Haresh Shah
In The Journey Of Life One Meets Only To Part
When I first notice her, she is standing next to me in the check-in line, fidgeting and shifting her weight from one foot to another. Her face looks pretty in profile. With Milan’s Linate International Airport fogged-in, we are bussed to their standby Malpensa, which is in a big mess as ever. Despite the throngs of crowds and the chaos that normally prevails, and amidst the multiple delays, things somehow work out at this remote airport.
I check in, go through the immigration and the security check and on to the other side of the security wing. Pick up some duty free booze, look around for a while and with the first call make it to the gate # 7. And there she is again. All wrapped up in her leopard skin coat and her knee-high black boots. Her pretty face floats in the air propelled by her swan like long and delicate neck. On the second call, we move closer towards the gate to get on the bus.
I notice her staring at me. I stare back. They have called the flight for the third time and the bus still isn’t anywhere in sight. Us just standing there, waiting, our eyes discreetly catching a fleeting gaze of the other. I want to strike up a conversation, probably so does she. But we maintain our demeanor. The fourth call and the bus still hasn’t arrived. She looks at me and lets a slight smile cross her lips. I smile back. Neither of us says anything. We continue to steal glances at each other every few moments.
A few more minutes have elapsed and the bus still hasn’t arrived. Everyone is getting antsy, with the possible exception of us two. We are enjoying our little charade. I watch her fiddle with her pink boarding card. The lady is traveling in first class. She sort of looks rich all over, from her head to her toe. It is sweetly awkward just waiting and stealing glances at a stranger. She has moved sideways, bringing her a couple of steps closer to me. I want to move even closer and talk to her. But don’t know how to break the ice. The way we are taking each other in is discomforting. And yet, there seems to be an unspoken insinuation between us that its alright.
It isn’t that warm in the departure hall, but while waiting, she decides to undo her coat buttons. Underneath, I could see that she is of a slender frame and of delicate built. Don’t think she has much on her chest. She stands still for a while with her coat unbuttoned and then finally takes it off. When I see a pair of lascivious breasts bounce off her form fitting turtle-neck sweater, the sight takes my breath away. A white pearl necklace dangles down from her neck, with its knotted loop snuggly resting in the cleft of her cleavage. She is wearing a knee-length black velvet skirt and a three inches (6.6cm) wide black belt, separating her tight sweater from the skirt. Averting direct eye contact, I let my eyes traverse down from her knee high black boots up to her head, her hair bunched together with a glittery hair clip. I observe that her breasts aren’t as big as they seemed, except that they stand out on her shapely petite frame. She is a beauty! A tempestuous one at that.
They call the flight once more, but where the hell is the bus? Our heads automatically turn towards each other, our eyes lock.
‘They probably don’t even have the plane there!’ I say.
‘Probably not.’ The ice broken, she responds.
‘Sind sie aus Deautschland?’ I ask in German.
‘Ja,’ she answers, ‘und sie?
‘Zur zeit.’
Finally, the bus has arrived. We walk in together. She finds herself a corner seat, I stand next to her. ‘hier gibt’s noch ein platz’ she points at another folded chair next to her. The plane is only about twenty meters away from the gate, we could have walked. We get off the bus and walk a few remaining steps to the plane.
‘It’s going to be pretty lonely in the first class!’ I say, quickly scanning the small cabin of the empty first class.
‘I guess so.” She agrees and in hurry explains that she had to get the first class ticket because there were no seats left in the economy.
‘Perhaps we can sit together?’ She asks.
‘I would love to, but I don’t think they would let us.’
We walk into the plane. She hands over her pink boarding card to the stewardess and asks her if I could possibly sit with her. Yes, if I paid the difference in the fare.
We start with champagne and a nice meal. This is my first time ever, traveling in first class. Not too hard to get used to. The stewardesses keep refilling our glasses. It is a shame that we only have such a short distance to travel.
The mutual infatuation between us is apparent. Before we know, we have switched to addressing each other with familiar Du. Our faces so close, our hands overlapping on the arm rest, they find each other and our fingers entwine on their own. We talk and we flirt. Holding hands, looking deep into each other’s eyes. Her face is a perfect combination of Ingrid and Gisela, two of my prettiest German friends. An exotic mixture that reminds me of Queen Farah Pahlavi of Iran. Really a beautiful woman, I say to myself. Deep green eyes, jet black hair, thin lips and dimpled cheeks.
Her name is Chantal – unusual for a German girl. I have a Francophile mother. Chantal is married to a fifty eight year old entrepreneur from Hamburg. She herself looks like about twenty seven. They now live in Ascona, Switzerland, with their four month old child and three servants. Her parents live close to Düsseldorf, but she isn’t flying there to see them. She tells me that she is going there on “business”. Sure! I give her a cryptic smile. She smiles back and concedes that she is actually meeting a “friend” there.
‘In fact, we were supposed to have a nice dinner together.’
‘You did have a dinner with someone nice anyways.’ I respond.
‘Of course,’ and she smiles, squeezing my hand. ‘I think it’s more romantic with a total stranger than with someone you already know.’
We talk for a while about me working for Playboy.
‘Would you ever consider posing for the magazine?’ I ask.
‘In the nude?’
‘Well, we’re talking Playboy!’
‘I would love to. But I don’t think my husband would be too thrilled!’
‘Schade!’ Too bad. She is sooooooooooooooooo gorgeous. I think.
Not the nudes, but she would certainly be open to a fashion shoot. If not exactly for the pictures, but more so because such an opportunity would enable her to get away from her day-to-day chores of being a rich man’s wife.
She tells me that in two days she was returning to Ascona and the whole “family” of six was going to leave for Spain on Friday morning to spend the winter months in a new house that her husband had bought in warm and sunny Costa del Sol. Spending six months in a small town swarming mainly with the German tourists is not her idea of excitement. She asks me if I would write her a letter on an official Playboy letterhead inviting her to come over to Munich to do a fashion shoot. It would be just an excuse she needs to get away from her husband.
‘He doesn’t mind my seitensprung (literally a sideway leap – those clever Germans!) ab und zu. How do you call it in English? Extra something…?
‘You mean extra curricular? Extra marital?’
‘Ja genau. as long as I am discreet about it’ – the word she uses is diplomatic – so lange ich diplomatisch bin. A trophy wife, I think. And she knows it!
And she certainly knows how to indulge a man’s ego. ‘ I think Playboy has the right kind of a man in you. You’re not only good looking, but you’re also charming, warm and have a friendly personality. You can make interesting conversation and the people feel nice being with you.’ I am flattered, of course! Thanks. Same to you lady.
Her hair clipped at the top, I wonder what she would look like if she let it down. She obliges. The long tresses unfurling, she tosses her head until they softly rest and caress her shoulders. I gently brush it with the back of my hand. She nuzzles her neck backward and flashes that certain smile which has me unarmed. She looks much prettier with her hair down. More sensuous. Encouraged, I tell her, I’m sure you’ve got great looking legs! She gives me a bewildered but a pleasant look and then bends down and if a bit hesitantly, unzips her boots and removes them. I feel like I am undressing her bit by bit like in a slow motion striptease. My fingers reach down and lightly touch and caress the silky smooth skin of her legs.
She tells me that her friend is picking her up at the airport.
‘I wish he didn’t.’ I say.
‘I wish he didn’t either.’ She sounds sincere.
We exchange addresses and telephone numbers. However remote the possibility that we would ever see each other again.
‘Maybe I can come over and see you in Spain?’ I wonder out loud.
‘Please do,’ she answers, ‘but bring along a friend or a model with you, my husband loves pretty girls.’ As if I didn’t already know.
We are already on the other side of the Alps. We only have fifteen to twenty minutes remaining before the plane touches down in Düsseldorf. I get a sinking feeling in my stomach at the thought. As the plane descends, we just look deep into each other’s eyes, mesmerized. And hold hands in a tight squeeze, our fingers tensing over each others. I bend down sideways and impulsively kiss her lightly on the mouth. Her lips flutter. A dismay crosses her face like a floating cloud. She raises her hand and gently wipes off the lipstick smears from my lips with her dainty fingers.
‘Maybe we should make a baby together. Would look beautiful. Wow! my own baby with dark skin and brown eyes!’
I am touched by the wistful look in her eyes focused on mine. Up until then I haven’t thought of having a child of my own. It feels surreal to imagine having one with this stunning beauty sitting next to me. Overwhelmed, we hold the gaze, unblinking, lest the spell be broken – like two teenagers in love for the first time.
Time elapses faster than it should. We are already in Düsseldorf. The landing strip is only a few hundred meters away. I move my eyes from the approaching runway to her face again. I squeeze her hand hard.
‘Hey, look at me one more time before we touch down.’ She does and kisses me lightly with the side of her lips to avoid her freshly applied lipstick from smearing.
‘Let’s just say auf wiedersehen right here’ she says, ‘because I want to be the first one to get off the plane.’ It makes me sad, but I understand.
‘Auf wiedersehen.’ I whisper.
‘War schön – verführung im erste klasse’ – it’s been nice, seduction in the first class – and she laughs a nervous laugh. Soon as the plane pulls up at the jetway, we look at each other one more time with an unbearable longing. And then she is gone!
© Haresh Shah 2013
Illustration: Celia Rose Marks
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Next Friday, August 9, 2013
WRITE OFF OR NOT
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