Octoposse
I liked Mohammed. Unlike many of the locals here in Dubai -- and, to be fair, virtually all my fellow expats -- he set out to do a good job rather than to 'get rich quick'. Not that he, or rather his family, weren't rich to start with. Very, very rich.
So, here he was, fresh faced holder of a first class degree in Electronic Engineering from an expensive university in California, back in his home town working as my assistant and mastering the detail of maintaining the one of the world's most advanced Air Traffic Control systems. The academic, rule based, process driven side he picked up instantly, which left me trying to impart the art of inspired guesswork and intuition. Stick to the science and you could be a competent, even good, engineer. Leap to the art and you could either be great or fail utterly.
Apart from a flawless textbook understanding of electronics, California had foisted on Mohammed a craving for tall blonde women and a love of American coffee. Back in Dubai he sated his lust for the former with rather lovely but exceedingly expensive Russian prostitutes, and to deal with the latter we went upstairs once a day to the passenger Departure Lounge, home of Dubai's best coffee shop. The staff recognised Mohammed and knew of his influential family so we well looked after. I indulged Mohammed's taste for coffee, and took the break as an opportunity to review with him the practical lessons learned so far that day.
But not today. Today I was mesmerised by the woman at the next table. French. Had to be.
Sunglasses. Little black dress -- only the French can carry off an lbd in the afternoon -- accentuating, not covering, impossibly long improbably tanned limbs. Matching soft brown suede ankle boots and belt. I couldn't see the handbag, resting on an empty seat at the café table, but I'd bet on soft brown suede too, classy. No point describing her features -- you wouldn't get the picture. The chin a little weak, the nose a little pointy, a hint of wrinkle on the long kissable Nicole Kidman neck. Pretty? Possibly borderline. Beautiful? Yeah. Only imperfections, and a few miles on the clock, can season definable prettiness into illogical beauty. Science and art, just like electronics really.
She was reading, "Le Premier Armour" by -- according to the name on the spine -- one Santiago H Amigorena. Whether simple chance or contrived Coco Chanel genius, the unadorned cream cover of the inch thick paperback was the perfect finishing touch. I don't know if "Le Premier Armour" has any merit as literature, but making that woman in that café look even smarter, even sexier, than she would have been bookless should have earned old Santiago some sort of literary award. "Le Premier Armour"? "The First Love"? "The First Lover"? GCSE French was a long time ago.
God bless my wraparound prescription Oakleys. Red mirror lenses mean that I can study the tan and texture of her legs, right up to the small bruise high on the left thigh, without tattooing 'SLEAZEY' on my own forehead. And how much pleasure was in the making of the adorable dark haired child beside her, kneeling on a chair, colouring pencil in tiny fingers, tongue sticking out sideways in total concentration?
No point window shopping though. I'm a geek, and even a geek with a Porsche Cayman, wraparound Oakleys, a luxury apartment and a swimming pool is not going to ease his presence into a classically classy brunette's. Nor indeed ease anything into a classically classy brunette.
Mohammed picked up on the source of my distraction and smiled at me. "My friend, if it is a beautiful woman you need, let me make a phone call for you!" I smiled, probably a rather embarrassed smile, and quickly changed the subject back to modelling the time-domain approach to control systems.
And then I was distracted again. Raised voices. No, ONE voice, raised. There was a bloke now. Woman's husband? Child's father? One or the other would put him officially in the 'lucky bastard' category. Both would be more than any man deserved. Obvious to me but clearly not to him, as it is his voice that has caught my attention.
As effortlessly elegant as the woman is my new dark, tanned, unbleached linen suited, strong-featured, quintessentially Gallic, slightly jowly, five o'clock shadowed, croc shoed, watch strapped and belted, Serge Gainsbourg look-a-like figure of green-eyed monstrous hate. My hate, my jealousy -- monsieur Great Tan doesn't even know I exist. He's too busy shouting at madame Sex-On-A-Stick.
I can see the spittle fly from his mouth, flashing through the dust glinting in the sharp edged bars of sunshine like shooting stars through the night sky. I can see veins, sinews, muscles, thorax twitching, throbbing, straining against the skin of his throat. His adam's apple is dancing. He is standing over her, then half turning away, vacillating, before flicking back to shout some further grievance, some additional threat, some new perceived fault.
The child sits frozen, paralysed. She has been here before. Her sunglassed, tanned limbed mother smiles reassurance in the direction of our fellow customers. It is nervous and embarrassed and strained but it's nonetheless unmistakeably intended to reassure. He has done it before. "Don't worry -- it's fine. I'm fine. She's fine. We're fine".
Unmistakeable but wasted in the sense of unnecessary. The other customers fix their designer coffee cups with interested stares. No one is going to say anything.
Her smile is wasted as there will be no eye contact. I alone in the café try, an exercise in futility to match hers thanks to the forgotten red lensed sunglasses, which hide the "are you REALLY fine?" question in my eyes as perfectly as they had earlier screened my hopeful vigil for a glimpse of underwear between crossed thighs.
No one is going to say anything.
Monsieur Crocodile Shoes jabs an elegant finger and the sunglassed tanned limbed temporary love of my life flinches. I hazard a guess that only its immediacy prevents her fear of public humiliation from being completely conquered by her fear of the private hiding to follow.
No one is going to say anything. No one is going to do anything.
Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough.
