6.1 Guesthouse

My door was fitted with a full sheet of textured glass. I could see light outside and make out shapes in a blur. Tuesday afternoon, I sat on my bed peeping through the hole. None of the girls showed a movement inside the big bedroom.

Then someone tapped on the door. I glanced to capture the light fallen on a white shirt of someone out there waiting at the door. It was a figure of a woman with short-cut hair – a boyish look. Shalin!

She tapped again. She wore dark trousers.

I replaced the longboard in its position without making a noise. On her fourth knock, I swung open the door quite briskly.

She was shocked to see me standing stark naked and rolled her eyes into the inside to check weather I was with someone, perhaps a girl. She was taller than me and she did not drop her eyes on my boner. Some folders on her left arm and a bag on her right shoulder.

“Oh!” I cried and closed the door hastily.

She held the door leaf, “It’s alright.”

“Miss! What are you doing here?” I asked posing behind the door leaf.

“Can you take me to Guesthouse?” requested my teacher calmly.

“Guesthouse?”

“Yes, on your bike.”

“Yes ma’am. I’ll put on my clothes.”

“I will wait.”

I locked the door and since I did not have a piece of underwear, I pulled on those pink panties and a pair of faded blue jeans. I grabbed a short-sleeved floral shirt from the wardrobe shelf and hurriedly dressed. Pocketed a Marlboro pack, my lighter and mobile phone.

I opened the door with the keys, “Where did you say you want to go?”

“Guesthouse.” She wore a white baggy shirt, thin fabric, with long sleeves and tucked under her chocolate brown bell-bottoms with a long zipper, quite old fashion. “What happened to your face?”

“I bumped on the door.”

“Guesthouse is on Maldivia Road.”

Her hair cut very short but the same old face of Miss Sophie Nadz. Though I have not seen her for several years, there’s no mistake. I can’t tell her age but she must be in her fifties because I am forty. I could see no white hair though but then she must have dyed black.

I carried her on my motorbike down the Havana streets and in a minute climbed Avenida Medio instead of Camino Costero or Carrera 1. It was a one-and-a-half-mile ride and reached Maldivia Road in Orange Hill that led to the gardens. Avenida Medio runs down the middle of the island over the hills towards the east coastal village of Nativa.

“Stop!” she pointed to the south side of the lane lined up with tiny shops. Beyond this block, to the south lay Mirador Cemetery. She reached a gate painted in teal between two red brick columns and shops on both sides. A wooden signboard on the wall carved out those letters: GUESTHOUSE.

We stepped into an entryway under the roof of the shops and a pathway lay across under the overhang. A white wall of a structure built on roofing sheets stood to my right. A guard sat dozing on a chair by the corner under the overhang. He wore a maroon shirt.

Next turn to the right, towards south, uncovered the sky to the end of the passage with plants bearing dark green leaves lined by the white-walled edifice. It looked like a warehouse structure. I followed her like a dog.

Halfway up the path, we reached a section in the building holding a lobby area and two girls behind a large teak counter. Five clocks hung on the wall behind and the letters G U E S T H O U S E in gold.

“Good afternoon!” the girl who turned to greet us and pass the room key was Amelia.

“Good afternoon!” returned Sophie Nadz, “Is my luggage in the room?”

“Yes, it’s already taken to your room.”

“Thank you.”

Next turn right around the rear corner sheltered a separate restaurant expanse with suites of empty chairs and tables, white and plastic, floor filled with white sand. I worked at the retreats and I have seen teak, bamboo and cane but not so much plastic, steel and aluminium.

Few spaces up, a door led to a long corridor lying to the length of the aluminium building. Lit bright to hurt my eyes and walls in silver. I could not see a door except at the far end. As we advanced through the lit corridor, those recessed doors came in view one by one painted in teal.

I failed to notice two minor characteristics; there were no electric lights on the ceiling or on the walls but it was bright in the hallway and no room numbers or tags on the doors.

We reached the door at the far end. She unlocked and entered. I followed into a large bedroom with white furniture, brown shades, grey walls, wooden floor and a big brass bed.

“Do you like this room?” Sophie dropped her bag and folders on the bed and pulled a blue piece of luggage on the floor to the bed.

“I do,” said I.

“I have something for you,” she said unzipping the bag, “I sent my luggage ahead.” She pulled out a bottle of Beefeater, “This is for you.”

I hesitated, “No thanks.”

“Now don’t give me that shit!” she uttered, “You said you can throw a bottle of dry gin down your throat. I am coquette.”

“Are you?”

“Take it!”

I took the bottle, “But miss, it doesn’t make any difference.”

“Of course, it does. I call you because I need your help. Stay here with me for an overnight. Agreed?”

I nodded, “Agreed. I’ll do anything for you.”

“I forgot something,” she said, “I have to go out to buy some Cadbury chocolates from Melon.” She picked her shoulder bag and turned.

“In Safa?” I uttered, “We just came from there.”

“Yes. Shall we!”

When we came out it was gloomy in the sky of rainclouds. “It is going to rain.”

“Hurry!”

I scooted on Orange Hill and climbed Carrera 1 to head north to Safa as fast as possible. I heard nothing over the noise of the motor but felt a shower catching up so I raced.

“Faster! Faster!” she cried, “Faster!”

I rolled the throttle and accelerated leaning over the handlebar. Rain came zipping down from behind and overtook us on the motorcycle. “Mi falda!” I pulled back over the handle.

We entered Melon and gathered inside the shop. The rain stopped. Sophie was soaked to skin. Yellow skin revealed on her back as the white nylon fabric got stuck on her body. She wore a light blue bra underneath.

She bought chocolates, biscuits and many other things. Then queued by the cashier counter. Nizu, the girl I bother, stood right behind us with a basket. She rolled her big eyes and tried to ignore me. I gave her a wink and felt those bruises on my wet face. Sophie paid in cash.

She checked the time on her wristwatch, “Three-ten. We still have time.”

We returned to Guesthouse soon afterwards. She entered the room and unbuttoned her wet shirt, “We are wet through!” She removed her top and bottom.

A palish yellow figure, pencil thin, with volumes of boobs and balloons of buttocks. She wore a G-string, light blue. Thighs evenly disseminated from the knees to the crotch with a wide gap between the legs.

I poured a gin not to look at this beautiful lady. She was increasingly sexy; tall, slender and curves.

“Aren’t you going to remove those wet clothes?” she asked, “We’ll go for a swim before drying.”

I took a big sip. Removed my shirt and dropped my jeans. Sophie reached from behind and sent her arms around me pressing her body against mine. She dropped her arm resting the back of her thumb touching my cock. She took the glass from my hand and sipped.

“We’ll take some pictures, alright!” she blew into my ear, “have some fun, a massage and I have work. It is very complicated,” Sophie continued in a whisper, “I will tell you step by step. What is your waist size?” That voice was womanly but clear and authoritative without an accent.

“Twenty-eight,” I told her.

“I’ll get you some clothes,” she released me and passed me the glass. She picked the phone and spoke to the receptionist placing an order for a new shirt, trousers and shoes. She dropped the handset and said, “Let’s go! Leave your phone and pick your wet clothes.”