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THE WOMAN ON THE OTHER end of the line said her name was Belinda but I just did not recognize her voice. The Belinda who came to mind was the daughter of missionary parents whom I had known since she had pigtails but who had blossomed into a temptress. She had sent me a picture of herself while she was studying in California. In it she wore a black dress with silver sequins, spaghetti straps, and enough cleavage to make me cup my hands and hold them up to the picture on my computer screen. Yeah, my hands would be full, all right. Her long black hair was twisted and her makeup (I had never seen her in makeup before) and smoky eyes brought to mind the biblical Delilah who had brought about Sampson’s demise. Did your daddy see this picture?
But I had lost that Belinda to some older, pasty white guy from the American mid-west with whom she was head-over-heels in love. Maybe if I had made my intentions clear and not just sent her friendly e-mails she would have considered me as boyfriend material. But I fear that my repeated compliments on her writing and my frequent encouragement of her desire to write a book elevated me to no more than good-friend status, a non-threat.
The only other Belinda I knew was buried in some snowy part of Canada with her husband and kid. When they visited last I made no effort to see them for I felt that since they migrated they had developed some airs about them that I did not appreciate. I had witnessed enough migrations and was tired of hearing how much better life in a foreign country was; I was tired of the subtle way people seemed to say that they were better than those who chose to stay in their homeland. Maybe the climate change did cause an inevitable personality change. It was easy to have a sunny disposition in the tropics, but it must be a challenge to keep the effervescence when one lived in an ice-box.
As the voice continued jabbering and I made the obligatory grunts, I soon realized that this Belinda was the woman Rajesh had set me up with. She was saying that she worked in some government office, sold insurance part-time, was a very staunch Christian, yada, yada, yada – which translated to “very boring person” in my mind.
For one thing, I did not like her voice. Voice was a turn-on for me; this woman sounded old. If she’d had a nice voice I would spontaneously break into a toothy grin but, at the moment, I was conscious of my glum expression. Girls with nice voices I’m willing to indulge, to give the benefit of the doubt. I will try to get to know them even if they don’t have a very pretty face or a curvaceous body. I tend to have as little conversation as possible with any girl with a grating voice.
It was like that when I had gone to England on a conference for writers from the developing nations. I was hypnotized by a somewhat chubby girl from Bulgaria. I looked forward to seeing her every morning and if I could not sit at her table for breakfast, I made sure that I sat in her line of vision.
“Clay,” she said to me over breakfast one morning. I smiled like an idiot, sure that everyone was now wondering where the glow that pervaded the room was coming from. “I have favor to ask.”
“Anything.” And I meant that. God, why don’t I meet girls like this every day?
“I write for a magazine for young people and I would like you to do a story about the young people in your country.”
I liked the simplicity of her words, the softness of her voice and how vulnerable her accent made her seem. “It would be my pleasure.”
She smiled at her friend who was seated next to her and lowered her eyes as she took a sip of her tea. In that moment I wanted to pack up everything I owned and move to Bulgaria.
Unknown to me, I was the object of attention of a gorgeous African woman at the conference. At least everybody else thought that she was gorgeous. Nkechi Nanyuni worked at a publishing company in Nigeria and had ambitions of getting her works of fiction published internationally. She was tall and slender with flawless black skin. The other men would ogle when she entered a room, but she just did not show up on my radar. That African accent had always been a turn-off for me.
“I’m sorry,” I apologized when I bumped into her at the buffet on the last night of the conference.
“Dat eez all right,” she said in her best English but it sounded to me like she was putting the emphasis on the wrong syllables. Maybe if I had studied linguistics I would have understood why a whole continent of people seemed to do that.
“Eggs-cuse me,” she said, following me, “but where are you from?”
“Trinidad and Tobago.” I looked for my Bulgarian love but I could not find her.
“Oh, really? Our countries have such close ties. Deed you know that?”
Of course I knew that. We do get the news under the rock I crawled out from.
“Yes.” I faked a smile.
“Do you mind if I keep in touch with you? I wood geev you my e-mail but I do not have my cards weed me.”
Disappointed that I did not see the object of my affection, I did the next best thing: I made my way to the table where the British with their soothing accents were seated. I needed to be consoled.
“I’m in room five-eleven,” she called after me and I nodded, thinking to myself, whatever.
*
THE OLD SAYING WAS true even at that conference: if Mahomet would not go to the mountain then the mountain must go to Mahomet. And Mahomet came pounding on the door the next morning. I covered my head with the pillows, but that did nothing to lessen the racket. I looked at my watch: seven-thirty. I did not have to be at the airport until one o’clock so who the hell was disturbing me at such an ungodly hour? For God’s sakes, there was a Do Not Disturb sign hanging on my door.
I stumbled to the door thinking for a fleeting moment that the hotel might be on fire and someone was trying to save my life. This had better be important.
“Good morning,” she smiled, all the colors on her painted face and her gown blinding me. “I’m leaving shortly and I wanted you to have this.” She held out her call card to me.
I took it and made my way inside to get one of my own. After all, I had to be civil. I was now an unofficial ambassador for my country. From the night stand I picked one up and as I turned around, she was there, too close for comfort. She appeared to salivate as her eyes worked their way from my head to my toe and then back up to my boxers where they remained.
“I have a leettle beet of time before I leave.”
“Look, lady, I just got up. I haven’t showered or brushed my teeth as yet. I’m in no mood.”
“Do you know that in some parts of the world a man’s natural body odor is an aphrodisiac?”
“Well, I’m afraid that England is not one of those places.” I dropped my card on the bed and pointed her out.
“Too bad.” Her index finger ran down my chest and tugged at the waistband of my boxers. “I could have taught you things that only an African woman can.”
The smile never left her face as she sauntered out.
Clay Powers, you are a fool, an accusing voice said somewhere inside of me as I collapsed in bed. The least you could have done was get a blow job.
I jumped up, rushed to the door and pulled it open, frightening a wrinkled couple away. The African was nowhere in sight. I closed the door, kicking myself for missing an opportunity for some harmless pleasure. I would not have contracted any sexually transmitted diseases, nor would I have gotten the woman pregnant.
