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Part III: Dolce Vita

It must have been a bright morning, for I met Mrs Waterbird again in the lift. She arrived before me, and she was by herself. That was what I’d call a close encounter of the third kind! Why? Because of what occurred, or rather, what did not occur.

– Morning, Mr Bourasin. How nice to meet you again! she exclaimed.

– Morning, Mrs. Waterbird. How are you doing?

– I’m fine, thank you. But you can call me Janet.

I loved her easygoing manners, although I think she was more sophisticated than she appeared. Her arms were very white in the short sleeves of her light long gown, and her long slim neck was adorned by a golden chain whose extremity was hidden in the deepness of her proud bosom at that mysterious line of junction. I could guess the shape and sweetness of her breasts under the tight brassiere. She generously offered them to my sight, straightening her head resolutely while speaking and her golden hair undulated over her shoulders. She was roughly my height, if not slightly taller, due to her high-heeled shoes.

– I will. I am just Bassam.

– Hello, Bassam, she said, smiling.

– I thought you were on the third floor.

– No, the gallery is on the third floor, not our room.

– I’ll visit the exhibition as soon as possible, maybe even this afternoon if I can free myself.

– Thank you. It’ll be our pleasure.

The lift stopped on the third floor, and she left.

A tiny, swarthy fellow in chauffeur attire awaited me by the reception desk in the lobby. It was not the same man who had driven me to ‘Ouja. I stopped to leave the little envelope addressed to the manager at the reception desk, then strolled towards the gate, following the driver to the black Mercedes waiting for us.

I tossed myself on the marrowy cushion and tried to relax as the car nosed through the capital’s streets, thronged with many vehicles and a faceless crowd. I looked out the window at people crowding the pavement or hunching in front of the shops. The coffee shops were busy, and life appeared to continue as usual. Nothing has changed since the Islamist coup. Just more weapons appeared here and there. Armed men replaced police officers at street junctions, but residents looked now accustomed or maybe indifferent to their presence. Since the King’s deposition, guns, tanks, and military displays have become a part of our daily lives. With the conflict in the south threatening to crawl over the rest of the country, it was customary to see those groups of men parading through the streets, some walking and some riding SUV cars, with their rifles, machine guns, and other weapons flashing in the sun. I raised my eyes as I heard the thunderous roar of an engine louder than all the vehicles on the roadway. It was a police helicopter flying at a low altitude, scanning the roofs and the streets. It hovered briefly above us before disappearing in a clap-clap droning of propellers.

Mrs Waterbird’s ravishing perfume was still in my nostrils. It was enough to turn and daze all the heads surrounding her. I’m unsure why I had a flurry of strange thoughts in the lift with her. It was the first time in my life that a woman provoked such a flood of stunning hallucinations in my mind that I wished for the lift to be blocked by a sudden electric breakdown, trapping me along with her in that tiny space with no way for us to go up or down or get out! Really! It’s insane! I’m becoming overly silly and maybe a touch lunatic. My sudden wealth has ostensibly harmed my mind rather than improved my situation. In the presence of a lady, a gentleman should not entertain such foolishly profligate fantasies. What if the idea materialised and I was suspended twenty metres above the ground, trapped in that cage with Mrs Waterbird? Would it make her happy? The devil knows how that weird thought infiltrated my mind! I am not

Bassam Bourasin, if that vile and lecherous left-side angel did not sow it in my head. I can hear him laughing while gripping his stomach. I wish you’d explode, son of a bitch! You’re such a jerk! No kindness, no respect for anything or anybody, right? Get lost and rot in hell, damn the bastard father that begot you!

That woman had asked you for nothing, and while I was making a big deal out of our casual meeting, you betrayed me and sowed trouble in my senses! You are sick and horrible! I’m sure you aren’t an angel but a pork!

I hope Mrs Waterbird did not suspect anything about what occurred to me. The more I think about it, the more I realise that the lift could have stopped in response to that unbelievable delusion. Don’t they say reality is a manifestation of our thoughts?

– Holy shit!

What would I have done then? Would she have objected if I kissed her? Just a little kiss! On the cheek, as a brother!

– Would that have resolved the issue for you, jackass?

– I doubt it.

– She would have slapped you.

– Uch! This whole story is a weird idea! I refuse to believe I conceived it.

– I tell you what would have happened. If the lift had been blocked, you couldn’t have approached the lady because she would have shouted in terror and said you attempted to persuade her to leave her husband and come with you.

– Wrong! I never thought about it. Anyway, I don’t recognise myself in this salacious story. Mrs Waterbird never complained about boredom or asked that I console her in any manner.

– Yet, she’s now connected to your lust. Admit it.

– I’m not admitting anything. As long as you follow me like a shadow, I refuse to talk to you.

Did she guess my thoughts? I wonder. Because women are said to be incredibly intuitive. What a shame if she did! She’d probably tell her husband, “That guy in the lift, you know, Mr Bourasin, who appeared so shy and reserved in the restaurant… You won’t believe it, but he suddenly became brash. Today, he kissed me right here on the lips. I did not guess his intentions. I’d slap him if I did. I’m pretty sure I’d slap him indeed.” Her nippy, bored husband would then respond, “Ah, really! That’s it?” Everything would end there. I don’t see him coming over to punch me in the lobby. I’d hit him on the nose before he moved, even if he’s much bigger than me, with muscles, fat, and bones. I don’t mind if he’s upset. In fact, I wish he was angry so he could say something other than, “Ah, really! That’s it?” What more does he want? I am, in fact, a gross pig! I had no idea until I met Mrs Waterbird in the lift this morning, but now I know.

It’s hardly comforting to imagine oneself as a pig just minutes before meeting with a minister of the Islamic State. This happened. It was unavoidable. The attraction was almost unbearable. It was her eyes, her flesh, her look, and all the unsaid — the indescribable magnetism and the tiny space filled with electric desire.

I felt like someone who had let a splendid opportunity pass through his fingers without catching it. I regret it now. Why didn’t I stop the damned lift halfway, kiss the lady, and do whatever our hot hell of flesh demanded? I’m oversensitive and delusional, or just a coward? I felt guilty, guilty, and wretched because I could not do what I knew she was silently soliciting. My anxiety kept me from taking the step. So many social barriers had been planted in my head long before the thought of making love to a woman in a lift came to me. The idea of that failure irritated me and placed me in a depressed, ominous frame of mind. I cursed Mrs Waterbird and her hopeless perfume. It was the day I had been looking forward to for years. I would miss it and fail miserably because of her awful fragrance, which had disrupted my senses and sent me on the run. If I hadn’t been able to restrain myself, I would still be in the lift bouncing with the lady, and I would have had to say goodbye to my business and all my ambitions. This is at least the most comforting aspect of the situation. I did not do it, all right! And while I recognise that I was incapable, I am grateful that my timidity saved me time. I should not have lit her cigarette in the first place because, from inside, I burned up with its sight when she planted it at the corner of her lips. I’m damned if I’m not in love with Mrs Waterbird! I’m dying for her, and her white, naked arms, delicious lips, and glorious breasts are pursuing me like damnation to the Islamic State’s Ministry of Interior.