“The international terrorist? There’s a rumor going around that he’s in Beirut.”
I nodded. “If I meet him, I’ll sit down and have a talk with him. I believe that’s something I could do.”
He looked at me in astonishment.
“You mean you know where he is?”
“No, but I might come across him.”
He walked toward me in a state of excitement. “An exclusive interview like that would be priceless. All the newspapers and wire agencies in the world would compete to buy it. Are you being serious about this?”
“Of course.”
“You would be the first person in the world to interview him.”
“That’s why I asked you about how much I could get for it.”
“You would be the one to set the price. Listen. Let me come with you. We’ll put together an unprecedented face-to-face interview.”
“I’m not certain yet that I’ll succeed in meeting him.”
He looked at his watch, and then walked over to the phone. He stopped suddenly and started pacing back and forth in the living room while thinking. Then he picked up his jacket, put the notebook back in its pocket and put it on, saying, “I’d advise you to make this matter a priority. It would be the opportunity of a lifetime for any journalist. If you get cold feet or change your mind for any reason, I’m ready to go in your place. I’m going to the agency now. Call me there if you need anything.”
I nodded, and my eyes followed him out the door.
Chapter 19
I ate my breakfast quickly, then swept the apartment and tidied up the living room. I scrubbed the bathroom sink, the tub, the toilet seat and its cover. With some difficulty, I was able to remove the bits of soap stuck to the sink. I washed the dishes piled up in the kitchen, and brought a little order to its chaos. Then I shaved and showered. I changed my underwear. Then I hung the wet towel out to dry on the balcony, and put a clean one in its place.
Around 10 am, I called Lamia.
“Are you going to Fakahani today?” she asked me.
“Yes. Why?” I replied.
“I can drive you there. I won’t be going to the office.”
“Excellent. I’ll be waiting for you. What would you say to coming up first for coffee?”
She hesitated for a moment, then asked me, “Is Wadia with you?”
“Wadia’s in Amman. He won’t be coming back before tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
“And what about your bodyguard? Will he be coming with you?”
“I’ll get rid of him before I come,” she said with a laugh. “Bye bye,” she added, in English.
I poured myself a glass of cognac and sat down to drink it in the living room, as I observed the cloud-covered sky through the balcony door. Fifteen minutes later, the buzzer rang.
I hugged her with one arm while locking the door with the other arm. She gently extricated herself, saying:
“I escaped Abu Khalil, but I’ll have to go back soon, otherwise he’ll think I’ve been kidnapped.”
She undid the buttons on her raincoat as she walked toward the sofa. Then she took it off and tossed it on a chair, followed by her purse. Only then did she sit down.
She was wearing tight brown chamois pants and a yellow blouse. There were thick woolen yellow stockings on her feet, in open-back platform shoes.
“Where’s that coffee you claimed to have?” she asked.
“Coming right up,” I said.
I hurried to the kitchen, made the coffee, and brought it out to the living room. I put it on the table. I sat next to Lamia and put my arms around her. Then I kissed her on the lips.
“What’s that?” she asked suddenly, pulling away from me.
She was referring to a small black box mounted over the apartment door.
“The buzzer,” I said, with an air of bafflement.
“Are you sure?”
“What else could it be?” I replied.
“A recording device or a hidden camera.”
I laughed. She took a sip of coffee and put the cup back down on the tray, saying: “I’d like to use the bathroom.”
I stood up to let her pass.
“You have to leave the apartment,” she said.
“But why?” I asked, perplexed.
“I won’t be able to if you stay here. I’m embarrassed.”
“But where should I go?”
“Buy me something. Do you have mineral water?”
“I think so. There’s a bottle or two of Sihha.”
“I don’t drink Lebanese water. Buy me a bottle of Perrier.”
I put on my jacket and she accompanied me to the door. I locked it behind me. I had just gone out onto the street when it started raining heavily. I found that the grocery across the street was closed, so I ran to the corner and went into another store.
I bought a bottle of Perrier and hung around inside the shop in the hope that it would stop raining. When I saw it was starting to come down harder, I bought a newspaper, put it over my head, and ran back to the apartment.
She opened the door for me.
“Is everything all right?” I asked.
She laughed. “Everything’s fine, ya bey,” she replied.
I poured her a glass of mineral water, and offered her a glass of cognac, but she declined. I poured one for myself. I went to the bathroom and closed the door behind me. I stood and surveyed the room. Nothing gave away that she had been there. Then I discovered that the towel was not in the place I had put it. My eyes fell on a spray bottle on the edge of the sink that wasn’t there before. I picked up the bottle and found that it was French. It said on the label that it was the best product for “cleansing intimate parts of the body and giving them a fresh scent and taste”.
I put the bottle back where it had been, and stood there thinking: Did she forget it by accident? Or did she intend to leave it there so I could see it? Either way, it led to the same conclusion.
I went back to the living room and found that she had closed the door to the balcony, and lit the electric heater. She had taken off her shoes and socks, and had her legs stretched out in front of her on the table.
I sat down next to her, looking at her white, symmetrical feet and her slender toes, with the shiny coat of deep-red nail polish on her long nails. I saw her give her feet a meaningful look.
I got down on my knees and clasped her feet, running my hands over them.
“No corns or calluses,” I said.
“Why would I have them?” she asked.
“Everyone has them,” I explained.
“It’s because of their shoes. I pay good money to get comfortable shoes.”
“From Beirut?” I asked.
“No, from Xavier.”
I hadn’t heard the name before, so I stayed silent. I leaned my head over her feet. I brought my mouth to her toes, took one of them between my lips, and slowly sucked it.
I looked up at her and found that she was watching me in concentration. Her face had drained of any expression. I licked between her toes, then passed my lips over the back and sides of her feet up to her ankles.
After a moment, I bumped up against the hem of her pants. I adjusted my position on my knees and put out my hand to her middle. She refused for a little, but then helped me. Soon her pants were in a pile at her feet.
Her white thighs were revealed before my eyes. I felt her soft skin with the palm of my hand. Then I leaned my head over them.
Her hidden scent made its way into my senses, light and captivating. I kissed her under her knees and between her thighs. The taste of her was cool and fresh, like the taste of a body directly after a bath.
A diaphanous fabric embroidered with lace presented itself to me, and I licked its rough texture that mingled with her softness. I pulled it down, and her hair — light, carefully trimmed — was exposed.
She leaned her body back until she was lying flat on the couch with her face toward me. I brought my face close, and her silky skin surrounded my cheeks. My lips attached themselves to her damp flesh. The taste of the salty sea made its way to my tongue, and I lapped it up with pleasure.