seem to notice my attack of nerves however, let alone suffer one himself. Striding straight over to the French windows, he opened them and stepped out onto the balcony to sniff the sea air. ‘I’ll be your guest!’ he said with a dazzling grin, re-entering the room and making for the mini-bar, ‘I hope I can find a nice Schweppes bitter lemon in here. Now, don’t be too long in there!’
Standing in the shower, I luxuriated in the sensation of my face, breasts, shoulders and buttocks being gently pounded by cool water, but my brain was still hard at work. Urgent practical questions required answers. Would I dress for dinner or emerge in my rose silk kimono with my hair in a turban to encourage thoughts of intimacy? Would we begin our chat about my destiny in south Yemen on the balcony and have to play the crucial transition from balcony to bed by ear? My palms were sweating and my breathing shallow by the time I was contemplating conundrums such as ‘What will he be wearing under his futa ? Not, I hoped, a pair of those passion-killing pantaloons I had spotted dangling from a shop front in Crater. No, I imagined that a loose cotton boxer was the sheikh’s underpant of choice, in a fine Egyptian cotton, of course... To tell the truth, I was nauseous with nervousness. I’d have been more blasé about bedding a Chinaman or an Eskimo Why? I think I was already starting to value Sheikh Ahmad’s high opinion of me more than was comfortable.
After what felt to me like no more than fifteen minutes, I finished my ablutions and emerged in my kimono with my still damp curls neatly combed and the lightest possible layering of make-up. I was just about to ask him to pour me some Dutch courage in the form of a gin and tonic when I noticed two changes to the room: there was a piece of paper on the bed and the French windows were open, the gauzy curtains waving gently in the evening breeze. I didn’t need to check the balcony. The note said, Sory ! I haf to hury to a apontment now . Haf a gud rest . Pliz be wetting for me in the lobi at 8 . 30 tumoro morning – yor frend , Shek Ahmad .
I was livid - livid enough to chip a little off the edge of the mirror over the dressing table by throwing that already dented tin of baked beans at it - but more with myself than with him. How could I have misread his signals so badly? Had I imperceptibly turned into one of those pitiful middle-aged women who deceive themselves into thinking that every male they encounter can barely keep his hands off them? God forbid! My cheeks flamed red at the thought of it. Wild horses would not stop me leaving Aden as soon as I possibly could. I could never look Sheikh Ahmad in the face again.
As soon as I was dressed I headed straight down to the reception desk to insist that I be booked on the very next flight to Sanaa, if not that night then early the following morning.
‘Tonight? No Madame, there is no flight tonight,’ said the tribesman receptionist.
‘Tomorrow? As early as possible?’
‘No, no flight tomorrow until the evening.’
‘But how do you know? Check on the computer.’
‘Computer say no flight,’ he said, after tapping a couple of keys.
‘I need a taxi to Sanaa, now. How much will it cost?’
‘Maybe, 2,000 dollars,’ he said, without blinking.
‘How about a taxi to the Aden Hotel?’
‘No taxis, no gasoline. No room at the Aden Hotel, a conference’
I now know what I lacked the presence of mind to work out at the time. Sheikh Ahmad must have given his fellow tribesman on the reception desk strict instructions to, by any and all means, fair or foul, prevent me from leaving the Sheraton.
Chapter Eleven
By 8.30 am I’d been ‘wetting’ in that hotel lobby for a good twenty minutes.
A third atrocious night in Yemen! Bewildered and angry at finding myself under a form of house arrest, I’d retreated back upstairs to order room service, eat a club sandwich and fall asleep, aching with shame and thwarted
Standing in the shower, I luxuriated in the sensation of my face, breasts, shoulders and buttocks being gently pounded by cool water, but my brain was still hard at work. Urgent practical questions required answers. Would I dress for dinner or emerge in my rose silk kimono with my hair in a turban to encourage thoughts of intimacy? Would we begin our chat about my destiny in south Yemen on the balcony and have to play the crucial transition from balcony to bed by ear? My palms were sweating and my breathing shallow by the time I was contemplating conundrums such as ‘What will he be wearing under his futa ? Not, I hoped, a pair of those passion-killing pantaloons I had spotted dangling from a shop front in Crater. No, I imagined that a loose cotton boxer was the sheikh’s underpant of choice, in a fine Egyptian cotton, of course... To tell the truth, I was nauseous with nervousness. I’d have been more blasé about bedding a Chinaman or an Eskimo Why? I think I was already starting to value Sheikh Ahmad’s high opinion of me more than was comfortable.
After what felt to me like no more than fifteen minutes, I finished my ablutions and emerged in my kimono with my still damp curls neatly combed and the lightest possible layering of make-up. I was just about to ask him to pour me some Dutch courage in the form of a gin and tonic when I noticed two changes to the room: there was a piece of paper on the bed and the French windows were open, the gauzy curtains waving gently in the evening breeze. I didn’t need to check the balcony. The note said, Sory ! I haf to hury to a apontment now . Haf a gud rest . Pliz be wetting for me in the lobi at 8 . 30 tumoro morning – yor frend , Shek Ahmad .
I was livid - livid enough to chip a little off the edge of the mirror over the dressing table by throwing that already dented tin of baked beans at it - but more with myself than with him. How could I have misread his signals so badly? Had I imperceptibly turned into one of those pitiful middle-aged women who deceive themselves into thinking that every male they encounter can barely keep his hands off them? God forbid! My cheeks flamed red at the thought of it. Wild horses would not stop me leaving Aden as soon as I possibly could. I could never look Sheikh Ahmad in the face again.
As soon as I was dressed I headed straight down to the reception desk to insist that I be booked on the very next flight to Sanaa, if not that night then early the following morning.
‘Tonight? No Madame, there is no flight tonight,’ said the tribesman receptionist.
‘Tomorrow? As early as possible?’
‘No, no flight tomorrow until the evening.’
‘But how do you know? Check on the computer.’
‘Computer say no flight,’ he said, after tapping a couple of keys.
‘I need a taxi to Sanaa, now. How much will it cost?’
‘Maybe, 2,000 dollars,’ he said, without blinking.
‘How about a taxi to the Aden Hotel?’
‘No taxis, no gasoline. No room at the Aden Hotel, a conference’
I now know what I lacked the presence of mind to work out at the time. Sheikh Ahmad must have given his fellow tribesman on the reception desk strict instructions to, by any and all means, fair or foul, prevent me from leaving the Sheraton.
Chapter Eleven
By 8.30 am I’d been ‘wetting’ in that hotel lobby for a good twenty minutes.
A third atrocious night in Yemen! Bewildered and angry at finding myself under a form of house arrest, I’d retreated back upstairs to order room service, eat a club sandwich and fall asleep, aching with shame and thwarted
Similar Books
