sequestered bench underneath a tall tree, looking at the vast, green valley stretching in front of us. The blue sky was cloudless and the breeze soft. We had half an hour to kill before the bus arrived.   

©  Farid Parsa 

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