20

“Have some more, Ana. Go on!” urged Bezaffa, who with no real prompting from her guest poured some more whisky into the glass Ana had in front of her. “It’s good stuff. The best! Cost me a great deal, I can tell you.”

Ana focused uncertainly on the glass. This form of alcohol was much more potent than the wine she’d had when she visited Ketaba, and she’d been quite unprepared for how much more intoxicated it had already made her. But she was undeniably developing a taste for it, especially when it was diluted with this other strange substance called soda, which Bezaffa added to it to make up the volume. She took a small sip from her glass and studied her hostess, who was sitting opposite her in a white gauze dress that flowed over her voluptuous contours and did nothing to disguise the details of her body underneath. Ana smiled as she felt that curious slight burning sensation at the back of her mouth that the wine she’d shared earlier had never done.

“Aren’t you glad now that you accepted my invitation?” Bezaffa said soothingly. “A pleasant meal and a pleasant drink. What could be more delightful?”

“Not many things,” Ana slurred unevenly. “But why, if it’s so good, does the government make it illegal?”

“President Marmeluke’s government makes everything nice illegal,” Bezaffa replied. “It doesn’t stop them, or anyone with means, from partaking. They just don’t want the ordinary person to have any part of it.”

“Thass not fair, issit?” Ana slurred. “Why should there be one law for some and another for the others? Surely, everyone should be able to do the same things.”

“That’s very idealistic, Ana sweetheart. Money and power will always make accessible more pleasure to some than to others. I should know. I’m priced right out of the reach of most of the Brothel’s clients’ reach. And that’s only right, you know. What joy for the privileged would there be in having access to certain things, if everyone could have them? Some things must be set aside in even the most perfect of societies.”

Ana felt in no mood to argue. “I’m sure you’re right.”

She had at last succumbed to Bezaffa’s repeatedly made invitation that she come and visit her. Now she was here, she wasn’t at all sure why she’d resisted for so long. Bezaffa had indeed been the perfect hostess and her home was the most delightful place she’d ever seen. It was a sprawling building in the Honey suburbs, further out than Ketaba’s flat and altogether more affluent again. Like all the homes in the avenue, Bezaffa’s was surrounded by a high wall topped with a murderous fringe of broken glass, but once past the wall, the home was very splendid and clearly remarkably expensive. How could Bezaffa afford it? Even on her income as an Alpha Plus, the large car parked in the gravelled drive, the expanse of garden and the many bedroomed house must have been a strain to maintain. And once through the porched door, past the maid who was relieved of duty as soon as Ana arrived, the house was even more splendid. The rooms were massive, the fittings and furniture sumptuous, and the portraits on the wall chosen with a masterful eye for æsthetic quality. Ana stood in the hallway trembling with a sense of her own lowliness as she regarded the broad staircase leading up to the first floor and the sheer spaciousness of the house. She was intimidated by the ostentation, but also felt somewhat honoured to have been invited.

Ana leaned back in her chair and tried fixing her gaze on Bezaffa who wandered about somehow in her vision. She focused her eyes on Bezaffa’s chubby round hand which rested on the table delicately holding her own glass by the stem. She examined the little dimples at the knuckles of each delicately tapered white finger rooted in the roundness of her hand. From the hand, her eyes followed the smooth contours of Bezaffa’s marbled arm, dimpled again at the elbow and slightly indented by the pressure of the table beneath her forearm. She brought her eyes up further, and rested them on the fullness of Bezaffa’s breasts swelling under her dress, the nipples of which were not in the smallest part obscured. They were breasts so very different from those of Binta’s or Ketaba’s - other than her own, the only breasts she’d observed for any length of time. Bezaffa’s nipples were quite simply enormous, but perfectly proportioned on the curves of the bosom that boasted them.

Ana became uncomfortably conscious that her gaze had lingered perhaps too long on a very private feature of her hostess’s body. What must Bezaffa think? She knew that ever since she had become aware of her feelings towards Binta she had viewed other women’s bodies in a way she had never consciously done before. She was sure, or very nearly sure, that these ruminations didn’t represent any lascivious intent. It was just that her curiosity about women’s bodies had increased dramatically now that she had come to have such an intimate association with one. But she told herself vehemently that the one love in her life was Binta, and it was unthinkable, it was wrong, it was immoral, to even contemplate the love of another woman. It would wholly and unutterably break the trust cemented between her lover and her. She gazed into Bezaffa’s face, above the round gracefulness of her ivory neck, and noticed with a start that her eyes were gazing at her with an expression of indulgent contemplation not at all unlike that which she’d associated with Binta as they lay together in bed.

Ana didn’t know what to say. She looked unsteadily into Bezaffa’s round blue eyes which continued to stare at her steadily but not unfriendlily, framed by long blonde hair that flowed over her shoulders and above the round orbs of cheeks dimpled like her knuckles by the broadness of a toothy grin. Bezaffa raised the back of her other hand to brush a likewise dimpled chin. She brought it to her mouth and licked off the trail of whisky that had dribbled down it unseen, staring at Ana as she did so.

“So, tell me, Ana sweetest, are you ever distressed by Binta’s criminal character?”

“Criminal character?” repeated Ana.

Bezaffa smiled. “Come now, cherry, you know what I mean. Binta isn’t working at the Brothel like you or me. She doesn’t do what she does either for a living or as a vocation. Nor does she apparently relish what she does ... that much.”

“No, she doesn’t,” agreed Ana, who even through the haze of the alcohol noticed Bezaffa’s uncertain lingering on the last few words.

“She’s in the Brothel because she’s a criminal. She’s broken the law, and as a criminal she has been sentenced for it. Doesn’t that distress you?”

What was Bezaffa trying to ascertain? “Why should it distress me?”

Ana’s hostess stood up slowly and wandered over to her hi-fi cabinet where Ana was for the first time aware that the compact disc she’d been playing had just finished. Bezaffa had kicked off her high heels, but still walked in an elegant restrained way that emphasised the wiggle of her round buttocks, and Ana noticed with a shock, that under her dress she appeared to be wearing nothing even on her lower portions. Bezaffa leaned over and sorted through the various discs she had.

“I only ask, dearest Ana, because you and Binta are such close friends. I have always thought it excellent that the administrative staff and shop floor workers of our noble concern should be close associates of each other. That, after all, is why I am so very happy that you have agreed to visit me in my humble abode. It can only be a good thing for our two enterprises to be linked by mutual respect and understanding. And Binta is such a darling, don’t you think? Such an absolute sweetie! I’ve always enjoyed my conversations with her, although I suspect she rather dislikes my more enthusiastic attitude towards my chosen career.”

She selected a disc, carefully extracted it from its casing and gently placed it in her player. She stood back, pointing a remote at it, and watched as the disc slid into the machine and started playing the soothing and harmonious strings of classical music. She turned round and faced Ana who was relieved to see now that Bezaffa had, after all, covered her crotch with what was still undeniably a very flimsy cloth.

“So, my darling Ana. Does Binta’s criminal character ever trouble you? Do you mind associating so closely with criminals?”

Ana blushed. “But what Binta’s done is in the past. It’s behind her now. And anyway isn’t what she’s done no worse than what we’re doing now? Drinking alcohol? That’s illegal, isn’t it?”

Bezaffa wandered back to the table, sat down again by her glass and the generous display of cakes in the huge cake stand. She daintily picked a chocolate éclair and put it slowly and lasciviously into her mouth. She took a huge bite out of it and chewed it speculatively.

“Yes, drinking alcohol is a crime. Indulging in it, and, worse, trading in it, attracts a very severe penalty as dearest Ferhana has found to her cost. But alcohol trafficking is not the crime for which sweetest Binta has been convicted, is it?”

“But it’s surely no worse than indulging in alcohol?” pleaded Binta uncertainly.

Bezaffa swallowed the last remnants of the éclair, and smiled indulgently. “Are you saying then that sexual depravity is no worse than the occasional indulgence in wine? Are you saying that an activity which automatically implicates more than one person is better than a vice which can be indulged in solitarily?”

Ana was puzzled. What answer was she supposed to give? What was a safe response? She had no clear idea what Bezaffa’s attitude towards lesbianism was. Was it as censorious as Ketaba’s, however inconsistently she maintained her professed views? Or was it as indulgent as Zabba’s? How free with her opinions could Ana afford to be? After all, Bezaffa was known to be fairly friendly with the Director and Khedra.

“I don’t know. I don’t know what to think. But it’s not that Binta can help being what she is. She’ll always be that way. Trafficking in alcohol is something that you choose to do. It’s not something that you can’t help doing.”

Bezaffa frowned. “Are you saying that sexual deviant behaviour with others of the same sex as yourself is somehow justified because of a person’s predilections? Isn’t that a bit suspect? Should alcohol be legal just because people have a taste for it? Extending the argument, couldn’t theft and murder be justified just because people have a tendency to indulge in it? I’m not sure I like the thrust of your opinions, sweetest.”

“It’s not that!” sniffled Ana, confused by the alcohol and her hostess’s remarks. “It’s not that at all. I just think that something to do with love and affection and understanding, and being kind to one another, and having only good thoughts about another person, and wanting to be with that other person all the time: that can’t be wrong. It can’t be a real crime, whatever the government says!”

Bezaffa reached out a hand and the warm softness of it enclosed Ana’s free hand - the one not nursing the glass of whisky. “It’s not the love that is condemned, Ana my love. It’s the practise. Nobody really believes that Binta will be a reformed character when she leaves the Brothel and will never again lust after other women. What the government hopes is that she won’t actually indulge her illegal lusts.”

“I just don’t think it’s fair! It’s wrong to condemn someone to what Binta’s been condemned to for what she’d done. It’s not right.”

“I take it that you condone her actions then, cherry? Well, don’t worry. I won’t hold your opinions against you. Morality and criminality is a shifting scenario. What’s illegal here is legal there and often almost expected. What may be legal today was illegal yesterday and may be again tomorrow. Ethics and the law has never been my field, Ana my love. The greatest crime Binta committed, I believe, is allowing herself to be caught. That in itself has caused misery to herself, her friends and her family. I have no opinion on Binta’s character or her actions. Just as I have none on yours. But shall we sit on the sofa? It’s a lot more comfortable you know!”

Ana was pleased to recline on a more comfortable seat, but almost immediately regretted it. The luxuriousness of Bezaffa’s sofa somehow made the effect of the whisky more potent. The room appeared on the verge of a spin it never actually carried through. She placed the whisky glass on the glass coffee table, vowing not to take another drop of it. Bezaffa sat opposite her on the other sofa, the folds of her dress flowing about the cushions, and smiled at her steadily and silently. Ana felt a little overdressed. The alcohol made her feel a little hot and bothered, so she undid her cardigan and laid it beside her, revealing the new white cotton blouse she’d felt obliged to buy for a visit to Honey. She looked at Bezaffa whose eyes were now closed and relishing the sound of the string quartet emanating from her loudspeakers. Ana consciously noticed the music for the first time, and found it strangely melancholic and wistful. She leaned back in the sofa, her chin against her chest and her hands spreadeagled to support her, while focusing her thoughts on the various string instruments. Bezaffa opened her eyes and smiled at Ana in a sleepy reassuring way.

“I hope you don’t mind me asking, Ana honey,” Bezaffa said abruptly, “but have you quite definitely ruled out the idea of part time work as a working girl?”

Ana blinked her eyes in vague disbelief that her hostess should be asking such a question.

“You mean as a prostitute?”

“Well, yes. As a prostitute. Like me. Like Ferhana, Zabba, Ketaba and the other girls of your acquaintance. Like, indeed, your beloved Binta. Have you seriously dismissed the option and opportunity of such extra work?”

“Yes I have. Very seriously. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Just idle speculation. Such a pretty young girl as you. You’d do so well at it. And it’s not such a bad job, you know. Plenty of girls work part-time at the Brothel. Not just enthusiasts like Khedra. Housewives. Undergraduates. Inta, your predecessor. Why not you?”

“I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. The idea of it ... It’s horrid. I’d hate it!”

“You don’t know for sure until you try. It’s such a natural thing to do. It can be so much fun on occasion. What have you got against it? The hours? The pay? Those aren’t at all bad. What is it that puts you off?”

Ana blanched. The whisky made her feel very unsure of herself. What was it she didn’t like? “All those men. Those horrid hairy men. Their hands all over me. What they’d do. I just couldn’t bear it!”

“It’s not that bad you know, cherry. But I think that your reluctance might be to do with inexperience. Forgive me if I’m wrong, but I sense that you have had no real knowledge of lovemaking at all. Except with your beloved Binta. You’re still a virgin, aren’t you? You’ve still not enjoyed the full attention of a man’s caresses.”

Ana nodded her head. What was Bezaffa saying about Binta? Was it so very obvious that she and Binta ...?

“Is it that you don’t have any interest in men? Like Binta? Surely not.”

“I’m not sure. I don’t know what to think. I just look at men, especially those who come to the Brothel, and I just don’t feel any ... you know ... I just don’t think of men as being the sort of ... I just don’t know what I think!”

“No. I can see that,” purred Bezaffa reassuringly. “Many girls think like you before they gain any experience, sweetest. It doesn’t mean that you wouldn’t enjoy the attention of a man any less. It just takes time.”

“I don’t know. I just don’t know,” repeated Ana sadly. She sat up in the sofa, resting the weight of her elbows on her bare bronzed knees. “I used to think about men. Well, some men. But I never thought of them in a ... in a ... I always thought of them in a romantic way. Buying flowers. Being kind and protective. Being comforting. Not as what they are when they come into the Brothel.”

Bezaffa stood up and wandered over to the sofa where Ana sat. She placed her heavy weight on the cushions beside her and placed a comforting bare arm around her shoulders. Ana felt the warmth and softness of her hostess’s skin through the blouse’s fabric.

“It’s quite natural to feel confused, Ana. One’s sexual identity is never a simple thing. If anything, my years at the Brothel have taught me that. You mustn’t let it trouble you unduly. I’ve had many moments of indecision and insecurity myself.”

“You have?” asked Ana, hardly noticing Bezaffa’s plump hand take one of hers in its grasp.

“Yes, I have. When you make a living as I do from selling your body for the carnal satisfaction of men, it can’t help but make you think, can it? I’ve often sat alone at home surrounded by all the many things my successful career in prostitution has let me afford, wondering about it. But I am nonetheless certain that I have made the right career decision and one for which I have been amply rewarded. How can something be wrong if it brings such great satisfaction?”

Ana had heard that argument put forward before, but by Binta in justification of the love she and Ana shared. This recognition only added to the confusion she felt. She looked down at her small hand wholly swamped by the firm round fat of her hostess. She turned her gaze to look directly at Bezaffa, who was smiling at her in a curious way, her eyes betraying an interest that puzzled her.

“I’m frightened of men,” Ana confessed. “I just don’t know what to think about them. And I’m even more frightened of the thought that, as a prostitute, I wouldn’t know who I’d be making love to on any day. Men are so intimidating. I’m so afraid.”

“Indeed, you must be!” smiled Bezaffa kindly. She eased her arm around to grasp Ana more firmly around her furthest shoulder and brought her round to rest in her voluptuous breasts. “You mustn’t be so scared. Familiarity is all you need. They’re not so bad, really. You must believe me, cherry. Men are not demons!”

Ana felt swamped by the massive wealth of Bezaffa’s bosom, but found it at the same time so very comforting and reassuring. With little prompting, she put her arms around as much of Bezaffa’s waist as she could and held on while her hostess gently stroked her hair. Ana felt one of Bezaffa’s monstrous nipples press hard against her ear through the thinness of the dress and listened intently to the gentle heaving of Bezaffa’s breath, which pressed her bosom against the contours of her face.

“You’re such a sweet, ... such a pretty ... little dear, aren’t you, cherry?” remarked Bezaffa in a strangely contorted voice. “So pretty. So vulnerable. So delightful.”

She lifted Ana’s chin off her bosom and gazed into her eyes. Ana was charmed by their pale blueness, the softness of the cheeks and Bezaffa’s tiny little nose, so dwarfed by the folds of her dimpled skin. She smiled deeply, feeling a warmth transmit itself through her skin and into the very depth of her soul.

She didn’t know how that smile did it, but it became the inevitable prelude to a passionate kiss with her hostess, full on the mouth, which unbalanced the two of them, causing them to roll over on to the length of the sofa, Bezaffa’s tongue deep inside her mouth and her hands gradually shedding her clothes. Bezaffa’s own dress came off with the barest of difficulties revealing a body of incredible whiteness and fullness. It somehow seemed so natural. So right. Perhaps it was the alcohol. Perhaps it was a deeper longing inside her. Ana, in a sense, didn’t want to know. All she knew and all she cared was that she was enjoying another woman’s body with just as much pleasure as, and just maybe more than, she enjoyed Binta’s.