3.08 Lightning Bolt

True to his word, Jean took the Amazonian home with him the night of the salsa party. I don’t know how the little bastard broke the ice--I had been in a toilet stall topping off when he made his move--but by the time I returned to the hall, the two of them were standing close to one another, deep in an animated tête-à-tête. Jean said something and the tall, gorgeous woman laughed like glass shattering. She gave her long, straight hair a playful flick and touched his meaty shoulder. And there you have it, boys: make a girl laugh and in no time you’ll be halfway up her leg.

After the party, Jean invited Nori, that was the Amazonian's name, and the nag she had ridden in on to join us for drinks later. With a wink and a nod, a battlefield commission was handed down to me: wingman. My mission: keep “Rocinante” happily engaged for the rest of the evening as my friend worked his magic. It was a thankless task but I performed above and beyond the call to duty. That’s what friends are for after all. By and by, Jean would cajole Nori back to his place where they would go at it all night long like a bulldog giving an Afghan hound the bone.

*

At about the same time that Jean had met Nori, a lightning bolt hit me, as well.

Like I’ve said before, things had been going pretty damn well at the time. Business in particular was booming no thanks to that buffoon Mori who was Prime Minister at the time. Because I advertised regularly, it was not uncommon for prospective students to call me to arrange a time to observe a lesson. It was, however, unusual to get three inquiries in one day like I did the day Azami called.

And yet, her call stood out. Where most people who called left me with the impression that they didn’t have the slightest clue why they were calling, her voice was clear and businesslike. Instead of hemming and hawing over the phone, this Azami was eager to come by and start up--today. I told her I appreciated her enthusiasm, but suggested she observe a lesson first and decide later.

Shortly before the six-thirty lesson was about to start, Azami arrived. She was fairly tall, not model tall like Jean’s Nori, but tall enough. She also had shoulder-length black hair. Black hair. Of the fifty or sixty young women visiting me each week, only one other had black hair: a real beauty by the name of Eiko. The remainder in some crazy attempt to project their individual personalities all had their hair colored brown or dark blond. It was enough to make the Eikos and Azamis seem almost exotic.

And boy was this Azami exotic. With her large brown eyes, strong masculine features, and a complexion that was naturally darker than most girls, what the Japanese call jiguro, it was as if she had just stepped right out of a Gauguin canvas.  When Azami said she wanted to have private lessons, I was more than happy to oblige the young beauty.

Private lessons to English teachers can be what lap dances are to strippers and so it was with Azami and me from the get-go. A typical conversation went something like this:

“Men don’t find me attractive,” Azami said.

“What would you make you think a thing like that?”

“I’ve never met a chikan,” she answered.

By chikan, of course, she meant that uniquely Japanese variety of pervert who got his rocks off groping women on crowded trains.

“You’ve never been molested?” I asked.

“No, never.”

“And you’d like to be molested?”

“Yes! I want to be molested,” she cried. “I want to be molested. I want to be molested.”

“Perhaps I can arrange something for you.”

It wasn’t long after that that we became lovers.

*

As soon as work finished, I went to a Balinese restaurant where I chased double shots of Ron Zacapa Centenario with pints of beer until Azami showed up. Despite all I had consumed since the afternoon, circumstances were keeping me as sober as a judge. 

Azami arrived an hour later with a hastily scribbled message from Jean: "Warrant?" 

"Of course they had a warrant,” I said. “A warrant to search my apartment, one to search my body, and, another one to make me piss into a cup. Warrants are the least of my worries. What about Jean? Is he okay?" 

Azami said that he was. Nothing out of the ordinary had happened since Jean and I had last met the previous Sunday.

It was a huge relief, but I shuddered to think what would have happened to the two of us if the cops had raided my place then. The thought of it sent a fresh chill through my bones. 

I must have looked as white as a sheet because Azami asked if I were okay. 

"Yeah, I'm fantastic. I'm having the time of my life,” I said, downing the last of my Zacapa. “C’mon, let’s go get something to eat."

© Aonghas Crowe, 2010. All rights reserved. No unauthorized duplication of any kind.

注意：この作品はフィクションです。登場人物、団体等、実在のモノとは一切関係ありません。

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

The complete version of No. 6 is now available for a variety of devices at Amazon's Kindle store.