The Hidden Journal, Copyright © 1999, Kellis

 

Estri’s Escape

File D9104181.ZEN

Friday, October 13, 1972

Friday, the thirteenth:  very unlucky, right?  Well, not for me and Estri.  To my surprise I even got laid!

I sat in the populous hotel lobby, reading a four-day old New York Times.  Ten o’clock, the appointed time, passed with no sign of Estri, but I refused to worry even at ten fifteen.  And well I didn’t.  Five minutes later I heard a squeal, followed by the thump of running feet, and lowered my paper just in time to intercept a small airborne body.  It landed on me with a breath-threatening thud that nearly knocked the couch over.  Sweater-covered arms went around my neck while hot breaths and soft kisses landed all over my face.

She smelled of wool and leather but tasted of girl.  My Estri!  I repeated her name as she repeated mine.  I gathered her into my arms, despite the spectacle we were creating.  I’d planned to greet her in the reserved manner appropriate to uncle and niece.  I should’ve known better.

When she raised her head at last, both sets of eyes were tearful.  I dashed mine clear and rose to my feet, meaning to thank whoever had conveyed her.  She came up with me, arms and legs wrapping my shoulders and hips.

I looked around.  Several people were watching us with expressions varying from frowns to smiles.  Most looked away when my gaze touched them.  I saw no one approaching, no one who seemed particularly interested in Estri.

I took her by the waist and pulled her gently but firmly away from me.  “Get down, Estri,” I commanded.  “We must be dignified.”

“Dignified?” she repeated.  But she lowered her legs to stand beside me.  She was dressed in a blue sweater, a darker blue short skirt, blue socks and white shoes with the oxford saddle in black.  Her long hair was coiled and pinned atop her head.  God, she was beautiful!

“What means ‘dignified?’”

I frowned fiercely.  “Very serious.”  Then I smiled.

She cocked her head inquisitively.  “Pain in gut?”

“Close.  Where’s the man who brought you?”

She looked towards the door.  “Left me on step.”

“He — he what?”

“Constance say — said, ‘Come to door and wave if find you.’  May I, Hah-ree?”

“We’ll both go.”

“No, please, Hah-ree.  Constance not want Elsik-man see you.”

“All right.  She always has good reasons.”

I looked in vain for Estri’s luggage as she preceded me to the door.  She went out on the steps.  Through the glass I saw her wave to someone in the distance, then a large black car pulled out of line and accelerated down the street.  She turned and came back inside.

I took her hand.  “You have no bag?”

She smiled with pleasure.  “Constance said you ask that!”

“But do you?”

“No, Hah-ree.  Only me.”

“We’ll fix that.  Have you had breakfast?”

“Break —  Oh.  No.  Come straight from train.”

“Then let’s go to the snack bar.”

She pressed against me, hugging my waist.  “Oh, Hah-ree.  I so want — wanted to see you.  I love you forever.”

Constance had proved right again:  Estri’s original is a lot more charming.  So I cribbed it.  “I love you, too, all years that come.”

Her eyes showed surprise then a twinkle.  “Means ‘forever.’”

“Yes, but it was your forever!  Come on, let’s put some food into you.”

Her eyelashes batted at me.  “Only food?”

Uh-oh!  Clearly she was not about to forget her Meshir background any time soon.

The snack bar was pretty crowded for ten thirty in the morning.  We found a small table next to a woman eating alone.  Estri insisted on taking the chair beside mine instead of the one across the table.  She immediately rubbed my knee with hers, looking at me with an expression that I’m tempted to call blissful.  But a practical issue had occurred to me.

“Estri, your English is much better.  Constance has taught you well.”

“Thank you, Hah-ree.  Drill, drill, drill!  Means do again and again.  Also means make hole.  I think make hole here.”  She pointed to the side of her head, smiling brightly.

I smiled in return.  “But did she teach you about food?”

She frowned.  “Food?”

“The names of food items.”

“She said food be — will be very strange.”

“You do know about eggs, don’t you?”

“Yes, Hah-ree.  From birds.  Good to eat.”

“Good!  We’ll try you with scrambled eggs, bacon and toast.  Well, maybe not bacon.  Sausage.”

Bacon was on the menu, but in a Moslem country swine are forbidden.  The price of the bacon suggested that the Horton had it flown in like winter strawberries.

I thought Estri watched and listened carefully as I announced our selections to the waiter, but when he left I discovered she’d seen more than that.  She said, “People not touch.”

“He was a stranger,” I explained.

Her eyes swept around the crowded room.  “No people touch.”

“Not often,” I agreed, understanding her at last.  “Not where they can be seen.”

She nodded.  “Constance said this.  The way of you people — my people now.”

“I’m glad Constance told you.”

She smiled and touched her head.  “Much put in hole.”  She cocked an eyebrow at me.  “It is why I not yet kiss you penis.  Constance said not touch in public.  Is it right?”

I almost choked.  “Very right, Estri.”

“This is public?”

“Yes.  ‘In public’ means strange people around us.  We are in public.”

Her gaze was thoughtful.  “Touch not dignified?”

She had surmised her own definition for it.  “That depends.”  I explained about greeting friends and relatives in public.

She frowned.  “I love touch you, Hah-ree, and you touch me.”  Her knee rubbed mine again.

“We have a room of our own in this hotel.  When we finish shopping we’ll go there and touch, if you wish.”

“Oh, I wish!”  Her expression changed.  “Shopping?”

“Where did you get your clothing?”

“Constance make.”

“What?”

“From blankets.  Is it good?”

No one was watching us.  I slipped my hand momentarily under the sweater and contacted warm girl.  She grinned.  “Touch anyway, Hah-ree?”

I leaned towards her on my elbow, accusing softly, “You have no underwear!”

“Underwear?  Oh, like you shorts?  Constance said you get for me.”

“Constance didn’t make your shoes.”

“Elsik-man give to me.”

“Estri, you came across half of Iran in this one set of clothing?”

She smiled.  “And big Russian coat that Constance make short.”  Her brow wrinkled.  “Why is world so cold, Hah-ree?”

“Outside the Meshir caves the cold time of year is beginning.  Half the year is cold and half is hot.”

She nodded.  “Constance said also.  But why, Hah-ree?”

“Remember your question.  I’ll explain that and a lot more in the coming days.  Where’s the coat?”

“Constance keep.  She said coat embuh — embarrass you.”

“Did she!”

But the waiter arrived with Estri’s breakfast and a pastry for me.  I told her what to do with the napkin and how to hold her fork.  The knife and spoon were familiar but not the Western habit of holding the spoon like a pencil.  She attacked the eggs and beef sausage hungrily, though her eyes rounded childishly as the pepper in the sausage affected her taste buds.  I watched her eat, immensely pleased to see her before me.  I imagined a bare bottom in contact with the padded chair, wondering how much of it her exuberant greeting had exposed in the lobby.  Had the frowns and smiles been excessive?  Probably not, I decided.  So far no house dick or Iranian policeman had appeared to ask questions.

She paused, eyebrows rising as she swallowed a mouthful.  “Oh!  I forget, Hah-ree.”

“What?”

She laid down her fork, pulled open the neck of her sweater and fished something out of it:  a folded sheet of paper.  “Constance make …  What is word for holder of you knife?”

“Uh, scabbard.”

She frowned.  “Scabbard?”

“Do you mean pocket?”

She smiled.  “Yes, pocket.  Constance make in front of shirt to hold writing for you.”

She handed it to me and immediately resumed eating while I unfolded it eagerly.  The handwriting was small with European spiked Rs but perfectly legible.

 

                                                           10 October 1972

My Dear Harry,

I am again a woman married, with Moreti and Estri as witnesses.  Both my weddings have been much like yours to Estri.  In a Meshir marriage it is the husband who determines occurrence and duration.  His word is all-important.  Though my new husband is ostensibly Moslem, he is pleased to adhere to the Meshir practise in this case.  Western women have no idea of their good fortune.  Is it only technology that has enhanced their worth?

I have spent most of my time with Estri emphasising the difference between Western and Meshir culture.  Such effort truly requires a lifetime, but hopefully I have imparted at least an idea of public comportment.  I have striven also to adjust her expectation of your personal attention.  Western ideas of a female “age of consent” to that most fundamental of human relations are unintelligible to her, as they are to me, but she is aware of your ambivalence on it and your society’s absolutism about it (possibly an unintended consequence of greater female worth?).  I have suggested that she will be less disappointed if she delays her determined assault upon you until her breasts have developed.

Estri is sworn to secrecy about all things Meshir.  Disclosure to you is the only permitted exception.  Of course her education in Meshir history and policy is far from complete.

Please write to me at the following address:  Elsik Ventures Indirect / Kehren / Ulem Ostanha / Iran.  I am the “Indirect.”  Though no one else reads English at present, that condition will not last.  Please tell me all about Estri’s development, but I must ask you never to mention what you and I may have been to each other.  My husband, despite his Meshir youth and knowledge of us, has adopted the Moslem attitude toward women as property.  I must never again converse personally with another man.  Such possessiveness is so clearly childish.  I am with difficulty learning to consider it flattering.

Of greater importance is your willingness to improve the lot of Meshir.  I hope it endures.  Moreti is very interested in your plan to publish our literature using the Roman alphabet.  If you could advise me of a publisher I should be obliged.

Oh, Harry!  When Rejik told us that an American was resting in the high chamber, I hastened to him, if only to hear English spoken competently after so long.  Then after Moreti left us alone you took me exactly as my Edward formerly did, so that I had no choice but to hold you close against my heart.  You were cool water to one dying in the desert.  You refreshed an ambition that had faded in the mind-numbing sameness of Meshir existence.

Your generosity to me and Meshir has exceeded even that of the chief who spared us from the sword.  In the end he only left us what we already had!  Thank you, Harry.  We of the Meshir shall always remember you with gratitude.

I know that you are concerned.  The locals returned Melki’s body to us.  We have delivered it to Ahriman in the manner appropriate to a wife of a Meshir hero.

I was once an Estri, too, but no longer.  I know only too well the reality behind all sentiment, perhaps better than you do.  Estri’s charm was perceptible in the relatively barren setting of Meshir.  As it fades in comparison to the sophisticated girls of your homeland, remember this:  she is wholly yours as they will never be.  If you exercise forethought with her, you can make of her your heart’s desire.  You may then even come to love her so completely as she loves you, as my Edward came to love me,

                                                      Your badly misnamed,

                                                               Constance

 

I read it again, then once more.  Estri’s hand fell gently upon mine.  “She love you, too, Hah-ree.”

I looked up into her earnest gaze.  “She loves both of us.”

“I know.  She said we never meet again.”

“Only through our letters.”

“Letters?”

I raised the paper slightly.  “Like this.  You’ll write her, too, when you learn.”

“I hope soon.”

“It will be soon.  How’d you like the scrambled eggs?”

“I like.”  She smiled at me and drank down the rest of the apple juice I’d ordered for her, fearing that commercial orange juice might be too tart.  She had barely tasted the milk.  But eggs, sausage and toast had vanished completely.  She held up an empty packet of jelly.  “What is it?”

“Grape jelly.”

She repeated the words, adding, “I like very much.”

I already knew her teeth exhibited no cavity.  Obviously her intake of refined sugar had been limited.  What a shock her system would soon experience!  But getting her to a dentist would be a trivial problem once getting her into the U.S. was solved.

“Wipe your mouth,” I told her, slipping Constance’s letter into my coat, “and we’ll be ready to go shopping.  Hmm.  I need some help with that.”

From the corner of my eye I had noticed the woman at the adjacent table smile on Estri once or twice.  She was typical Iranian, slim and thirtyish, wearing a Western woman’s suit over a ruffled blouse.  She had been lingering over a single cup of coffee, having rebuffed the waiter twice, probably waiting for someone.  I leaned closer to her and said, “Pardon me, ma’am.  Do you speak English?”

She glanced at me.  “Yes.”

“Do you know Tehran well?”

She looked beyond me toward the door, then back.  Her eyes were wary.  “Why do you ask?”

“My … niece’s baggage has been lost.  Could you direct me to a store where I can buy her a couple of outfits?”

She scrutinized Estri, who returned her stare blandly.  “Your niece?”

“My sister’s daughter.  Her father is Iranian.”

Estri’s turned a twinkling gaze on me.  She opened her mouth to comment but closed it silently.

The woman said, “You’re American?”

“Yes.  Both of us.”

“Then talking to me may not harm you.”

“Talking to you?”

“The Savak are watching me.”

“The Savak?  What’s that?”

“The shah’s secret police.”

I studied her.  At first her eyes dropped.  She wore no lipstick or eye shadow but her complexion seemed smoother than Constance’s, for example, so was either made up or significantly younger.  It was an attractive face, full-lipped, heart-shaped with a sharp chin, somewhat resembling an older version of Estri.

Glittering eyes rose again to mine.  “I am a suspected religious subversive.”

“What religion?”

“Islam.”

I had to chuckle.  “Dressed like that?”

“It is ridiculous, isn’t it!  It’s only because of my dear friend.  They arrested him last week.”

“I’m sorry.”

She studied me in turn.  “You’re polite.  Thank you.”

I shook my head.  “Thought this was a Moslem country.”

“It is, of course.”

“Then why are they arresting Moslems?”

“The ayatollahs and the shah disagree on too many things.  The radical clerics want to replace him.”

“Local politics,” I judged.  One thing for sure:  I didn’t want to get mixed up in that!

“To you, yes.”

“Then you do know Tehran well.”

“Yes, I do.  It has few places that sell clothing for Western children, particularly girls.  The shah is trying to promote tourism, but religion has held Iran back so long …”

I grinned.  “If the Savak ask, I’ll tell them you’re definitely not a religious subversive.  May I say that your English is remarkable?  We could be sitting in the New York Horton so far as I could tell from your accent.”

“I’ve been there.  I grew up in the District of Columbia.  My father was an Iranian attaché before they recalled and arrested him.  My English is why I’m sitting here.  I’m waiting to see if the manager will hire me.”

“Well, good luck to you!  Can you name a clothing store?”

She grinned at me speculatively.  “Do you have a daughter?”

“Well … no.”

“Then you don’t want to supervise buying girl’s clothing.”

“Well, I … have no choice.  My sister’s in the states.”

She took a breath.  “My name is Anelda.  You are Mister …?”

“Stone, Harry Stone.  This is my niece, Estri.”

To my surprise Estri bowed her head slightly and intoned in the British way, “How d’you do?”

The woman smiled.  “Very well, Estri;  thank you.  Mr. Stone, why don’t I help you outfit your niece?”

“What?  Surely that would be an imposition!  Aren’t you waiting to hear from the hotel?”

She shrugged.  “I’ve been sitting here three hours.  They’ve already got my answer — from the Savak.”

It struck me that I ought to return the same answer for the same reason.  Official scrutiny was not something I ever courted, much less now with Estri exposed and me about to break several laws.  But this was an attractive woman, apparently a victim of fate, and I did need the help.  What marvelous help she might be!  I had reluctantly contem­pla­ted taking directions from the hotel staff, then arguing ineptly with sales clerks, at which my Farsi-less “niece” would be little help.  Still, in retrospect I can’t believe I accepted.

“Okay, great!” I said.  “But we need to go immediately.”

She retrieved her purse from the floor and stood up.  “Then let’s go.”

I paid both bills.  Anelda went to powder her nose, or so she said.  I paused, entering the lobby, but saw no one exhibiting an unusual interest.  Bending to Estri, I asked, “Did Constance tell you about Western bathrooms?”

She grinned.  “Where people not take bath?”

“Where you go to … well, to —”

“Make water and waste?”

“She did tell you!”  I pointed.  “That is where you go.  Inside are little stalls.  The stools are in the stalls.”

“You show me?”

“Huh?  I can’t go in with you.”

Her eyebrows rose.  “Why not?”

I sighed.  “Guess she didn’t have time to tell you everything.  In public places men and women always have different bathrooms.”

“Why, Hah-ree?”

I chuckled.  “I don’t really know.  Tradition.”

“What is tradition?”

“The way things were always done.  I understand the Meshir, too, have many traditions.”

“Ah.  Tradition.”

“Do you need to go?”

“Yes.”  She took two steps toward the door marked with the stylized skirt before spinning about and hurrying back.  Her face showed anxiety.  “You wait for me, Hah-ree?”

“Estri, I’ll always wait for you!”

The anxiety transformed instantly into a beatific smile.  She turned confidently and disappeared.  Because she might be quicker, I feared to enter the male facilities concurrently.  But I didn’t have long to wait before the ladies’ popped open and she skipped out.

“Did you use the paper?”

“Paper?” she asked blankly.

Oh, well, at her age piss hardly stinks.  Hopefully we’d reach our room and a personal demonstration before she needed to go again.  She agreed to wait for me.  While relieving myself, I discovered a rising anxiety of my own at our separation and returned without bothering to wash my hands.  She was leaning against the wall.  Her eyes lit at sight of me.  She stood straight and smiled briefly before taking my hand.

“Hah-ree, I not like public.”

I nodded.  “I admit that I don’t either.  But we have to put up with it a lot more.”

“Put up?”

“Do you understand ‘endure?’”

She nodded.  “Endure until when?”

“Until we get home.”

“Home.  You home?”

“And yours.”

“Home!”  She seemed to be tasting the word.

Anelda appeared.  Apparently she had told the literal truth:  her nose was paler.  She smiled at us but her eyes glittered.  “Shall we go?” she asked.

“This way,” I said, holding Estri’s hand and leading them out to the taxi marquee.  I gestured to the lead driver, who obligingly held a rear door for us.  To Anelda I said, “You give the directions.  I just pay.”

She winked.  “A good arrangement.”

Soon we had boarded and whirled away toward the Tehran bazaar.  The car was a large Ford station wagon, about a seventy model, evidence that oil money was flowing.  I sat in the middle seat between the two females.

Anelda leaned close to me and said quietly above the automotive noises, “The Savak stopped me in the hall.”

“Did they!”

“They wanted to know who you are.  I am to report whatever you do when we return.”

I hope my expression didn’t change.  “What did you tell them?”

“Your name and your niece’s, that we were going to replace her clothing.  I’m sorry, Mr. Stone.  I couldn’t help it.  They scare me to death.”

I patted her knee.  “I understand.  Don’t worry about it — unless buying Western clothes is illegal.”

“Thank you.  No, it’s not, not yet.  If the ayatollahs win, it will be — for girls, at least.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that, either.  A resurgent religion bucks the tide of modern history.”

“Maybe, but it has a good chance here, Mr. Stone.”

“Call me ‘Harry.’”

She smiled at me.  “Okay, Harry.”

What an idiot you are! I thought fiercely to myself.  So you’ve attracted official attention.  It wouldn’t take much investigation to expose the niece fiction.  Is it against the shah’s law to take a minor Iranian female out of the country, even if no relative protests?  Would they turn me in to American immigration if they discovered my plan?  I guessed I was due to find out.

Nevertheless I was very glad for Anelda’s assistance.  We visited three holes in the wall and one tent before Estri was equipped with two each of real sweaters, dresses, slips, panties, long stockings that are actually tights, more socks and a pair of patent black pumps that made her eyes widen and her lips pucker in several kisses for me.  She insisted on wearing them instead of the oxfords.

I had expected a tense moment when the two females emerged from the first dressing room.  Anelda glared at me.  “Where is her underwear, Harry?”

“Missing, is it?”  I forced a lugubrious expression.  “I’m not surprised.  That’s a gift from her Iranian relatives.”

“Oh!”  She looked thoughtful.  “I think I understand.  Has she lived here long?”

“The last five years.”

She nodded.  “That explains a lot.”

We bought toothbrush, comb, hairbrush, hair elastics and a set of small barrettes.  Finally we bought her a woolen overcoat, a size too big, but it should certainly keep her warm.

In one store we came across a display of silvery goose eggs.  I looked again and recognized it as the American package for panty hose.  Anelda exclaimed over them, pointing, “Size B!  Just my size!”  So naturally I took up four and passed them along to the sales clerk.  When Anelda protested half-heartedly, I told her she had certainly earned them.  Estri admired them, too, so I bought her one in Size A on Anelda’s advice.  But what Estri wanted was the egg.

Anelda pointed out suitcases but I demurred.  Estri’s small items would fit in my own luggage.

Between the crestfallen expressions, displayed when shop proprietors discovered my woman’s command of their language, and Estri’s obvious joy, it was actually fun.  Fairly expensive, too, but not nearly so much, I expect, as it would have been without Anelda.  I had made the taxi follow us around.  In it on the way back to the hotel I told her as much.  “I’m sure you saved me a bundle.”

“Yes, I did, more than you realize.  They would’ve halved your exchange rate, too.”

“How can I ever thank you?”

“Buy me lunch?”

“With pleasure.  I was going to ask you anyway.”

But first we had to stash the new clothing and give Estri a summary education in that and other things.  I paused in the lobby, bags over one arm, Estri hanging on the other, and said to Anelda, “Will you wait here or in the restaurant?  I’d invite you up but don’t want to embarrass you.”

She regarded me sideways with a quizzical smile.  “Embarrass me?  I can’t imagine how!”

Can’t you indeed! I didn’t quite say.  In fact I meant to avoid embarrassing myself and Estri.  Could five years in the Iranian back country account for an American child’s ignorance?  Why not, on the theory she was only six when she came here?

“Then follow us.  You can help me get her dressed.”

“That’s a good idea,” she agreed.  I ignored the twinkle in her eyes.

“Embarrass?” asked Estri in the automatic elevator.

“That’s right.  You remember that word, don’t you.”  I looked at Anelda.  “In the West it sometimes embarrasses a woman to be asked to a man’s room.”

“Oh, no,” Anelda chuckled, eyes flashing.  “Never the woman, though it may embarrass the man.”

Touché!  “If the woman misunderstands,” I countered.

Estri snorted, looking from one to the other.  But she was smiling.  “Is it game?”

Anelda murmured, “The oldest game of all.”

Her eyes on mine were level.  I asked, “Where did you study it?”

Her lip curled.  “Girls are born knowing how to play it.  Ask Estri.”

“I believe you.  But you must’ve gone to school in the states.”

“I went to Georgetown.”

“Of course.”

“But I didn’t graduate.”

“Your father’s departure?”

“No.  An irresistible boy friend.”

At that interesting moment the elevator’s upward motion ceased, causing Estri to gulp as her eyes widened.  When the doors opened, we proceeded silently to my room, the one with the two double beds and the cot.  Anelda looked around as I dropped the bags on a bed.

“Who’s with you?” she wondered.

“No one.”  I pointed to the other bed.  “That’s because I wasn’t sure who would come with Estri.”

“No one did?”

“They dropped her on the hotel steps.”

She nodded.  “I understand perfectly.  Too sanctimonious to meet with you.”

“Something like that.”

Estri inquired, “Sanctimonious?”

“I’ll define it later, my dear.  As a matter of fact, Anelda, they brought her here without breakfast, which is why I took her immediately into the snack bar.”

“I surmised that from your conversation.  And they must have brought her without a bath.  She needs one.”

I shrugged.  “She’s been on the train.  But shouldn’t that wait till after lunch?”

Anelda asked, “Are you hungry, Estri?”

“No.”  The child’s head snapped to me.  “Unless Hah-ree say.”

The woman grinned sourly at me.  “They’ve nearly made a full Iranian of her.”

I grinned back.  “Is deferring to me so bad?”

She lost her grin.  “I’d be pleased to help her with the bath, Harry.”

To my momentary surprise something in me understood that offer as a threat.  Apparently I had planned to bathe her myself.  Ah, well, there would hopefully be many other baths.  I straightened my shoulders.  “Would you, please?  And another thing:  I gather she’s been so long removed from a Western toilet …  Would you be kind enough to explain toilet paper to her?”

She smiled engagingly.  “Of course.”

This was the opportunity I needed for another task that Anelda’s presence had complicated — if I dared to trust Anelda.  I decided to risk it.  She could be playing some deep game, could even be a Savak agent herself, but to what end?

“First I need to take her picture.”

The woman’s eyebrows shot up.  “Her picture?”

I got out my Polaroid.  I almost asked for one of the new dresses but realized in time that it would hardly do for Estri to pass through customs wearing clothing that matched a photograph presumably taken years earlier.

Anelda studied the child.  “How do you want her hair?”

“Hmm…  Pulled back in a pony tail.”

“That will make her look younger.”

“Good.”

When her hair had been restrained, Estri had to go spy herself in the bathroom mirror.  She returned with a disgruntled look.  Are females ever pleased with their hairdos?  But she stood docilely against the wall and stared into the camera.  The flash made her blink.  She endured two shots.  I liked them both.  She looked to be a solemn and very young girl in an oversized sweater.

She studied the results when I laid them on the desk to dry.  Her eyes flashed up to me in fascination.  “How this done, Hah-ree?”

“It’s complicated, my dear.  Remember that question, too.”

“I remember.”

“I’ve got to go out for about half an hour.  Anelda will give you a bath and teach you how to use a bathroom.  I want you to learn what she shows you.  You’ll need it on our trip.  But this is most important:  I want you to stay right here until I get back.  Will you do it?”

Her lips parted.  “Can I go, too?”

I shook my head.  “No, dear, not this time.  Soon as I get back we’ll all go to lunch.”

Her eyes fell.  Something about her expression stabbed me.  I snatched her up in my arms.  “Estri, I have to go!”

She hugged me and kissed my lips with the merest touch of warm moisture.  I could feel her body trembling.  “Yes, Hah-ree,” she sighed.

When I put her down, she looked up with huge eyes.  “Please come back.  Please, Hah-ree?”

“I will certainly come back to you, Estri.”

Anelda was watching our little display thoughtfully.  I asked her, “Can you manage for half an hour?”

“Of course.  Do you have a robe I could borrow?”

“Don’t use them when traveling.”  I pointed to the clothes rack.  “How about my raincoat?”

“I might get it wet.”

“That’s the fate of a raincoat.”

Aware of the Savak, I traded my sport coat for a suit coat and descended by fire stairs instead of elevator.  Fortunately Mr. Vardish’s watch repair shop was only five minutes away in the taxi that I bid wait.

When I handed him the photographs, he studied them through his loupe.  I said, “I trust Polaroid is okay.”

“Yes, okay.”

“How’s it coming?”

He took a dark blue rectangle from a desk drawer and passed it to me.  I flipped the pages.  Heather’s number was perforated into the top of each.  “My god, this looks perfect!”

“Is perfect,” he announced smugly.  “Is ninety-nine per-cent real.”

“How do you mean?”

“Take real passport, fill number holes with paper mulch, match colors, clean off old print and picture, punch new number.”

I was afraid to ask where he got the real passport.

“Very interesting.  Sounds tedious.”

“Yes.  Why charge thousand dollar.  Got rest of money?”

I passed him three hundred dollars.  “The rest when I pick it up.”

“Okay.”

“Tomorrow afternoon at exactly one o’clock.”

“Yes, okay.”

“I want you to stand on the corner down there.  I’ll come in a taxi and swap you the money for the passport.”

“In envelope.”

“Yes.  Both in envelopes.”

He studied me.  “Two hundred more.”

I shook my head.  “No more money.  It’s not even a hundred yards.”

“Yards?”

“Meters.  I mean it’s not far to walk.”

“If you cheat, American embassy get call.”

“Fair enough.  If the passport is incomplete, I tell the Savak.”

His loupe fell.  Slowly he pushed it up.  “What if you late?”

“Wait five minutes.”

He nodded slowly.  “Okay.”

“One more thing:  I want you to put a five year-old Iranian stamp on the first visa page.  Just the one.”

He frowned.  “Don’t know five year-old stamp pattern.”

“Neither will American Customs.  Invent one.”

“Okay. Can do.”

Back at the hotel no one seemed to take an untoward interest in me as I passed again through the lobby.  I noticed that the dining area was still open for lunch.

I let myself into the room quietly.  It seemed empty, but light spilled from behind the bath alcove.

“I’m back!” I called.

“In here,” Anelda responded immediately — to my relief.

A chair scraped.  Anelda began, “Let me put a towel on —”  Before she could finish a naked Estri dashed around the partition, moist hair bouncing,  came straight to me and leapt into my arms.  She covered my face with kisses.  “Oh, Hah-ree, you come back!”

She smelled of soap and shampoo.  “I’ll always come back to you, my sweet.”

It made me wonder how they treated her on the train.  Did Elsik demand too much of Constance’s attention?  New husbands do that, I’ve heard.

Anelda came around the partition leisurely, holding a hand towel.  Apparently she had chosen to wear a large bath towel instead of my raincoat.  Though thin, her arms and legs were shapely.  She grinned at our spectacle, commenting, “You’re back early.  Please excuse our informality.”

“Of course.  When in Rome — or Iran, in this case.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m told that nudity is common inside the Moslem family.”

“Sometimes,” she admitted.  “I was just drying Estri’s hair.  Would you like me to dress her?”

“Yes, but I’d better watch.  Your services won’t always be available.”  To Estri I said, “Let Anelda help you dress, sweetness, then we’ll go to lunch.”

But her hands cupped my cheeks and she kissed me one last time before unwrapping her legs from my hips.  “I love you forever, Hah-ree.”

“And I love you.”

She got down and turned to the woman, who paused long enough to comment, “I’d like to have such a tender husband.”  She smiled.  “Though an uncle would do.”

She took up a pair of pink panties and held them for the girl to step into.  I examined her comment for hidden depths and couldn’t let it lie.  “What do you mean?”

She didn’t look at me.  “Estri doesn’t think she’s your niece.”

“Doesn’t she?”

“Even when I defined it for her as the daughter of your sister.”

So she had pumped the kid.  I’d thought about that likelihood in the taxi.  I suggested, “Under the circumstances a little confusion shouldn’t be surprising.”

“It’s not, but …”  She straightened up and looked at me.  “She’s been told that she’s your wife.”

“Has she!”

She returned to buttoning the dress.  “You don’t seem too concerned, but it may cause you problems, especially when you reach the states.”

“Should I be concerned?”

“Well, so long as she remains virgin —”

“Of course she’s virgin!” I declared, pretending indignation.  “She’s only eleven.”

“Huh!  You’d have to look far to find another eleven year-old virgin in this country.”

No further than Meshir, I didn’t say.  “Then it’s doubly good she’s leaving.”

“Especially, considering that she doesn’t speak Farsi.”

“Doesn’t she?”

“She won’t.  That made me curious, so I tried a few tricks on her.  I don’t believe she understands it, either.”  Anelda stared at me over the child’s shoulder.  “How could she spend five years here — even five weeks — without learning a little Farsi?”

“There are many dialects.”  I’d heard that, hoped it was true.

“Ah, yes, of course.  Her father was Baluchi, wasn’t he?  She’s been in Baluchistan — in the Southeast.”

I shrugged.  “Maybe.”

“But obviously she knows and loves you.  From five years ago?”

“What did she tell you?”

The woman chuckled.  “According to her, she’s loved you forever.”

“She’s a loving child.”

“Not child,” the child insisted.

I smiled at her and corrected myself.  “A loving sweetheart.”  Her return smile became a grimace as the comb passed through her long hair.

When Anelda had attached barrettes to pull the wings away from her face, Estri went to admire herself in the full length mirror on the bathroom door.  The woman regarded me with a slight smile.  “I’m hungry.  May I consider myself temporarily a part of your family?”

“You don’t have to be family for me to feed you.”

“But I do to cast modesty to the winds.”  So saying she dumbfounded me by unwinding her bath towel.  For a second she stood upright and completely naked before me, intent on folding the towel.  Her skin was olive, of course.  Legs and underarms were shaven and pubes were trimmed for a bikini.  Her waist was narrow and her breasts, wide though shallow, sported perky dark nipples.  The bright bathroom light was falling on her from the side, enough to reveal crinkling of the areolas that belied her air of indifference.  I noted a network of faint stretch marks ascending her belly before she turned away to retrieve her clothing, laid out neatly on the bed behind her.

She dressed very quickly, including new panty hose from one of the eggs.  I returned suit coat for sport coat while she took her purse into the bath room.  She emerged with the addition of scarlet lipstick.

I smiled at her.  “I like red lips on a woman.”

“Do you?”  She smiled back.

“At both ends,” I added — a trial balloon.  It floated on her chuckle.  I added, “You didn’t use it in the restaurant.”

She snorted.  “At that time I had no Western escort.  Do you have any idea what Moslems think of lipstick in public?”

“I can imagine.  Hungry, Estri?”

“Yes, Hah-ree.  A little.”

Anelda took a deep breath.  “Can you give me five minutes, Harry?”

“Five minutes?”

“I have to report.”

“I only meant to take you to the dining room.”

“Oh.”  She started toward the door.  “Then go ahead.  I’ll find your table.”

“What will you tell them?”

“What we’ve done.”

“What Estri said?”

“No.  She said very little.”

“Do you mind letting them believe I watched you bathe her?  Unless they ask, of course.”

“Harry, if they ask …”

“I know.  Don’t get caught in a lie.”

“Thank you, Harry.”  Suddenly she leaned toward me and kissed my cheek before spinning on her high heel and passing out the door.

Estri looked up at me and laughed.  “She mark you!”

She led me into the bathroom, wet a cloth, wiped my cheek solemnly and declared, “I get red lips and mark you, too.”

“You don’t need to,” I protested.  “You have marked my heart.”

“Hah-ree!”  She smiled up at me on an intake of breath.

“Did Anelda ask you many questions?”

“Yes.  When I said I am you wife, she get … very surprise.  So I not answer more.”

“You did well.”

She thought a moment.  “Hah-ree…”

“Go ahead, dear.”

“I say I am you niece, if you want.”

She looked at me intently, her eyes scanning mine in an obvious effort to discern my true desire.  To accede to that fiction suddenly seemed like betrayal.  I reminded myself that this woman-child had very literally risked her life to restore my freedom.  She came within half an ounce on a Russian trigger of losing it.  “My darling Estri, you must always say what you believe.”

“I am wife.”

“You are wife.  My wife.”

“But that make problem, is it right?”

“It might.  But I’ll never deny you.”

“What means ‘darling?’”

“It means the one I love most.”

“Oh.  Darling.  I never want you have problem, darling Hah-ree.”  Her eyes lit.  “I be niece till you say no more problem.  Okay?”

I had to sigh.  “You are very wise, my darling.”

She smiled happily.  “Now we eat?”

 

                                                          *  *  *  *

 

Anelda joined us in the dining room almost immediately.  “Couldn’t find them?” I wondered as she snuggled her chair close.

She chuckled grimly.  “You don’t find the Savak.  They find you.”

“But you were so quick!”

She shook her head.  “I don’t understand it either.  This morning they didn’t know you, but now …”

“Now what?”

She regarded me quizzically.  “What did you do when you went out?”

“Nothing.  What did they say?”

“It’s partly what they didn’t say!  They never asked for any kind of report.”

“No kidding!”

She shook her head again.  “And I can’t believe what they did say!”

“Tell me.”

“They said to stay with you so long as you’ll let me.”

“Did they?  Surely they know I’m flying out tomorrow afternoon — Estri and I.”

She shrugged.  “I suppose.  But listen to this.  I’m to phone them if you leave the hotel.  You’ll never guess why.”

I muttered disgustedly, “So now they’re following me around.”

“I repeat:  you’ll never guess why.”

“Okay, I’ll bite.”

“Because the shah might want to talk to you.”

“Eh?”  I’m afraid my mouth fell open.  Had my invalid heroic reputation made it all the way to the royal palace?

She laughed, clearly pleased by the effect of her bombshell.  Estri’s hand fell on mine.  “Is it problem?”

“I don’t know.  But it’s not one to worry you.”

“I cause you problem, Hah-ree?”

I placed my hand over hers.  “You cause me happiness.”

“Oh, Hah-ree!”

I asked Anelda, “You sure they said ‘the shah?’”

“Oh, yes, that’s what they said, all right.”

“Okay.  If he wants to see me, he’s got till noon tomorrow, then we’re taking a powder.  Here comes the waiter.  Would you like a cocktail?”

Anelda ordered a large steak from the supper menu, discounted for lunch, with a coke.  Estri and I split a pizza and beer.  I feared that the pizza would be too spicy for a Meshir palate, but I needn’t have worried;  she ate five of the eight slices and rubbed her belly afterwards.  Never yet met a kid who didn’t like pizza — except in power plays, of course.  Estri is still a long way short of pulling one of those.  As to the beer, I suppose alcohol is so thoroughly despised in Moslem countries that they never considered it might be worse for minors.  I recall my own early experience, as well as that of my real niece, and conclude that few kids dislike beer either.  Estri drank a full pilsner glass.  It failed to affect her, so far as I could tell, beyond an attractive rosy glow in the face.

I asked Anelda, “If you obey the Savak, will it keep you from something important?”

“Important?” she repeated around a mouthful of steak.  “I told you my … friend is in jail.”

“Don’t you have a child to worry about?”

Her face reddened.  “Mr. Stone!”

“Excuse me.  I know it’s none of my business.  But I hate to owe something to anybody’s police, much less a secret police!”

I could see her decide to be mollified.  “You think you’ll owe them if I hang around?”

“I might.  I know I enjoy having you in my ‘temporary family.’”

“Thank you, Harry.  I’ll bet a girl could do a lot worse.”

“You said something earlier that interested me.  Why do you think prepubescent virginity is so rare here?”

She grunted.  “That would be Iran’s guilty secret if Westerners learned it — and gave a damn.”

I shook my head.  “If that’s a joke, I don’t get it.”

“Not a joke.  It’s the truth.  Virginity is in very short supply here.”

“Do you know why?”

“Of course I do.”

“Tell me.”

“Because incest is not forbidden until a girl’s first menses or a boy’s first ejaculate.”

“Not forbidden!  You don’t mean …”  I’m sure my shock was evident.  Suddenly Constance’s excuse for ancient Meshir gained a little credibility.  “How wide spread — how long has this been going on?”

She shrugged.  “Who knows?  It’s not really discussed.  You find no statistics.  But every woman I ever met here, if they’ll talk about it at all, admits it’s true.”

“But who would —”

“Who else?  Fathers, uncles, brothers — and the reverse, too:  mothers, aunts and sisters.  And close cousins.  Every­thing happens in your own family.  You get killed quick if you try it in someone else’s.”

“Your own experience bears it out?”

“Of course.  It’s my earliest memory.  Many women say the same.  Nobody would expect Estri’s hymen to be intact.  I can hardly believe it myself.  I have a Baluchi friend.  I’ll have to ask her if things are different in Baluchistan.”

“How old were you?”

“Three and a half.”

“Good god!”

“Huh!  So far as I know, God says nothing about it.”

I shook my head.  “It sounds terrible.”

“Harry, you might be surprised.  I know what the West believes, but I’m not sure its way is better.  One thing can be said for us:  no Iranian grows up sexually ignorant.  We certainly know what to expect in that department!”

“Innocence is also valuable.”

“You mean ignorance.  I don’t see how.  Remember:  I was exposed to both.  The Iranian way is to segregate a girl when intercourse gets risky — just when American girls are allowed to try it.”

“It looked that way to you, did it?”

She grinned, “Should I say, ‘just when American parents lose control?’  That’s another opposite.  Iranians really clamp down on their daughters after puberty.”  She gazed into distance.  “The shah is trying to change all that.”

“Feeling as you do, I’m surprised the shah considers you his enemy.”

“The shah?  It’s the Savak, not him.  They consider everyone the enemy!”

“Don’t all police?”

Her eyebrows rose.  “Even American police?”

“I’ve had my share of speeding tickets.”

She laughed.  “So have I.”

Suddenly she changed the subject.  “You saw my stretch marks.”

Her expression was thoughtful instead of vindictive, so I admitted it.  “They’re faint.”

“But they’re there.  I did have a kid, Harry.”

“Did have?”

“I was pregnant but didn’t know it when the shah recalled my family.  The Savak froze all my father’s assets.  I haven’t left Iran since.  There’s nothing to do about a delicate condition here but let it proceed to term.”

“I see.”

“No, you don’t.  I wouldn’t want you to think I just abandoned my baby.  Her husband graciously permitted my older sister to raise him as her own.  To him I am ‘Aunt Anelda.’”

A tear trembled on her eyelashes.  I put my hand over hers.  “That must have been hard for you.”

“He’s a sweet child.”  She snapped her head, dashing the liquid from her eyes.  “Tough shit, as you Americans say.  It could’ve been a lot harder.”  She grinned humorlessly.  “Lucky for him he didn’t get his father’s blue eyes.”

Based on displayed appetite, the luncheon was a success.  Back in the room we discovered that the single TV station didn’t begin transmitting for another three hours.  Thinking of Estri’s heritage, I proposed a sight-seeing tour that would take advantage of Anelda’s knowledge of Tehran.  She picked up the phone, dialed a number and spoke briefly in Farsi.  Hanging it up, she grinned at me.  “They say okay, but don’t leave the city.”

“I didn’t ask their permission.”

“Well, you need it anyway.”

So we taxied around and saw the sights:  gates, palaces, mosques, an impressive expanse of glass and concrete modern buildings and the new Azadi Tower, topologically equivalent to a huge triumphal arch with splayed-out skirts on its legs.  Anelda mumbled something disparaging.

“What was that?”

“They say it commemorates past glory.  You know what it reminds me of?”

“What?”

“Every time I see it from a distance, I think of a woman squatting to relieve herself.”

Estri giggled, craning her neck.

I said with feeling, “I’m glad you said that and not me!”

“Well, what do you think?”

I shrugged.  “Either way it’s very interesting.”

Anelda chuckled indulgently.  “Trust a man to like that idea.”

Estri took it all in, saying little.  She never let go of my arm and often shielded her eyes from the bright sunlight until I understood the reason and bought us all sunglasses.  After a life underground she might have reacted with at least mild astonishment to the colorful, bustling city.  I wanted to ask about her impressions but not in front of the woman.

As we paused before the shah’s palace, Anelda asked, “Want to go up and say hello to your buddy?”

“Suppose we go to Savak headquarters and ask to see yours?”

She looked away, losing her grin.  “They don’t allow visitors on Friday.”

Anything for a sharp retort!  I must be a latent schizophrenic, certainly a thoughtless wise-ass.  What if she had agreed?

We drew stares whenever we alighted from the taxi.  Anelda is an attractive woman, smartly turned out.  Estri was neat with dancing hair and flashing black pumps.  Then I realized that by no means was every stare admiring.  Several onlookers scowled and turned their backs on a blue-eyed foreigner escorting two of their women.  Or maybe it was Anelda’s lipstick.

On the way back to the hotel she asked, “Would you like me to recommend a restaurant for dinner?”

I thought about it, wondering how well she intended to obey the Savak.  “No, thank you.  They have a long menu at the hotel.  Thought we might relax and try room service.”

“Oh.  Are you tired of Tehran?”

“Not me.  Estri seems a little tired of it.  Too much novelty in one day.  Of course you’re invited to stay and eat with us.”

She studied me.  “Because of the Savak?”

“Because Estri likes you.”

“What about you?”

I nodded.  “Oh, yes, I like you, too.  Why not?  You’re a looker … and —”

“Despite the stretch marks?”

“I was about to say, and fun to be with.  You have a droll sense of humor.  ‘Want to go up and see your buddy? — indeed!’”

She grinned and laid her hand on my knee.  “Thank you.”  Suddenly she was serious.  “Let’s lay it all out, Harry.  Just what do you want of me?”

“Well, why don’t you stick around and have breakfast with us, too?”

Her eyes shifted back and forth on mine.  “And watch television in the meantime?  Here it’s the news and maybe an Indian movie with Farsi subtitles.”

I suggested, “Then we’ll have to make our own amusement.”

I’d be amazed to learn that Estri had ever heard of television or movies, but somehow she understood the gist.  She leaned across me to place her hand on Anelda’s, looked up at the two adults with twinkling eyes and suggested, “We make sex.”

Anelda laughed aloud.  “See what I mean?  Virgin or not, you can tell she’s been here a while.”  Her smile faded.  She said pensively, “I may need a few things.”

I nodded.  “Tell the driver to swing by the bazaar.”

She proved unembarrassed to let me buy her a negligee, two brassieres, a slip and three spermicidal douche kits, or so it said in English on the boxes.  Estri hung on my arm and watched with interest.

As she was pushing the three boxes into her purse, I said dryly, “Hope I can live up to your expectations.”

She laughed — and blushed for the first time.

“Mightn’t you need panties?” I wondered.

“You’ve forgotten the panty hose.”

“Right.”  I guess women don’t have to wear both, though Daisy always does.

We ran the television while we ate:  as Anelda had said, an Indian movie with Farsi subtitles, incomprehensible to me.  Estri was fascinated by the motion, of course, and very curious about the technical side of it.  God, where to start on that?  Most kids are late teen-agers, at least, with a background in math and basic science, before they poke into technical details.  I mean, the kids who do so poke.  Most kids, especially females, give less than a damn about any of it!  Estri’s almost breathless fascination with how things work is a wonderful handle on her personality, an avenue into her soul, if I can just find the right approach.

I tried somewhat over dinner, drawing the diagram of a cathode ray tube on a napkin, mentioning magnetic deflection — fortunately I had a small magnet on my key ring, even sketching the time waveform of a full vertical video frame.  Estri’s questions showed remarkable understanding.  Most significantly to me, her interest never flagged.

Thinking it over, she looked up at me with bright eyes.  “Hah-ree, is another man wise as you?”

“Oh, many others!”

She shook her head.  “I not think so.”

We had neglected Anelda shamefully.  She had calmly eaten her dinner and drunk the champagne I’d ordered, listening alternately to us and the television.  Now she winked at me above a slight smile.

“Thank you, sweetness,” I told Estri.

Before I could attach any self-deprecation, she continued, “You make me wise, too?”

“I’ll teach you everything you’ll sit still for.”

“I want know all of everything,” she warned.

“You can learn it,” I assured her, “just not in one night.”

“Oh, no, I forget.”  She grinned at both of us.  “Tonight we make sex.”

“Ah … yes.”

Anelda pushed her chair back from the room service cart.  “Thanks for the meal, Harry.”

“There’s pie left.”

“Got to remember my waistline.  Estri can have my share.”  She stood up.  “I’m going to try that new negligee, if you don’t mind.”

“On the contrary.  I want to see if it fits.”

She grinned.  “What if it doesn’t?”

“Well, if it’s actually uncomfortable …”

She studied me.  “How long did you say Estri has been here?”

“I don’t remember saying.  Call it five years.”

“In that case I’m sure she’s accustomed to nudity in the family.”

“I believe that’s true.  But let’s see the negligee.”

“Okay.”  She shrugged, then suggested, “You should get comfortable, too.”

“I will, when I’ve pushed this cart into the hall.”

Estri finished off the apple pie with relish.  It had been bought mainly for her benefit.  She had also downed a tumbler of champagne, observing like many other first-timers that it “tickle nose.”  Still chewing the last bite, she stood erect, hands going immediately to the buttons behind her dress.  When I returned from pushing out the cart, she was already down to cotton panties while busily tugging off her sight-seeing tights.  I saw no evidence of the scattered clothing one would expect in a child’s disrobing.

“Where’s your dress, Estri?”

She pulled open a dresser drawer to show me dress and slip neatly folded away beside Constance’s homemade items.  I glanced at Anelda, who stood in bra and panties at the clothes rack, hanging up her suit and blouse.  “Your idea?”

“Her idea.”

Which pleased me.  Children are so quick to learn new tricks — this child, at least.  I doubt she’d worn even so much as the Meshir gray robe before this week.  Already she was concerned with preserving her new property.

As is my custom in hotels, I draped my still loaded pants over a chair back in case of sudden need but hung coat and tie beside Anelda’s suit.  She stood nude at the desk, searching under the light for tags in the new negligee.

She leered at me over her shoulder.  “Finish the job.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Underwear and socks went into a dirty clothes drawer.  I emptied the pocket of the dress shirt onto the desk and after hesitating a moment, put my arms back into it.  Anelda chuckled.  I turned to see her watching me, the pink negligee shimmering around her.

I also saw Estri’s mouth gape in a huge yawn.  She was sitting naked on the low suitcase stand, leaning back against the wall, having added tights and panties to her clothes drawer.  I went to her and picked her up in my arms.  One of her arms encircled my neck while she nuzzled her face into the hollow of it.  Her skin was cool.

“Are you sleepy, sweetness?”

I heard her jawbone creak as she yawned again.

“Oh, Hah-ree,” she murmured drowsily.  “I love you forever.”

“Didn’t you sleep on the train?”

“Elsik-man …” she began but another yawn made subsequent words unintelligible.

“What about Elsik?”

“Want me help with Constance.”

I could only too readily imagine the help he required, realizing that it was of course nothing extraordinary in Estri’s experience.  Disregard of her need for sleep angered me a bit.  At least Constance had preserved the child’s maidenhead, if Anelda wasn’t mistaken.  I resolved to verify that at the next opportunity.

With my chin I gestured to Anelda.  “How about turning down that far bed.”

She preceded me toward it, the negligee streaming.  “Isn’t the cot for her?”

“I won’t let her sleep alone.”

I laid Estri gently on the crisp bed sheet.  She sighed and thrust her feet under the cover.  I leaned over her to catch the blanket edge where the woman had thrown it — and froze as the child’s hand grasped my unsuspecting dick.  She shrank down in the bed while raising her head to kiss the glans — actually more than a kiss:  she took the whole end in her mouth momentarily before scooting back onto the pillow.

Face hot, I looked up at the woman standing at the foot of the bed where she’d enjoyed a clear view.  She met my gaze with raised eyebrows but none of the disdain I feared.  She chuckled.  “You blush prettily.”

I pulled blanket and top sheet over my little darling and bent down to kiss her good night, only to be met by another huge yawn.  So I kissed her cheek instead.  Immediately she turned on her side toward the dark wall.  I believe she was already half asleep.

I came around the bed, took Anelda’s hand and led her across the room.  She said, “Estri’s already asleep.”

“You think so?”

“Yes.  Children can do that.”

When I released her she threw the negligee off onto a chair.  “I never needed this anyway.”

“Only if I call for more room service.”

“Then I can be in bed.”  She came to me and grasped the edges of my open shirt.  “And you don’t need this.”

Who was I to argue?  I shrugged out of it and she came into my arms for our first kiss, a lengthy wet one.  Her tongue was pleasantly aggressive.  When our lips parted, she took a breath and said, “I think all Iranian men smoke.  I’m so glad you don’t.”

Stupidly I asked, “Have you kissed all Iranian men?”

But she grinned.  “As many as I can.  My American boy friend taught me how much fun it is.”

“He taught you well…  These are very nice.  They seem glad to see me.”

“Huh!  Not half as glad as this thing is!”

“Oh, I’m glad to see you all over!”

She chuckled deep in her throat.  “Harry, you are a very sweet man.”

“Thank you.”

“No, I want to thank you.  This way.”

She stepped back, sank to her knees, leaned forward with head tilted back and sucked my whole dick slowly into her mouth.  Okay, it’s a small sausage compared to some, but it’s still longer than the distance from anyone’s lips to the back of the throat.  God knows where she put it if not into her esophagus.  I felt it pass feathery obstructions before her nose butted my pubic pad, then a swirling tongue as she gradually withdrew it.  Her arms went around my hips and forced me deep again.  I added a slight thrust of my own as the tempo increased.  Flaring nostrils revealed that her breathing was timed to withdrawals.

A woman kneeling with my entire dick in her mouth:  I can imagine nothing more stimulating.  “Anelda …” I warned with a preliminary shudder.  Her response was to release my hips.  Both hands snaked into my crotch to knead my balls between her fingers.

I had masturbated in the shower at Fellavi, my last previous sexual release, about four days ago, so I was loaded with juice.  At the first squirt she backed away slightly and slipped one hand around the base of my shaft, preventing me from jamming everything down her throat as instinct prompted.  Her tongue touched the glans delicately while I spurted.  She swallowed several times, hard enough to be audible above the low television background.  Fortunately I was standing with my back to the desk.  My knees lost their starch and I sagged weakly onto its mahogany veneer.

Until that moment I would have unreservedly nominated Eunice Hollowell for world champion cocksucker, but here was at least the tying mouth and in a much younger woman, or so I felt then.  Now, writing these curlicues while Estri drowses beside me and Anelda gets farther away every second, I am inclined to agree with the old gal who claimed that the present tongue, cock or cunt is always best.  One thing is certain: Anelda is an adept cocksucker of very wide experience, even if necessarily less than Eunice’s.

With the last dribble she resumed a gentle suction.  I took a deep breath and told her, “That’s all.  There ain’t no more.”

She backed away but held on to me.  “Are you sure?  Sometimes there is.”

“I’m sure.”

The plum glans was satiny with moisture but she hadn’t spilled a drop.  Her face and mouth were clean.

“I can do this until you make more,” she suggested.

“Maybe, but hard work for you.”  I once had paid a Vietnamese whore for that very service.  It had taken her 45 minutes with the help of another woman.

I added, “There’s an easier way.”  I slipped forward, raised Anelda to her feet with hands in both armpits, pulled her against me and kissed her mouth deeply as I could reach.  It was a moment before she responded in kind.  Fresh semen is basically pretty tasteless.  At least mine is.  I suppose I tasted it in her — must have — but all I registered was woman’s mouth with a trace of the spiced lamb she’d had for dinner.

While kissing her I turned her around and pressed her against the desk, forcing her to sit where I had briefly lounged.  A rug is not enough padding for my knees.  I snatched up the pillow meant for the cot, presently resting at the other end of desk, and threw it to the floor, pausing in my descent long enough to mouth both nipples briefly.

As my shoulders forced her legs apart and my face sank to her trimmed pubes, she asked, “Are you sure you want to do this, Harry?”

“I’m sure I want to, all right!  Why shouldn’t I?”

Her eyes glittered.  “There’s no reason you shouldn’t.”

Her inner lips were strongly flavored and already wet.  She quivered when my tongue first touched her and again when it reached the clitoris, a substantial one bound to react well in ordinary intercourse.  Pleased at that discovery, I helped her throw her legs over my back and settled to my work, probing with several fingers below the tongue.  But I was hardly at her longer than she’d been at me before her moisture increased and her torso twisted violently.  She made a curious gargling cry deep in her throat, audible even through the thighs clamping my ears, and forced my face away.

“Please, Harry,” she moaned, eyes huge.  “Please …”  Her legs came down from my shoulders and her hands sank into my hair, clearly trying to lift me upward.

I rose, slipped between her legs and into her.  She threw her arms around me.  In two or three thrusts she was coming again.

“Wrap your legs around my hips,” I told her and felt her heels drum into my ass.  I picked her up by the buttocks and took a whimsical turn around the room.  Though strenuous, that’s a maneuver I enjoy, especially during the cool period after a recent orgasm.  If the woman bounces, the friction of chests and bellies is delightful and the penetration is exceeded only later with her heels over your shoulders.  But I’ve found few women who’ll indulge me.  The closest I ever got to an explanation for refusing was that it’s not “dignified” to walk around while fucking, which I suppose is true enough.  But Anelda was beyond such considerations.  She grunted and groaned with every step, bouncing on my dick.

Beginning to tire, feeling my own pleasure rising, I lowered us to the bed, slipped my arms under her knees and raised her calves up against my chest.  Now every plunge struck the cervix, eliciting a soprano grunt.  Her eyes were clenched shut and lips drawn back over her teeth as she gasped for breath.  Her anguished voice made incoherent sounds, possibly Farsi, as vaginal sphincters clipped me sharply.  It was an extremely passionate display and it finished me off.

When my meager second offering was complete, I backed off her and looked up, recovering my breath.   My gaze went across the far bed to Estri’s face, in which one eye was open, the other closed.  She said sleepily, “Was good, hus-ban’?”

“Oh, sweetness, I’m sorry we woke you up!”

“I love you forever.”

“And I love you.  Can you go back to sleep?”

Instead of answering she turned her face back to the wall.

Anelda had stretched out atop the bedcovers.  Her head was thrown back, mouth gaping for breath.  I went to the ice bucket, split the rest of the champagne between our tumblers and returned to stand beside her.  When she didn’t react, I bent down, raised her head and shoulders and presented a tumbler to her lips.  She drank thirstily.

“Thank you, Harry.  God, my throat is dry!”

“Are you making a pun about the champagne?”

“No.  I can think of nothing that would taste better.  Is this the last?”

“Yes.  Should I order more?”

“We have ice left, don’t we?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Cold water will do.  I’m not used to alcohol.  It can give me a terrible headache.”  She sighed and swung to a sitting position.  “Better get those wrigglers out of there.”

“Wrigglers?”

“Your millions of half-babies.”

“Cute.  But there’s not so many on the second shot.”

“Huh!  Even one is too many in the right place.  And, boy, did you ever put them in the right place!”

She stumbled to her purse, took out a douche box and disappeared in the bathroom.  I sat naked in a chair, sipping my drink and recalling how her throat tissues parted before my glans penis, a sensation delicate but visceral, more for cognitive than physical reasons.  And she had squeezed my balls pretty hard.  Had that contributed to the great power of the first orgasm?  I felt of them:  no soreness.

Might compressing the testicles produce a larger seminal volume?  I could experiment, I supposed, but careful measurement would be required.  I laughed aloud, imagining Estri submitting the results as a science project in school.

Anelda came straight to me from the bathroom, still naked, and lowered herself into my lap facing me.  Her hand went between us and cupped my genitals.  If the dick had been hard I believe she would’ve tucked it in.  She leaned her tits against my chest and kissed me, then said huskily, “Harry, you made me see stars.”

I smiled.  “That’s good.”

“It’s been such a long time.  Guess I’m just a nut for Americans.  But you’ve ruined me.”

“Ruined?”

“Temporarily.  I know the signs.  I’ll hardly be able to walk tomorrow.”

“Should I be sorry?”

“No.  I’m not sorry!  What were you laughing about?”

“Eh?  Oh, that.”  I told her about my science project whimsy.

She smiled.  “But the reason is to add to your pleasure.  Didn’t it?”

“Hard to tell.  Everything you did was incredible.”

She nodded smugly.  “I’m told I give good head.”

“You do.  How can you take it so deep?”

Her smugness increased.  “You like that, do you?”

“Yes,” I admitted.  “Who wouldn’t?”

“And I liked it when you returned the favor.  Why did you, Harry?”

“What a question!”

“I’d like to know.”

“Hmm.  You enjoy sucking a dick, don’t you?”

She hesitated.  “What if I do?”

“Well, I enjoy licking a cunt, especially one like yours with a clit big enough to suck.”

“Oh, Harry!”  She studied me.  “That’s the second surprise.  My American boy friend would lick me, but I don’t think even he liked doing it.”

“Implying that your Iranian friend likes it less?”

“Iranian men say it’s unmanly.”

“Unmanly!  To lick a woman?  Frankly, my dear, that’s stupid.”

“I’m very glad you think so.”

“What did you mean, ‘the second surprise?’”

“The first surprise was your deep kiss after I’d just sucked your come.  I never met anyone who’d kiss me then.  I should say ‘any man.’”

“But you’ve known women who would?”

“Some women claim they like the taste.”

“How about you?”

She shrugged.  “It’s okay.  Mostly it has no taste.”

“I’ve heard that it depends on how much the man needs to pee.”

“Huh!  Who told you that?”

“Two women who cocksucked their way around North America.”

She grinned.  “That sounds like fun.”

I chuckled.  “I’d bet you could get along with them.”

“If I could get to North America.”  She arched her back in a partial stretch, causing her backbone to creak audibly, grinding her tits into me.  She smiled and kissed my nose.  “I can certainly get along with you.  Did you notice I was coming the whole time you were bouncing me around the room?”

“I noticed.”

“Little ones.  You really turn me on, Harry.”

“That’s the idea.  It beats hell out of TV.”

She scooted forward, lifting her feet onto the chair edge, placing her knees in my armpits.  Deftly the hand between us popped the head of my resurrected dick back into her slot.  Usually women dry out between bouts.  Not this one — or if she had, she was wet again.  Unless it was the douche.

“Indian movies are more prudish than the old American ones,” she commented while slowly gyrating her pelvis to work my shaft deeper.  “Of course, if a boob should ever be seen, the ayatollahs would scream bloody murder.”

“Too bad.  They’re depriving themselves of nature’s prettiest sight.”

She chuckled.  “You’re a man of simple tastes, eh?”

“And you have pretty ones.”

“Thank you…  I didn’t nurse.  The pills I took to dry them up shrank them some, too.  But I’m told I have nice nipples.”

“Very nice,” I agreed.  She was fishing in the right place for compliments.  I tweaked her left one.  “They must be half an inch tall.”

“When they’re standing up,” she agreed, looking smugly down at herself.  Question:  do long nipples relate to a prominent clitoris?  Ah, what a research project!

She shuddered.  I asked, “Feels good?”

“Nothing feels better.”

“Huh!  I don’t think I ever heard a woman admit that before.”

She shrugged with pleasant effect on dick and chest, retorting, “I have simple tastes, too.”  She snuggled closer, arms around my back, head on my shoulder, hips gently bobbing.  Her feet in the chair seat beside my hips bore most of her weight.  Her womanly fragrance filled my nostrils.  I squeezed her buttocks, alternately stroking her back.

“Did I wake Estri?” she murmured, mouth beside my ear.

“We did.”

“Oh?  Were you noisy, too?”

“Maybe not as noisy as you.”

“God, I totally lost control!  No telling what I might do or say when I go off like that.  Oh, Harry, it’s been such a long time!”

“That’s very flattering, my dear.”  I chuckled.  “I believe you were screaming in Farsi.”

She repeated a few words.  “Like that?”

“What does it mean?”

“Mainly ‘fuck me harder.’”

“Well, that’s appropriate.”

“Not in Iran!  It’s funny.  I must’ve translated something I learned in America.  I thought I heard Estri tell you something.”

“She wanted to know if I had fun.”

“Did you?”

“Anelda, you must know how well you do this.”

“Tell me.”

“I believe you really do love it.”

She grunted.  I heard a grin in her voice.  “That says I do it well, I guess.”

“You do it very well!”

“Do you get better head in America?”

“Not better, no.  You’re the best, my dear.”

She kissed my neck.  After a moment she asked in a tone of more than simple curiosity, “Iran teaches its women well.  What did you think when your niece mouthed your cock?”

“Well, it certainly surprised me.”

“So I noticed.  You were surprised to get caught.”

“Implying … what?”

I felt her shrug.  My hands rose to her shoulders and set her back far enough for me to see her face.  “Do you think I should’ve slapped her away?”

“Wouldn’t most American uncles — if anybody was watching?”

“Maybe.  Of course, most of them wouldn’t have let it hang over her.”

“Why did you?”

“I was reaching for the cover, if you remember.”

She smiled.  “I wish you could’ve seen your face.”

“Looked guilty, did I?”

“And a little wistful, I would say.”

“Wistful!”

“If I hadn’t been here, I think she would’ve got a drink.”

“No, she wouldn’t.”  I bounced her slightly.  “Let’s go to bed.”

“I’m getting heavy!”

“Not at all.  In fact this is very sweet for me, but your back is getting cold.”

“Harry, I think she’s a very lucky girl — even if she did go to sleep thirsty.”

“I mean to see that she has good luck.”

“I know you will.  Carry me like you did before.”

Up we surged to start around the room again, but after three or four bounces she swung her feet down to the floor and leaned against me.  Her eyes were wide.

“What’s the matter?” I wondered.

“You did ruin me!”

“Are you sore inside?”

“Very sore!”

I glanced at my wristwatch.  “And the evening is still young!”

Her hand enclosed my dick.  “Don’t give up.”

“I won’t if you won’t.”

“We just can’t put it in all the way.  You bruised my cervix.  It’s not accustomed to that.  No!”  Her finger touched my lips.  “Don’t say you’re sorry.  I already told you, I’m not!”

I turned off the TV on the way back to bed.  She laid her cold back partly across me as she pulled up the covers.  Her hand found my dick and began to pump it gently.  I cupped a breast with one hand, stroked belly and pubes with the other.  Her clit was still a grand lump.  A barely perceptible tremor affected her each time I touched it.

“Still sensitive?” I wondered.

“You have sensitized me.  It feels good wherever we touch.”

“But especially here?”

She didn’t answer.  Instead her hand clutched my butt cheek.  “Turn on your side.”

When we were aligned to her satisfaction, her back to my chest, head resting on my biceps, she reached between her legs and lodged my glans just inside her vagina.

I made a few thrusts and commented approvingly, “Now it won’t go so deep.”

“That’s the idea.”

I felt the hand that was still between her legs lift my balls, fingertips squeezing them.  My free hand tweaked a nipple.

She said, “I’m impressed.”

“By what?”

“This cock.  How long can you keep it up?”

I chuckled.

She protested, “It’s not a silly question.”

“I started to say, ‘as long as you give it your sweet attention,’ but I remembered it’s been pussy whipped once or twice.”  Eunice had done it to me more than twice, and there were others.  Any determined woman can exhaust a man’s erectability, even his total interest in sex.  But thank god it’s only temporary!

“‘Pussy whipped,’” she repeated.  “What an expression!”

“I’m also impressed.”

“Why?”

“Most women are only too ready to quit soon as a man comes.”

“Huh!  You know the reason for that, Harry…  Well, maybe you don’t!”

I shook my head even though she couldn’t see it.  “It’s not always the man’s incompetence.”

She declared, “It’s usually impatience.”

“Not always.  Some women don’t seem to feel anything.”

“Well, you don’t have one tonight.”

“I already figured that out.  You do love this, don’t you!”

It was her turn to chuckle mysteriously.

“Don’t you?” I repeated.

“I’ve been called a cold woman, Harry.  One guy told me only a cold woman could give such good head.”

“You’re anything but cold.”

“For you!  You bring out the best in me — or the worst.”

I recalled Florrie — cold at first but too hot when stirred.  “You’re saying there’s something to the claims of chemistry?”

“I know it’s a very individual thing:  the guy’s attitude, the girl’s … and probably chemicals, too.  What’s that word, pher …  phera—”

“Pheromones?”

“That’s it.  If it works with insects, why not us?”

“Well, of course it does work.  Your body odors, especially here” — I produced a stronger thrust — “go straight to my dick.”

“I think I know what you mean.”

“Do you?  Don’t tell me you like a sweaty man!”

“Not old sweat.  But fresh sweat?  Yes, I do!  Like the smell of a gym.”

“Hmm.  Don’t think I ever heard a woman admit that before.”

“I remember how hung up Americans are on body odors.  You believe your commercials, I think.  How’d you escape, Harry?”

“I don’t pay attention.  I think they’re supposed to make women hate other women’s odors.  That’s an easy sell.”

She laughed.  “I guess so!”

“But to me the way you smell …  You have no perfume or even deodorant, have you?”

“Well, no, but I had a good soak this morning and I use cologne.”

“It’s long gone.”  I sniffed her shoulder.  “Your skin isn’t what I’d call sweet, but it smells good in a way that goes beyond sweet.  I can’t find the right words.  English doesn’t have much vocabulary for odors.”

She abandoned my balls, caught my hand and pulled it to her nose but grunted in disgust, declaring, “All I can smell is pussy.”

I forced her hand near my own nose.  “Ah, yes.  How delightful!”

She laughed.  “Harry, do you have a wife?”

“Not yet.”

“When you get one, give her my congratulations.”

“Sure, I will!” I retorted sarcastically.  “For what, by the way?”

“For finding a man who really likes a woman’s body.”

I chuckled.  “It’s true.  But I can’t believe it’s so rare.”

“You’d be surprised.”

She bent her shoulders away from me, raised one leg over mine and began to rotate her hips.  Both hands went between my legs, one to squeeze my balls, the other to ring the base of my shaft.  “Oh, god!” she murmured two or three times then moaned and pronounced her Farsi benediction, whose meaning I remembered in time to add to her effort, careful not to thrust too hard.  When she fell still, so did I.  In an impatient gesture she threw off the covers and straightened her back against me.  It was moist and far from cold.

She wriggled her hips.  “Still up there!”

“Are you surprised?”

“You didn’t come?”

“No.  The third time for me can take a good while.”

“So what’s keeping it hard?”

“I told you:  your attention.”

“Harry, you’ll wear me out!”

I asked with real interest, “Do you mean you feel some kind of obligation to work on it until it gets soft?”

“Obligation?  To myself!  As long as good things are coming around, I want my share.”

“You count hard dicks among the good things?”

“The best! …  Harry, do you mind if I get on top?”

“Where I can admire those long nipples?  Of course I don’t mind.”

I rolled on my back and she lithely straddled me, recoupling us.  She smiled at me and wiggled her hips indescribably.  “Oh, yes!” she exclaimed tightly through a grimace.  “That’s perfect.”

Apparently it was.  She threw her head back and moaned oddly in a constricted throat, hips rotating violently forward and back.  The effect of her motion was not to vary the penile penetration so much as the points of pressure inside her belly.  Her nipples oscillated.

It was a fascinating display of sight, sound and feeling.  It lasted a good while before she collapsed forward, hot cheek against mine.  My hands stroked her back as she gasped for breath.

After a bit she murmured, “You make me feel like a puddle.”

“A what?”

“That you’ve stepped in.”

A puddle of what? I wanted to say.  Instead I asked, “What do you mean, Anelda?”

“It’s the best way I can express it.  I feel melted.”  Her hips began to move again.  “I feel like a butterfly you’re pinning to a board.”

“That’s a little better.  But surely it hurts the butterfly!”

“This hurts, too.  So good!”  She raised up enough to kiss me, tongue probing.  Her hips resumed their grind.  She moaned nasally, nostrils flaring, then forced herself erect as before, hands extended to my shoulders.  This time I reached up and squeezed each nipple between thumb and forefinger.  Her whole chest had reddened.  Her face was flaming, lips drawn back over teeth, eyes clenched shut.  Her Farsi imprecation escaped her lips again, but I added only a slight thrust to her effort.

Again she was gasping for breath when she collapsed upon me, chin on my shoulder.  Again I rubbed her back, long strokes from shoulder to buttocks.  When her breath was recovered she complained, “Harry, you’ll kill me.”

I chuckled.  “That’s the exact way I’d prefer to die!”

“How selfish!  Think of your poor partner.”

“I am.  With unmitigated envy.”

She chuckled, too, then complained, “You haven’t come yet!”

“I might have this time, if …”

“If what?”

“It had lasted a bit longer.  If that’s what you want, turn around.”

“Backwards again?”

“No.  Head to foot.”

She raised up enough to study my face.  Her hips resumed a gentle motion.  “You don’t mean …”

“Sixty-nine.”

“Harry!” she breathed.  “I love that!”

“So do I.”

“But — but I should warn you, I can’t concentrate on you while you’re … doing …”

“I know.  That makes it last.  Just don’t bite if you come.”

She meant it.  A few strokes on the clit itself proved enough to freeze her jaw, neck and tongue.  To get any attention to my dick I had to stay mostly away from that prominent lump, stirring the labia instead, thrusting into the very wet hole and the dry one above it.  Poking at the higher one made her quiver and tongue my glans harder, almost as if it acted as a reminder.  The asshole as a conscience button!  She came several times, I think even if only by pressure transmitted to the clitoris through the flesh from elsewhere, and each time I felt her teeth on my dick, though not painfully.  I wonder if the awareness of how terribly a suckling woman can hurt a man contributes to the pleasure of it.  For anyone.

At last she settled on a “hold” — tongue pressing the sensitive underside of the glans against palate ridges, lips gripping the shaft while hand held its base for the rapidly bobbing head — that fetched me.  Spurting at one end, I bore down on the swollen clit at the other.  She began immediately to lunge about, screaming nasally.  She bore it only briefly before literally tearing herself away.  In her anguish her knee struck me painfully on the forehead.  Hands went between her legs, presumably to soothe the tortured flesh.  I had a glimpse of her wild face, a watery semen steak visible on the chin for the first time, before she went sideways off the bed with a couple of thumps.

Aware of the noise, I rolled to look at Estri.  Both her eyes were watching this time.  She smiled at me before again turning away.  Do the Meshir practice sixty-nine?  I can’t remember, but presumably not to conclusion.

Turning back I found Anelda’s face risen off the carpet.  She stared at me dazedly, licking my residue from the corner of her mouth.

“Are you all right?” I demanded.

She responded by clambering up the side of the bed.  Her hand shot to my dick and turned the end towards me.  She declared triumphantly, “By god, you came that time!”  Indeed a last white drop cowered in the eye.

I retorted dryly, “It seems I blew you away.”

She laughed and surged completely up onto the bed, compressing her breasts on my chest, to kiss me briefly on the lips.  Her chin wet mine.  She raised her head and regarded me fondly.  “I couldn’t stand it another second.”

“Then you’re not hurt?”

“If I am, it’s a good hurt.”

“No bruises from the floor?”

“I think I landed on hip and shoulder.  I was all a-tingle.  I still am!  Ah, Harry, what a nice evening!”

“You can say that again!”

We lay in a companionable silence for awhile, her chest partly on mine, head on my shoulder, one of my legs entangled in hers.  I stroked her buttocks and lower back.  Her hand worked my dick gently, keeping it erect and revealing a familiar soreness.  When I told her so, she transferred her massage to my balls.  Her breath tickled my ear.

Sometime later I awoke.  Her back was cold.  I wormed out from under her, stood beside the bed and pulled the covers over her.  I took a leak, noting 00:40 on my wristwatch, turned out the lights and slipped into bed with Estri, apparently not so quietly as I’d wanted, because she immediately turned her warm body, throwing an arm and leg over me and small head on my shoulder.  “Love you forever,” she murmured before her breathing resumed its even rate.

 

Saturday, October 14, 1972

I awoke to light streaming through opened drapes and Estri propped up on her elbow beside me, staring lovingly into my eyes.  I smiled at the sight.  She immediately smiled back, leaned forward and kissed the stubble on my chin.

“Good morning, husband.”

“Good morning, sweetness.  Have you been awake long?”

“I wait for you.”  Her hand dropped to my chest and wound together a few short strands of hair.  “You feel good, Hah-ree?”

“Oh, yes.”  I stretched until my back creaked.  Indeed I did feel good!  As I relaxed I asked, “Did you sleep well?”

But she had left the bed as I stretched.  I raised up and saw her hurrying to the bathroom, a place that I might profitably visit, too.  To my surprise, the adjacent bed was empty, its covers crumpled at the foot.

I called, “What happened to Anelda?”

Estri paused at the bathroom door.  “She leave.”

“Do you know when?”

She shrugged.  “Already was light.”

I had issued the woman a breakfast invitation but could recall no acceptance.  I thought, how like a casual female acquaintance to leave her man asleep.  Then a not-so-casual reason occurred to me.  I sprang out of bed and retrieved my wallet from the britches flung on a chair back.  Was pleased to discover everything apparently as I’d left it, especially the uncashed traveler’s checks.  The two air tickets proved still present in my jacket pocket.  I even stooped for my briefcase and verified passport still in its niche.  The only thing missing was Anelda — and, I saw, all the stuff I’d bought for her.

As I closed the briefcase, I felt a mild disappointment, realizing I’d counted on the woman for another shot of whoopee in the morning.  I’m told that new wives, their future committed, enjoying that peak of self-delusion commonly known as love, are often so enthusiastically passionate as to exhaust their men, even when the woman herself is hardly aroused.  Anelda’s performance last night must have been comparable, regardless of her motive, whatever it might be.  In truth she was a marvelous lover, a fuckstress par excellence, definitely at the top of the list for a rainy afternoon.  The memory alone of her would always be sufficient to stiffen me.  I looked around, hoping to find a note — and there it was, peeking out from her pillow.

The handwriting was a scrawl on hotel stationery in the loopy whirls often affected by American women.  Each I-dot was a tiny circle.

 

Harry,

Thank you for a wonderful evening!  I can’t recall one more enjoyable.

I have to run now, partly because of you.  Our conversation reminded me of someone at my sister’s.

I’ll see you later today when you least expect me.

Anelda

 

When I least expect her!  I shook my head, laying the note on the desk.  She had the rest of the morning, I thought, but that was it.

I looked at my wrist-watch:  0830.  That’s what you call a good night’s sleep!

Estri had returned and stood nearby.  She was holding the room’s ice bowl unsteadily in both hands.  It was nearly full of water, steaming slightly.

“Estri, what …”

She smiled at me.  “Take seat on desk, husband.”

She seemed so intent on her objective, whatever it might be, and was so damned cute standing there with an expectant smile, that I couldn’t deny her.  I leaned back, plopping my buttocks on the edge of the desk.  “What’re you up to, sweetness?”

She sat the bowl and a towel from her arm onto the desk beside me, wrung out a washcloth from the water and scrubbed it with soap.  She looked up at me and took a breath.  “Do wife job, husband.”  She slipped between my legs and began to swab my genitals with the warm cloth.

“Estri, I was about to get a shower.”

“Still get,” she agreed, massaging me tenderly, “but wife wash best part.”

I recalled the similar service in the bed cavern, first by poor Melki, then by the prepubescent team, then again by Melki and Estri at the conclusion of my other visits — except the last.  Obviously a Meshir girl was trained to deliver it to her man.  I’ve seen nothing yet to contradict the anthropologist who wrote that the principal job of the female in most human cultures has ever been to keep the male clean.

“Hah-ree, you not anger I go to sleep last night?”

“No, dear, not at all.  You needed it.”

“I do better next night.”

The warm cloth was soothing.  “All the Meshir do this, don’t they? — not just wives.”

“Yes.  For fun.  But wife must do.”

“Do they really think this is fun?”

She grinned.  “Trick to feel man part.  Fun.”

I guess it makes sense:  natural curiosity, at least.  And I’ve noticed that even modest women don’t turn their faces away until after they get a good look.

“I understand, but Estri, outside Meshir they don’t do this trick.”

She shook her head and declared, “Is mistake, husband.”

“What mistake?”

“They do outside Meshir.  Elsik-man make Constance do many time, even on train.”

“Did he!  You had a private compartment?”

“Compartment?”

“A room to yourselves.”

“Yes.  Room on train.  How do train go, Hah-ree?”

“Eh?  The engine pulls it.  Did you help Constance?”

She looked up at me, obviously surprised at the question.  “Yes, much help.”

“I mean with Elsik.”

“I was …”  She appeared to be searching for a word.  At last she continued, “Was helping girl for Constance.”

I had to know.  “Did you wash his … penis?”

“Help give all-over bath.”  She looked up with a twinkle.  “When you penis stand up, it is more big beside Elsik.”

I could imagine her listening intently in a Meshir classroom on the subject, How Best to Flatter a Man.

She laid the washcloth aside, stuffed the towel under me and rinsed me in wet hands, gently fondling — with a predictable result despite my mental picture of the same service rendered to the phantom Elsik.

I discovered that a hard dick — a bit sore this morning — in eleven year-old hands is one thing in the Meshir caverns, something else in a Western-style hotel room.  I suggested to her, “Estri, aren’t you hungry?”

“I not bite.”  And she didn’t.  But she took over half of it suddenly into her little mouth.  I felt it strike the back of her throat.

“I meant food!” I protested.

But her head popped up.  “I forget,” she muttered, taking up the trembling bowl and pressing it warmly between my legs.

She paused to laugh at the incongruity of a dick standing at a 45 degree angle.  “Can you bend forward, husband?”

She balanced the bowl in one hand while the other depressed my dick.  I stood up, bent forward as directed and cut loose.  She seemed pleased as my liquid splashed.  “You health is good, husband.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, curious.

“It smell right.”

I had to smile.  “It smells right?”

She nodded.  “I can smell if wrong.  Then you sick.”

“Estri, how could you know that?”

“When sick man come to caves, many virgin girl taste water, learn smell belong sickness.”  She smiled at me.  “That was why we catch your water first time:  Melki said smell different.”

“And did it?”

“Oh, yes.  But Constance said you not sick, taste like her dead husband water.  Means only you eat different food.”  Her eyes gazed solemnly into mine.  “I am so happy you water taste different.”

I understood.  Otherwise we’d have never met.  Otherwise the child sent to investigate the shooting wouldn’t have recognized me.  Otherwise I’d now be a prisoner somewhere in Russia.  Otherwise Melki would still be alive.

Crying over spilt milk is useful only to the extent it prevents further spillage.  It wouldn’t help here.  I said, “I’m happy, too, sweetness.”

She laughed with pleasure, trotting away with the soiled bowl and cloths.  I stared after her lithe figure, thinking of deaths the Meshir endure because of disease germs passed to children in the tasted urine — and wondering what other man might claim to’ve met his woman because his piss tasted strange.

I followed her into the bathroom, where she was rinsing the ice bowl.  I suggested, “You’ve had a bath in a Western tub;  let me show you how to take a shower.”

Of course she was eager to learn it.  She was delighted at the ease of regulating the temperature.  “What make water cold, Hah-ree?”  I explained about the heated tank and the piping.  “Not hot, Hah-ree.  What make it cold?”  I understood at last.  In the Meshir caverns warm water bubbles up naturally.  When I explained that the cold was more common in the rest of the world, she reminded me of my promise to tell her how that could be.

Under the warm water I scrubbed her and she scrubbed me.  While doing her back, I reached around her hip and slipped my finger into her nether lips.  She grew silent and still.  Her well-trained clit hardened immediately, but I verified Anelda’s judgment.  Neither Elsik nor some last-minute Meshir ceremony had deflowered my little sweetness.  I gathered her into my arms, kissing her neck and nearby cheek.  She shivered, goosebumps forming, but not because of my finger’s continuing massage.  Her hand came up and caressed my check.  “Beard scratch,” she informed me.

Men may exist who can play with a wet cunt unmoved, but I’m not one, even if the cunt in question is hairless.  My dick rose up into the small of her back.  She spun about within the circle of my arms, crouched and mouthed it, again deeply as the small throat would allow.

I took her forehead in both hands but couldn’t bring myself to disengage us.  No longer able to bob her head, she worked my glans with tongue alone.  She looked up at me with huge, devoted eyes, blinking only for the occasional droplet splashing off my chest, three quarters of my dick past her lips, cheeks expanding and collapsing with suction.  I guess these words identify me as a pervert and a child molester — damn good thing no one else will ever read them! — but that was probably the most viscerally compelling sight of my life.  Though her hands were holding my hips, I could feel her in my balls.  Despite three climaxes only last night, I was suddenly perilously close to another.

“Estri,” I said with a gulp, “it’s time for breakfast.”  When that produced no change, I added, “If you keep on you’ll break the Meshir rule.”

That stopped her.  She released me long enough to say, “Husband make new rule.”

She would’ve resumed but that short break restored my self-control.  I took her under the arms, lifted her off her feet and set her out of the tub after opening the curtain with my foot.  She stood, hands on hips, watching me with a frown as I turned off the water.

“You almost come, husband.  Is not good, almost come.”

“It won’t hurt me.”

I got out of the tub, leaning past her for a towel.  She caught my dick in both hands, bringing me to a sudden stop.  “Estri,” I said sternly, “we need to have breakfast.”

She had already knelt before me.  She tilted her head back, looking up with a wide-eyed, stricken expression.  She declared plaintively, “I love you, husband.”

“And I love you,” I retorted, “which is why you mustn’t do this.”

She blinked.  Her expression showed real concern.  “Very bad, husband almost come.  Wife must do!  Please, Hah-ree?”

More Meshir wisdom?  I said weakly, “You need breakfast.”

“Soon have breakfast,” she retorted, recognizing my surrender.  Her mouth re-enclosed me.

I remembered what her first taste of me had been in the Meshir bed cave.  This could hardly be worse, except for what it implied in our future relationship.  I had been determined to preserve her from all the dangers of her primitive environment and provide her the full range of opportunity available to an American woman.  Yet even in Meshir she was not required to suck out a man’s seminal fluid.  The Meshir consider spilling it anywhere beyond a nubile vagina to be a waste and a sin.  “Husband make new rule.”  In this case I suspect Estri was taking advantage of that codicil to make her own new rule.

Her estimate was good.  We would hardly delay breakfast.  She meant to swallow every drop from me, but I couldn’t stand it because of course she’s never learned to ease up during the climax.  Will I have to teach her that?  Stupid question.

I can still provide her those opportunities — except for the likely fact that one way or the other I’ll be in jail this time next year.

She cocked her head at me, the last squirt dripping from her chin.  “Almost no taste, husband.  Why not taste?”

“What did you expect?”

She shook her head.  “Some taste!  Maybe like milk?”

Obviously she was surprised.  Suddenly I realized:  “You never did this before, did you?”

She smiled hugely.  “Never have husband before.”

I dried us both with the same towel, giving her face particular attention.

Good humor restored, she donned her second new dress with all the underthings, showing how well she’d paid attention to Anelda.  When I had shaved, dressed and taken a seat to put on shoes and socks, she brought me her hair brush and comb.  To my surprise I actually enjoyed working on her hair.  Each stroke of the brush added a bit more luster.

She stood between my legs, her back to me, my arm around her, while the brush slid down her back.  Her small hand sneaked under my belt into my shorts, found my dick and cuddled it.

“Estri, didn’t you get enough of that for awhile?”

“Is not right?” she asked, twisting around to regard me quizzically.

“‘Right?’  What do you mean?”

“When comb hair, it make comb love work.”

“Do you mean …  When one girl combs another’s hair …”

“Other girl rub one girl lump — no, wrong word.  One girl clitoris.”

Lesbianism?  I’d seen none of that in Meshir, but thinking it over, I was surprised only that I was surprised.

“Did you rub Anelda’s?”

“She do right.”

“Right?”

“She was naked, too.  She lick me first.”

Well, that explained the confident claim of virginity.  I took a breath.  In for an ounce, in for a pound.  “I’ll do that for you, too.”

“You already do, Hah-ree.  You my first man!”

Again she glanced back at me, eyes shining.  But not the first female, I gathered, of tens or even hundreds.  I was tempted to ask who was the second man, if any.  Probably that bastard Elsik, fucking over both my women.  I wanted to laugh at myself.  Instead I declared, “I’ll do it again.”

“After breakfast,” she decided.

I put on a necktie and we went to breakfast in a dining room surprisingly crowded for a Saturday morning.  While we waited for the maitre-d’ to seat us, Estri shrank against me.  “I not like public, husband.”

“I’m here, darling.  They won’t hurt you.”

“‘Darling,’” she repeated, smiling up to me, apprehension dispelled.  Such confidence from one you love is very gratifying but, god, what a responsibility!

“Think about practicing your English.  For example, you should say, ‘I don’t like the public.’”

She repeated it dutifully, reminding me of her grammar-school seemliness.  Then she grinned.  “Drill, drill, drill!”

I nodded.  “Constance was right about that, too.”

Thinking the eggs would help, I tried her on French toast, drowned in butter and maple syrup.  “Oh, husband, this so good!”

“I thought you’d like it.  You must remember to say is.”

“Is?”

“‘This is so good.’”

She was in a chattering mood and I in an improve-Estri mood, the result of which was, as she said, drill, drill, drill in English grammatical forms.  Remarkably, no resentment developed.  She blithely repeated every correction, intent on the right pronunciation despite mouthfuls of French toast.  Maybe it was the sweet syrup.

In the process I learned a few things, too — things I’d as soon not known.  Elsik expects greater personal service from his women than a baby from its mother.  On the long train ride Constance with Estri’s help had shaved him, brushed his hair and teeth, picked his nose, cut his fingernails, swabbed his ears, bathed him all over as already described, caught his piss and emptied the bottle, caught his shit and wiped his ass, dressed and undressed him, sucked his dick two or three times a day — though to conclusion only once and then in the wife’s mouth — and fed him his meals while he read a Farsi newspaper, even prechewing the tough pieces of meat.  My god!  Just when does Constance suppose she’ll have time to attend to Meshir business?

Estri is clearly prepared to do the same for me, though she admits, “Could do better, husband, if get me helping girl.”

“Say, ‘I could do better if you get me a help— a servant.’”

How to tell her that not even slaves, when we had them, would do all that in America?

This is typical wifely service in the Mideast?  Suddenly I could understand Constance’s wonder at the emancipation of Western women.  Did the original scarcity of white women in the New World account for it?  Presumably the technological emancipation from drudgery in the last hundred years also contributed.

When I remarked that Western men preferred to do almost all that for themselves, Estri’s eyes widened in astonishment and apprehension.  “Then what left for wife to do?”

I said firmly, “She has a life of her own, as you will.  Would you like another glass of milk?”

Thereafter I steered the conversation to the answers for her technical questions, such as “How does the train go?”  Of course I had to talk much more than she, which usurped her opportunity to study English grammar, but she likes those subjects almost as much as sexual matters.  And I do know something about them.

On the way back to the room I looked into the snack bar in case Anelda might be there again — a vain hope.  An Iranian, by his swarthy skin, got into the elevator with us and said something to me, presumably in Farsi, when it started up.  I shook my head and told him I spoke English.  He looked sharply at Estri, back at me, then spoke to the girl.  His tone was conciliatory.  Doubtlessly he expected her to translate.  She looked at him solemnly and nestled closer against my hip.

I said, “She also speaks only English.”

“Inglis!” he muttered disgustedly, turning his back on us.  No friend of the tourists here!  That’s a curious habit, turning one’s back to a stranger.  It eloquently expresses contempt but offers no defense against kidney punch or stab if the stranger is without honor:  that is, if the turner’s judgment is correct.

The maids had come and gone.  Estri expressed amazement and ran to check first that my clothing still hung in the closet then that hers still rested in her drawer.  Satisfied on that score, she turned to me in puzzlement.  “Who clean, Hah-ree?”

“Servants of the hotel,” I explained.

“Same as wifes?”

“You should ask, ‘Are they the same as wives,’” I said, reverting to English teacher.  “No, although Western women usually do make the beds and clean house.”

“Ah!  Wife have something to do … but not so much fun.”

As cleaning up a man?  I had to pause, thinking that I wouldn’t mind doing the most intimate things for a woman, especially if I were allowed frequently to lick tits and cunt and fondle the rest of her.  Could it be that I was overlooking something important in Mideastern attitudes?  Perhaps the difference in East-West gender relations was more fundamental than I had realized.  Did Western women simply feel less attraction to their men?  If so, how to account for that?

Took about a half hour to pack for the trip, so long because Estri needed to examine everything in my two bags and briefcase.  Mindful of my appointment with the paper merchant, I planned to engage a taxi at exactly 12:55, over three hours away.  I called the airport and confirmed our reservations.  Our flight was delayed, which meant we’d have to dally at the airport because the paper appointment couldn’t be changed.

Checkout time was noon, which left us two hours to kill.  I wondered if Estri remembered her postponement of my promise in the bathroom.  God, I am ambivalent about that!  Without question I enjoy tasting her sweet little cunt, and she gives every evidence of enjoying my attention to it.  But are all the psychologists right?  Does licking it do her real harm?  She exhibits no guilt now, far from it, but how will she feel a year from now?  What if she should mention it to someone else?

This morning, however, she had other things on her mind.  “Hah-ree, you said to remember question.”

“A question.”

“A question.  What makes world — a world — cold in a winter but warm in a summer?”

I gather Meshir has no article, definite or otherwise, in its language.  Neither did ancient Latin.  Meshir must definitely be older even than the Old Norse they speak in Iceland.  I should’ve taught her about articles but discussed the tilt of the Earth instead.  That led all the way to cosmology.  I pulled a spare listing out of the briefcase and illustrated my points on the back of it.  It seems that scientific and technical issues can easily kill a couple hours, if your audience is a kid like Estri.  What a jewel she is!  She hung on my arm, often kissing my hand or cheek, eyes lighting with pleasure whenever understanding dawned.  I intend to have her tested for genius.  She implicitly comprehended the inverse square law of gravitation and, to my amazement, almost immediately noted that circular orbits were to elliptical ones as smooth pebbles to fragmented rocks.  She asked with a speculative look, “What rub planets to make orbit circular — smaller planets?”

Exactly.  She dug tidal effects, too.  Zoom went the two hours!

She was worried when I left our luggage under the watchful eye of the bell captain.  I told her his main job was to safeguard guests’ luggage.  She sniffed, “He look like thief in lower cave.”  He had a sweeping handlebar mustache that did look piratical.  So I took the briefcase with us to lunch.

I was reminded what real bliss is.  It has nothing to do with sex.  It is produced by one’s first taste of chocolate ice cream.

It was a warm day in October.  With her woolen coat over her arm, long hair shining in the sun, Estri boarded the taxi ahead of me at exactly 12:55.  I gave Mr. Vardish’s address.  A minor traffic jam delayed us annoyingly.  We approached the critical street corner four minutes late.  And there he stood, clutching an envelope and glaring at his wristwatch.

I told the driver to stop at the corner.  He gave me a calculating look but obeyed.  Down came the window.  I thrust my own envelope at Vardish as he poked his to me.  He immediately faded into the crowd.  The driver stared in his mirror as I rolled up the window.  I said, “Now to the airport:  Pan American terminal.”

“Pan Amerik,” he repeated and away we went.

Holding the envelope below the seat back, I extracted a dark blue folder:  a very official looking U. S. Passport.  Estri’s face stared back at me above Heather’s name on the inside page.  The first visa page showed a single slightly smeared stamp with Farsi printing and a Roman date:  011067.  I decided the ambiguity between January and October wouldn’t hurt.  The whole thing looked every bit authentic as my own passport, removed from a breast pocket for comparison.  I was doubly glad I had included an extra hundred for the talented Mr. Vardish.

The driver said distinctly, “You make mistake.”

I looked up with a scowl to his reflection.  “What mistake?”

“Attract attention.”  He rolled his window down as I realized a military jeep had drawn alongside us.  It contained two soldiers in front and a man in a business suit in the rear.  The front passenger made sweeping gestures and shouted something to my driver, who rolled his window back up as the jeep pulled around in front of us.  He caught my eye again in the rear-view mirror.  “Say to follow.”

“We have to get to the airport.”

He shrugged.  “Police say follow.”

“Where do they want us to go?”

He shrugged again.  “Not say.”

Estri asked, “What is matter, Hah-ree?”

“We’re taking a detour.”

“Detour?”

“I think it’ll be all right.  We have plenty of time.”

Shortly jeep and taxi passed in front of the building where Anelda had made her “buddy” joke yesterday.  To my alarm the jeep maintained its speed.  But we turned right at the next corner, proceeded half way down the block and turned in through a guarded gate into an underground parking garage.  The civilian got out of the jeep, came around the taxi and opened my door.

He was wearing a thick mustache, a gray suit and a black tie.  He said, “Please come with me, Mr. Stone.”

“Am I under arrest?”

“You are commanded to appear before his majesty, Mohammad Reza Shah Pahlavi.”

His English was probably learned in the British Isles.  I stared at him.  “My niece will accompany me.”

He sneered, “Your niece!”  Then he shrugged.  “As you wish.”

I took her hand.  “Come along, Estri.  We’re going to see the king.”

“The taxi will wait,” gray suit explained as we got out.  He spoke sharply in Farsi to the driver, who replied subserviently, bowing his head.

We stepped into the elevator and rode up two or three flights.  After passing a floor in stiff silence I asked, “Isn’t it customary to advise the visitor how to behave?”

He grinned sourly at me.  “You’re American.”

I thought, And you don’t much care for us, do you?

The doors parted on a large, comfortably furnished room, empty of people other than, I noticed as we emerged, two soldiers standing at attention on either side of the elevator doors with U.S. M2 carbines at port arms.  I wondered if they didn’t get tired of that — then recalled how light a weapon the M2 is and decided that they probably snapped-to only when the doors hissed open.  That’s how I used to stand guard.

“Will you please take a seat,” gray suit directed, indicating an overstuffed couch.  He sat facing us across a coffee table, took a cigarette from a silver case and lit it with a zippo.  He blew smoke at the ceiling.

After awhile I asked, “Will the shah keep us long?”

His eyes glittered.  “He’s the shah.”

“We have a plane to catch.”

He glanced at his wristwatch.  “Not for another four hours and ten minutes.”

For the first time I was glad Pan Am had rescheduled the three o’clock flight originally reserved.

Gray suit inhaled deeply and blew the smoke at a lower angle.  “Perhaps I can save you a bit of time.  You are perhaps wondering why you didn’t enter the front of the palace.”

I’d already guessed but I never pass up the chance to put my foot in it.  “Your idea of a subtle insult?”

He grunted with a momentary grin.  “Not at all, Mr. Stone.  The shah wants to honor you but not where the press will notice.  The notoriety of an international incident would serve no one.”

I nodded.  “I certainly agree with that.”

“Good.”  He leaned back in his seat.

The huge building must have contained many people, but the silence was complete.  I could hear the soft breath in Estri’s nostrils as she leaned on my arm.  The ticks of gray suit’s finger tapping ash into a nearby tray seemed loud.

A sudden crack announced the opening of tall double doors directly across the room from the elevator.  Estri jerked.  I laid my hand soothingly on her knee.  A man in formal morning clothes appeared in the door and said something in sepulchral tones.

Gray suit snapped to his feet, snubbing out his cigarette.  “The shah will see you now,” he translated.

I took Estri’s hand and raised her to her feet beside me.  We followed gray suit, who followed morning clothes, into a room about half the size of the first, still twice the size of most living rooms.  I had an impression of large gilt-framed paintings on the walls but curiously little furniture.  Spotlighted in the back of the room was a huge mahogany desk.  A man sat behind it, a woman standing beside him.  The man was the shah of Iran, wearing a cream military shirt of some velvety material, epaulettes on the shoulders, with two medals prominently displayed on the left chest.  The woman was … either Anelda or her twin.

Gray suit intoned something in Farsi that included my name, then repeated in English, “Your majesty, Mr. Harrison Everett Stone and his niece, Estri.”

I waited.  Man and woman stared at me, Anelda with a twinkle in her eye.  Gray suit had already passed up his chance to tell me what was expected.  I said, “How do you do, your majesty?”

Anelda said something to gray suit, who bowed and backed out of the room, taking the formally dressed flunky with him.  The shah got to his feet, came around the desk and extended his hand to me.  He was wearing dark brown slacks with a cream stripe down each leg.  Of course I took the hand.  He shook mine gently, smiled and said something in Farsi.

Now Anelda translated.  “The shah says, ‘We take the opportunity to shake the hand of every man who kills a Russian soldier on the soil of Iran.  We have practiced this since the day in 1946 when the Russians nearly killed me.’”

I extended another verbal foot.  “Why would they do that?”

She relayed my question.  He retorted fiercely, eyes glaring.  She said for him, “They wanted me to resist the British and American demand for the Russians to leave Iran.  Of course I refused.”

I bowed my head slightly and finally told the truth.  “That was a far braver act than mine, your majesty.”

He smiled widely when he heard the translation and said through Anelda, “We must be brave for all our people.  We thank you on behalf of the people of Iran for ridding it of a Russian spy and two Iranian traitors.”  He released my hand and added conversationally, “We hope you have otherwise enjoyed your stay in our country.”

“Very much, your majesty.”  I glanced at Anelda, who winked as she translated.

“Please visit us again.”

With that he turned on his heel and left the room through a side door.  I took a shaky breath of relief and turned to Anelda sourly.  “How’s your friend in the Savak prison?”

She advanced upon me and laid her hand on my shoulder.  “Would you have escorted me around Tehran and screwed me till I couldn’t stand up if I told you I was a one-third owner of the Horton?”

“Probably not,” I agreed.  “What of your father’s frozen assets?”

She shrugged.  “Most of what I told you is true.  He’s the shah’s cousin but a little too friendly with Americans.  Fortunately I have my own assets.”

“I see.”

“Do you, Harry?”

“I see that your political connections are unmatched.”

She laughed.  “‘Connections!’  That’s rich.  I heard that Marilyn Monroe also had great connections when Kennedy was president.”

“Exactly.  And since when does the shah need an interpreter?  I heard he speaks English.”

“His accent is atrocious.  He was educated in Switzerland.”  She searched my eyes.  “Harry, I believe you’re disappointed!”

“I am, a little.  I wanted to thank you very much for your help with Estri.  And this morning … I …”

She smiled.  “Wanted a rematch?”

“Yes.”

She cocked her eyes down at the girl hanging on to my arm.  “Didn’t Estri take care of you?”

The child smiled at her.  I demanded, cross because she was right, “Why would you expect that?”

“Because you enjoyed her good-night kiss.  Because she’s been too long in an Iranian family.  The signs are too evident, even if she is still intact.”  She chuckled.  “So far you’ve given the Savak a fit.  They can find absolutely no evidence that you ever saw her before the two of you sat down beside me yesterday morning.  Did Col. Baradik ask you about it?

“Colonel who?”

“Baradik, the man in the gray suit who diverted your taxi.  He didn’t introduce himself?  He’s assistant commander of the Savak.”

I winced.  “Don’t tell me that!”

“Oh, he’s no danger to you, Harry.”

“It’s dangerous for me to know that about him!”

“Not really.  I’m curious.  Did he ask?”

“He explained why we didn’t come in the front door.  That’s all he said.  Seems to me he has damn little use for Americans.”

She nodded.  “You’re right about that.  He’s one of my friendly enemies.”

“Also he doesn’t believe Estri is my niece.”

“He said that?”

“Implied it.”

She smiled slightly.  “Neither does anyone else.”

I took a long breath.  “Anelda —”

“It doesn’t matter, Harry.  I know you love her and she certainly loves you!  Is that what you traded in the envelopes — her passport?”

I stared at her.  She shook her head, continuing, “I’m sure you have a plan to get her past U.S. Customs.  I hope it works, for her sake as well as yours.”

“Thank you,” I said formally.

She grimaced.  “I liked your earlier thank-you better!”

“As I liked the poor little Savak victim.”

She stepped close enough almost for our bodies to touch.  “I’m the same girl, Harry.”

“I’ll admit you’re dressed about the same.  But if you raised your voice somebody’s guards would blow me away.”

She tilted her head back.  Her face was inches away.  “So?  Last night I could’ve bit down and hurt you nearly as much.”

What else could I do?  I took her in my arms and kissed her, my mouth covering hers entirely.  She accepted the invitation:  her tongue tickled my palate.  Her hands did something to her clothing.  Other hands undid my belt and lowered my britches.  Estri?  I let it proceed.  A warm mouth closed on my half-hard dick.  Definitely Estri!  When the mouth left me, now fully erect, the woman stepped backward against the desk.  Her arms went around my back, lifting her to a seat on the edge.  Hands passed through my legs from behind and guided me into something toothless and slick.  The woman’s legs came up around my hips.

She and I sucked each other’s tongue the whole time I stood there.  Estri — who else? — caressed my balls from behind.  Presumably the five hour old bathroom release improved my endurance.  Or maybe it was the awareness that anyone up to and including the shah of Iran might come through one of the room’s several doors at any moment.  Whatever it was, it inhibited complete expression, as the child psychologists say, until Anelda signaled by nasal groans and clipping sphincter that she would wait no longer.  Neither did I.

Her legs clamped us together immovably.  While it was squirting the only pressure on my dick was her vaginal sphincters:  an exquisite, soothing compression, perhaps comparable to that of seminal jets upon the cervix, without suggesting that’s-enough-get-the-hell-out-of-here as do most vaginas.  Thinking it over now, I wonder why that conclusion is so rare.  Do women have such completely voluntary control of their sphincters that they forget to tighten them during orgasm?  Or when faking it?

When our lips parted, her eyes were sparkling.  She asked with a smirk, “How’s that for a quickie on the shah’s desk?”

“God!  You really enjoy this kind of thing, don’t you?”

“Absolutely.  Don’t claim you don’t!  The proof is dripping on his desk at this moment.”

“Also a quickie in the shah’s woman, right?”

“So?”

“God, I am living dangerously these days!”

She chuckled, then lost her smile.  She said almost dreamily, “Cyrus’s Ten Thousand Immortals believed that a man was ready to die when he had taken a woman and killed a man.  You have nothing to fear, Harry.  Your seat is reserved in paradise.”

“But Estri’s may not be.”

“You really do care for her, don’t you?”

“I could not care more for a wife.”  As I said it I realized it was true, however staggering the implications.

The woman cocked an eyebrow.  “She’d make you a good one.”

“The question is, would I be good for her?”

“Compared to what otherwise awaits her?  I think so, Harry.”  Which of course corresponded exactly with my own judgment.

She added, “Much as I hate to say it, you’d better let me down.  This desk is hard.”

She unwound legs and arms and I backed away, finally unplugging us.  Estri darted between the adult bodies and swallowed most of the dick just beginning to soften.

“What the hell —” I began but saw Anelda’s knowing grin.

“Just cleaning you up, Harry.  She’s certainly well trained!”

Too well, I didn’t say.  I gently disengaged the girl.  She immediately bent, pulled up my shorts and followed with my britches, rebuckling the belt and even zipping the fly after carefully tucking me in.  Anelda leaned against the desk, grinning at my expression.  I looked past her but saw nothing that she might have removed.

“No panty hose today?” I wondered.

Her grin widened.  She actually raised her skirt momentarily to expose a trimmed bush.  “Here they just get in the way.”

She came against me and put her arms about my neck, looking into my eyes from inches away, warm breath in my face.  “Harry, you’re a sweet man.”

“You’re the sweet one, Anelda.  And rare.  I meet few women with a man’s attitude about sex.”

“You think I have one?”

“Unreserved indulgence is not very feminine, at least in my experience.”

“‘Unreserved,’” she repeated.  “An interesting way to put it.  In fact I’m just a girl who enjoys her work.”

“What exactly is that?”

“In Iran a woman is fucked whatever she does.  It helps if she can learn to enjoy it.”  She smiled, eyes shining.  “Excuse my frankness.  You bring out my worst, Harry.”

“I prefer to think that what you showed me last night was your best, and I thank you very much.”

She kissed me.  I felt the touch of her tongue, probably from habit, before she withdrew.  She said, “This is good-bye, Harry.”

I had to sigh and began, “If you’re ever in the states —”

She shook her head.  “Don’t count on it.”  She bent to Estri, kissed her check and said something with the sound of Farsi.

Estri said, “I not understand.”

The woman asked, “What language do you speak?”

The girl smiled and squeezed my hand.  “English.”

“And you’ll get a lot a better at it,” the woman admitted, raising up.

She looked at me once more and took a deep breath.  “Col. Baradik is waiting to escort you to your taxi.”

With that she spun on her heel and departed by the same door the Shah had used.  I turned Estri’s chin up to me and looked into her solemn eyes.  “Thank you, wife.”

Her whole face lit.  “I love you forever, husband.”

 

Sunday, October 15, 1972

We flew from Tehran to Ankara to London and to Chicago, where we faced the U.S. Customs inspectors.  The longest layover, about six hours, was in London.  Thinking about what awaited us in Chicago, I took Estri to the duty-free shop and bought her a prop:  a nearly life-size swaddling baby doll, complete with milk bottle that seemed actually to contain milk.  She tucked it in her arm in the natural way, then looked up at me quizzically.  “What this for, Hah-ree?”

What to tell her?  I finally said, “Practice.”

“Practice?”

“Like drill, drill, drill.”

She frowned.  “But at least one year, more maybe two, before I need a drill.”

The Meshir certainly teach their girls about human reproduction!  I wondered how many live births she had witnessed, how many newborns she had washed.  But this drill had another purpose:  camouflage.  “I want you to carry it just like that when we get off the airplane at the next stop.”

“I do what you say, husband.”  But back into the bag it went for now.  I trust she’ll take more interest in the real thing, at least when it’s hers!

What Estri finds interesting now is the mechanics of flight.  She was glued to a Heathrow observation window most of the time we waited, breathlessly watching take-offs and landings.  No white-knuckled flyer, this one!  She deposited nose prints liberally at every one of her window seats.

The Heathrow duty-free shop displayed a book heavy on pictures of aircraft, including cutaway views of their internal construction, that she fell upon as a hawk stoops on a dove.  Of course it was soon hers.  She turned its pages slowly the whole time we sat at supper, demanding often that I read the captions to her even though they mostly named the pictured aircraft.  Faced with a whole page of construction notes inset with intriguing detail drawings, she curled her lip in disgust and declared, “Must learn read soon!  You teach me, Hah-ree?”

“You’ll have to go to school for that, Estri.”

“School?  What is a school?”

And probably a boarding school, I suddenly realized.  “Do you really want to talk about schools or had you rather stay with airplanes?”

Her eyes narrowed.  “Stay with airplane now,” she decided.  “Talk about school when we get home?”

“When we get home.”  Or if.  I refused to complete that thought.  Instead I broached another important prop.  “The next plane will take us to a place called Chicago.  If anyone asks you what’s your name there, you say ‘Heather.’  Can you do that?”

“Yes, husband.  Heather.”

“Say it again so you won’t forget it.”

She said it twice more.  “I not forget.”

“Also, that will be the time to call me ‘uncle.’  Uncle Harry.”

“Uncle Harry,” she repeated.  For the first time she pronounced my name correctly.

The flight to Chicago was interminable — singularly appropriate word!  Nine hours against the jet stream.  I felt a thrill of premonitory fear when the stewardess presented me our U.S. Customs forms.  I filled out both mine and “Heather’s.”  The fine print warned against smuggling plants, drugs and booze, though not in so many words.  It mentioned no penalty for prepubescent contraband, virgin or otherwise, but I’m sure there is one.

We finally landed a bit after midnight, local time.  Estri had been sleeping in my lap for hours.  We visited the aircraft toilet one last time at my insistence;  I had personal experience to remind me they don’t let you do that on the way to customs.  I made sure she had the baby doll in the crook of her arm as we marched up the ramp.

Most of the passengers were Americans.  The line with U.S. passports was lengthy but moved well.  I had delayed us just enough at baggage pickup so that we would appear about midway in the rush.  I hoped the inspectors were tired and anxious to go home.

When our turn came, I handed in our passports and the already stamped customs forms.  The inspector checked the pictures against our features, glanced at the forms cursorily and said, “How’d you like Iran?”  He pronounced it eye-ran.

“It was a bit —”  Damp, I started to say, already astonished by my automatic stab at uniqueness, realizing I should’ve said “Okay.”  But it didn’t matter.  He interrupted me.

“Iran, you say?”  His finger checked something on the desktop.  “Just a moment, Mr. Stone.”

He turned slightly and crooked a finger behind me.  Another agent sauntered forward, eyebrows raised.  At the desk he followed the pointing finger, then looked up at me.  The first guy intoned, “Mr. Harrison Stone and niece.”

Second guy took our passports.  He said to me, “Please slide your bags behind the desk and come with me, both of you, if you don’t mind.”

I thought briefly of grabbing Estri and running like hell.  Very briefly.  Ah, well!  I had memorized my lawyer’s telephone number, in case they stripped me before throwing me in the clink.  I’d just have to play out the hand, but god, I hated what it would do to Estri!

A slim chance remained that a good lawyer and enough money might get Estri released into my sister’s custody while I was out on bail.  I’d convinced myself of that while planning what to do when this worst happened.  So now that it had, I shoved the bags out of sight as directed, took a firm grip on Estri’s hand and followed the man like a good boy.  Something nagged at me until I realized what it was.  “Mr. Stone and niece.”  My niece was identified on both forms as being in my party but first guy had hardly glanced at them.  So how’d he know?  Had the paper merchant turned me in?

Second guy led us into a small room, somebody’s office, I saw, and indicated a rumpled vinyl couch.  “Have a seat.  Won’t keep you long.”  He picked up the phone and dialed a couple of numbers.

Won’t keep us long!  Was he being facetiously sarcastic?  I listened intently, hoping to hear both ends of the conversation.  And I did.  Some man said tinnily, “Customs Security, Jarvis speaking.”  My man responded, “This is Tilden.  Stone is in my office.”  To which the distant Jarvis replied, “Coming.”

Tilden hung up the phone and turned to me.  “He’ll be here in just a sec.  I am Henry Tilden.  How are you, Mr. Stone.”

No more uniqueness.  “A bit tired.  It was a long flight.”

“From … London?”

“The last leg.”  I forced a smile.  “Heather got a nap, but I can’t sleep on planes.”

“Know what you mean.  I was on an Electra red eye from D.C. last month.  Every time I nodded off, the vibration would change.”

I agreed that the turboprop Electra ought to be called the shake-a-prop.  He said he liked that characterization.  I was wondering if I was ahead in the game when another uniformed customs agent walked in without bothering to knock, heavy older guy with gray temples.  He came straight to me and stuck out his hand.

His hand?  I scrambled to my feet and took it.  He shook it vigorously while cracking my knuckles.  “Mr. Harrison Stone, I am chief of security here.  When I retired, I was Col. Ellison Jarvis of the Army of the United States.  I’ve had time to look it up since State notified us.  You were in my chain of command in ’Nam.  I wanted to shake the hand of a real soldier, a man who actually nailed one of those Russian bastards.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said firmly, concealing my overwhelming relief, letting him shake.  Apparently I didn’t conceal it completely.

“Surprised I heard about it, are you?  I hate to say it, but this is all the recognition you’re going to get, Stone.  Those pussies at State — excuse me, Miss Heather — are afraid anything more would create an ‘international incident.’”  His contempt came through strong.  “But I want you to know that a whole lot of people appreciate what you did.  You’re holding an ex-colonel’s hand, but it represents hands all the way up to the chief of staff — and maybe beyond.”

“Thank you, sir,” I repeated, adding, “And thank them.”

“I will.  Welcome home, Stone!”

He released me, backed up two steps, came to attention and executed a formal salute, apparently without expecting a response.  Then he did a crisp toe-to-heel about-face and marched out of the office.

I looked at Tilden.  He looked at me.  I said, “May we go now?”

“Of course.”  He held the door and guided us back to our bags.  When we reached them, he handed me our passports and grinned.  “You may need these again.”

I nodded to him, hoisted our bags and led Estri — I mean Heather — through the double doors toward the last plane to our new life.