Secret Skin (2 page)

They didn’t seem to notice.

The waiter moved in beside her and asked the two men if they wanted anything else. While they struggled to pull their thoughts out from between their legs he spoke briefly to the woman. Something along the lines of, ‘If these guys don’t bite there’s a westerner back there that will.’

Because when I looked up from my first sip of the potent murk that is Arabic coffee, she stood directly in front of me, the seam of her abaya parted at crotch height. Not enough to reveal anything to those on nearby tables, but just a few inches from my face the spanked red color of her exposed underwear triggered an anxious carnal yearning throughout my body.

‘You want to fuck.’ she said, a statement, definitely not a question.

***

‘Slut, whore, hooker, lady of the night, working girl, call girl, pro, streetwalker, courtesan, floozy, harlot?’ I said.

She sat on a king size bed in a mid-range but well used hotel apartment, head uncovered, legs crossed, and eyes so wide her pencil-thin eyebrows looked like they might fall off the back of her head.

I continued, ‘Lot lizard, tochka, hostess, pickup, midnight cowgirl, party girl, tart, trollop, commercial sex worker, loose woman, sex slave?’ She seemed amused. I sighed. ‘Scarlet woman perhaps?’

She was amused. ‘You can call me anything you like darling.’ She said in an accent that wouldn’t settle, French-Arabic one moment, American or English the next.

‘No, that’s not…I know I could, but….’ She laughed silently at my awkwardness. Her shoulders shook as she tried to suppress the giggles. I pressed on, ‘What I mean is, what do you call yourself? Do you use any of those terms to describe what you do?’

‘I am Yasmin. I work with men. What is this scarlet woman?’

They say English is the business language of choice but after the words Coke and OK understanding usually makes its excuses and leaves. I sighed again, wishing I was adept at any language other than my own. I checked my notes.

‘Well, scarlet is a color, a vivid red.’

‘I like that. Souri, my family name, it means red.’ she said.

‘Okay, here we are. A scarlet woman….’ my notes defined an immoral woman and prostitute, but I wanted to gain her confidence not lose it. I leapt impulsively on the next hopeful sentence, ‘Let’s see, a biblical expression from Revelations 17:5 where St John describes a vision of a woman in scarlet with an inscription on her forehead “Mystery, Babylon the Great,”’ I intoned. ‘‘‘The mother of harlots and abominations of the earth....’’’

I stopped speaking when she stopped smiling. ‘I’m sorry. I remembered it as being flattering. I really don’t think you are an abomination of the earth. I think they were referring to Rome.’

We sat in silence. She examined me calmly for the first time without the prostitute’s mask of flirtatious body language. No teasing eyes or hostile pouting lips, no fluttering eyelids, thrusting bosoms or parted legs.

She appeared to be a woman in her early twenties and like the city itself in between cultures. Occasional blonde streaks colored her dark hair, and she’d visibly lightened her soft brown skin. I couldn’t tell whether the green of her eyes was natural or colored contacts.

For once I shut up and let the silence build, ignoring the questions struggling to be asked. Show me an open mouth and I’ll usually put my foot right in it. Mercifully she spoke first.

‘You want to just talk?’ she said, crossing her hands in her lap.

I nodded.

‘Why?’

I could have told an easy lie, but chose not to. ‘I’m a journalist of sorts,’ I said instead. ‘Or I was. Back home. Now I regurgitate press releases about the wonders of Dubai for news or feature articles. I basically earn money re-selling the development dreams of sheikhs to gullible foreigners. And I’m sick of it. I want to write something different, something more worthwhile.

‘Take prostitution,’ I said, ‘it’s not even supposed to exist in this holier than thou Islamic state. So when bad things happen, nobody hears anything apart from denials. I’ve heard stories of women who are trafficked, enslaved, and forced to be here against their will. About women who are abused, raped, or killed. I want to find out first hand if these stories are true.’

She tilted her head to one side as if trying to figure me out.

‘I guess I just want to make a difference,’ I said, and shrugged. ‘A naïve ambition perhaps.’

‘Most people without money can’t ask questions and those with usually don’t,’ she said.

‘Except how can I make more, right?’

Her eyes sparkled agreement.

I took that as encouragement. ‘I don’t intend to take pictures where faces can be seen and I will never use the real names of the people I speak to.’ I said.

‘No pictures.’ she said waving a finger at me. ‘No. Questions only. But what about censorship?’ she asked. ‘I will be happy if they deport me tomorrow. If you say a wrong thing, you will either leave or go to jail.’

‘I expect a certain amount of trouble.’ I said. ‘It means I’m asking the right kind of questions.’

Her lips pursed and she shifted uncomfortably. I didn’t want to scare her off.

‘Listen,’ I said. ‘I don’t have a big corporation or government behind me but I do have a magazine published in the west and Middle East that will print anything I can find out. I also syndicate my articles through some of the agencies and I have the ear of a couple of news editors in Europe.’

‘That is good,’ she said, encouraging me, expecting more.

‘To be honest, I’m winging it. If I find a good story, someone will break it. I hope.’

‘So you want me for what exactly? I hear so many stories from men,’ she said. ‘You really don’t want this?’ She opened her abaya to reveal the red underwear that clung to her hips and breasts like a second skin, covering but not concealing what lay beneath.

‘No!’ I said and focused my eyes intently on hers. ‘You are a beautiful woman Yasmin. But I just want you to talk to me. I want to learn about what you do. How it works here. I will even pay you for your time.’

She sat there for a frustrating age holding the robe open, testing me, willing me to look down and fall for her easy charms.

‘Why did you ask me all those names?’ she said. Wriggling her hips from side to side and twisting her body until it was at its most seductive angle. She clearly understood the power she wielded.

‘The men who pay me call me far worse things,’ she said, ‘vile things, but I am not any of them. Your names were like a little boy’s.’

I recoiled at the sting, embarrassed by the truth of it. ‘An editor asked me to do it,’ I said. ‘He thought it would be funny. I thought it was stupid. But, you know how it is…I have to keep my clients happy.’

‘Yes, I understand,’ she said and closed the abaya, finally letting me relax. I hoped believing in me.

‘So what do you call what you do?’ I said.

‘Work. What would you call it?’

‘Hard fucking work?’ She gave me a withering look. ‘Sorry. When I was younger I imagined that being a porn star or gigolo would be a great way to make money. Who wouldn’t? Sex on tap right? I was all hormones back then.’

‘You are not so old. What changed?’ she said.

‘A lot of drink, insecurity, too many one night stands. After a while it all becomes a little functional. Sex becomes just another physical act, like digesting food, nothing more. It becomes hard to connect with anyone. All those sensitive egos, especially your own. It’s tiring. Lots of conquests and the only person you really fuck is yourself.’

She was smiling again. Laughing quietly.

‘What?’ I asked, smiling back.

‘Many of my men do this, justify why they are here, with me. My wife doesn’t understand me they say. Always the sex is so bohh-ring!’ laughing again as she mimicked her clients.

‘Perhaps you just need to fuck someone else eh? Get yourself going. Are you sure that’s not why you’re here?’

I smiled my answer. She waved her hand. ‘No matter.’

‘So can I ask you some questions?’

‘Yes, okay.’

I had a list of prepared questions, but still slightly unsettled, I rattled them off as if it was my first day on the job. ‘What is your real name? How old are you? Where are you from? How did you get here? How much do you earn? Do you have a pimp? Where do you stay? Do you have a work visa?’

She grinned and shook her head. Then stood up and walked over to me. ‘Okay David,’ she said covering my notepad with her hands. ‘Enough. You have so many questions. Ask me next time.’ She pulled me up by my elbow, ‘Now you go. I have to show my face. People will be looking for me.’

‘Who?’

‘Next time, we already take longer talking than three men take fucking.’

‘How will I contact you?’

‘You won’t. Give me your card. I will call you when it is quiet.’

‘When?’ I asked rummaging for a business card.

‘We will see, morning is better. Oh David,’ she said, ‘don’t forget to kiss me on the way out.’

‘What? Why?’ I said, as she pulled open the door.

‘You never know who is watching,’ she whispered.

She held my face, pulled me close and our lips touched. A sharp tug of desire pulled me in. Lost for a moment, I closed my eyes and then heard her say, ‘You’re a regular client now David. You must act like one.’

When I opened my eyes I was looking at the closed door of the apartment and standing in an empty corridor, feeling alone but unexpectedly content.

The Media Rooms were the place to network. Its restaurants and bars took up the first and second floors of a business hotel at the heart of Dubai Media City and in the cooler months the rooftop as well. Drunken editors would commission more work there in one night than in a month of carefully crafted pitches. A debilitating hangover seemed a reasonable price to pay for such enjoyable efficiency.

A successful free trade zone, Media City allowed foreigners 100% ownership of their business. This included me, operating freelance, a solo entity servicing the needs of tax free companies and corporations that couldn’t retain staff. A common problem as the over-inflating city hit the peak of its first building boom.

Downtown the half built Burj rushed to become the world’s tallest tower and the headline grabbing Palm Jumeirah geared up for its soft opening. Marketing slogans described it as the eighth wonder of the world. Locals believed these worn out claims without reservation, blind to earlier projects that already cracked and crumbled back into the sand.

Bigger always equaled better in Dubai, but if you wanted to grow outside the free zone you needed a sponsor from the local population.

The sponsor retained 51% of your company and there were countless horror stories of people investing in these deals only to find that when they wanted access to their capital the sponsor had already cleaned out the accounts. Unless you had wusta – quite simply power, influence and the right family name – you had a gambling addict’s chance of ever seeing your money again.

In the financial free zone the Emiratis had even created a British legal district so that international investors could feel confident doing business there. Nice idea, but the local exchanges still wobbled like a drunk on a tight rope.

‘Oi, Bryson!’ shouted Martin Newman above the heads of the fashionable rooftop crowd. A long-term British expat from the old school of darkies, danger payments and denial he would have liked a beard on his aging baby face. Instead, he wore the cracks and wrinkles from too much drink and sun with boyish pride. Compulsively competitive and with a generous inferiority complex, he was likeable but often highly annoying.

‘Bryson! Pull up a pint and tell us what you’ve been up to with those whores of yours.’

Every woman within hearing distance glared at me.

He was also the editor of Arabian Outlook. The magazine destined to publish my wonderful exposés of Dubai.

‘Hey!’ I called back, explaining to those nearest to me, ‘It’s just research honestly. It’s not what you think.’ The tuts and disdain quickly disappeared as my audience returned to talking about themselves and sucking on the straws of their overpriced cocktails.

‘And don’t come over here without a Heineken and a Chivas from the bar, not if you want to work in this town again,’ he yelled.

‘Yeah. Right. Of course.’ I muttered under my breath, cursing him. I contemplated telling him where to stick his drinks, and then bought them anyway. I needed him.

***

‘So tell me again, what car do you drive?’ he said, already slurring his words. He grabbed both drinks from the tray in my hands and downed the whisky.

‘A dodgy hire car Martin. You already know that.’

‘Yeah!’ he said, booming, even managing to pronounce the exclamation mark. ‘Yeah that’s right. It’s purple isn’t it?

‘It’s a black and red mini cooper Martin, it’s a modern classic.’

‘It’s a poof’s car!’

‘Yeah, well,’ I said, ‘if you don’t watch out I’m going to come out of my closet and shove my dingaling right up your jacksie.’

‘Ha, ha, haaaa!’ he boomed again, ‘Give as good as you get son, go on.’

A fair haired and healthy twenty-something sat quietly next to him. He was obviously trying to impress her. Normally he would have taken more offence.

‘Hello,’ I said to her. She smiled politely.

‘This is Verity. She’s lovely. Australian. And bloody talented. She’s the new deputy news editor over at City Syndication.’

We smiled again, acknowledging each other, both feeling awkward as Martin swayed back and forth.

‘Did I ever tell you how me and your boss….’ started Martin.

‘Carl,’ she said.

‘Yeah, that’s the fella, we used to drag race round the back of Spinneys. We’ve got the same car you know. We used to work together you see, in the Sudan. We go back a long time me and him.’

‘Really?’ she said, another statement posing as a question.

‘Yeah, you know, we even did the Paris-Dakar Rally one year. Fucking laugh that was. Gonzo wasn’t the word. You should have seen the bar bills! Fuck me, they were massive, you know?’

Not really sure who he was talking to we both mumbled agreement. I pointed over his shoulder and said, ‘My goodness, look who’s here.’