SOMEWHERE SOUTH OF SUEZ

A Novel

By

Gene C. McCoy

CHAPTER 4

The American Embassy's working days corresponded to the Government of Somalia's schedule; since Friday is the Muslim sabbath, Friday and Saturday constituted their weekend and Sunday was the first work day of the week. In order to simplify family life the International School had adopted the same schedule, so on the Sunday Morning after the reception Maggie was up early following her usual daily routine.

Her resolve to become an early riser had not yet taken hold, and she slept until the last minute before the alarm sounded at six o'clock. When she awakened, Greg had already left the house to go to the airport to see that the Congressional delegation got off all right.

Like a compass needle that swings immediately to point at magnetic north, the first thoughts in her mind after becoming conscious, were of Antonio. She was aware of this phenomenon since it had been that way ever since the day that she met him, but she had not yet labeled it as a compulsive obsession, and preferred to think of it in a more romantic light by calling it love. She knew that she was in love with Antonio, and her body ached for him. It was as though there was a piece of her that was missing, and only his presence, the sight and feel of him, could fill the empty place in her heart. This had become obvious and crystal clear to her the previous night at the residence, and she knew that neither Greg, her children nor martinis could fill that hole. "I got it bad and that ain't good," she said as she swung her feet out of bed and slipped them into her leather thong sandals.

Walking into the bathroom she decided to forego the ritual required to get the hot water flowing and simply dropped her robe on the floor and climbed into a cold shower with the hope that it might bring her to life, and quiet some of the desire that raged in her body. The water, however, was not cold. It came from tanks on their roof that were replenished daily by a tanker truck from the embassy General Services section, and it was already warmed by the sun. God what a place, she thought. You can't even take cold showers to combat the 'hangover hornies.'

She stuck her head under the stream of water even though it washed away what was left of her hairdo, then took a bar of soap and lathered her face and body. As she rubbed her hands over her body she imagined that Antonio was caressing her, then fantasized taking a shower with him. She let her soapy fingers massage the delta of tender sensitive flesh beneath her pubic hair then slipped them between her legs and into her vagina. Her erotic fantasies had left her moist and excited and it did not take much physical manipulation to bring herself to a series of deep, soul wrenching orgasms that left her weak in the knees, but relieved of the sexual tension that threatened to overwhelm her.

Taking a rough sun dried bath sheet from a hook on the wall she rubbed herself dry, ran a brush through her hair then slipped her terry cloth robe back on, and walked out to the breakfast table. Her ten-year-old, Steve, looked up from the book he was reading while eating a bowl of cereal. "Hi, mom," he said and returned to his book.

"Hi, darling," she said, and rubbed her hand through his long sun bleached blond hair then leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "What are you reading?"

"I'm studying for a test in history. I'm reading about the French Revolution when Robespierre sent everybody to the guillotine."

"Ugh," she said. "Not what I need this morning?"

"What's the matter too much party last night?" She was amazed by his insight, and how such profound truths can come 'out of the mouths of babes.' "No, not really," she lied and was able to feel the effect of the three martinis she had drunk. "I just don't need to read about the guillotine so early in the morning."

Yassin appeared in the doorway to the kitchen and asked her what she wanted for breakfast. "Just coffee and grapefruit juice, please," she replied then turned to look at Steve.

"We have an invitation to visit a banana plantation where there are a lot of wild animals," she said.

Steve looked up from his book. "Oh yeah, when?" he asked with wide eyes and excitement in his voice.

"Day after tomorrow, on Tuesday," she replied.

"Wow! Are we going?"

"I don't see why not," she replied

"Is dad going with us?"

"I don't know. I'll have to talk to him tonight, but we'll go whether he can make it or not."

"Wow, how neat!" He pushed back his chair and jumped up. "I gotta go. What about school? How can I go to the plantation if I have to go to school?"

"You can miss one day. You don't have any tests on Tuesday do you?"

"Naw, the test is today." He kissed her on the cheek and ran for the door. Halfway across the room he skidded to a stop and turned to look at her. "Can I tell my teacher?"

"Sure, why not," she said. "Tell her it's a plantation down near Afmadu by the Shebeli River, and that they have a cheetah, some dik-diks and hippos. She'll understand."

He turned and ran out of the house as the horn from the car that picked him up each day sounded outside their compound. The wood screen door squeaked and then slapped shut. The sound reminded her of her childhood, and the screen door that had squeaked and slapped on the old house where she had grown up in San Luis Obispo on the central coast of California. She sipped her coffee and had a sudden urge to write; write something very personal that would help her get to the core, the nexus, of what was going on inside of her. She thought of writing a letter to her sister Beth, but decided that she was not yet ready to reveal her innermost thoughts to Beth. Beth would simply send her a cable and tell her to come home immediately, and while she might be right, Maggie knew that she could not leave, run away from, the overpowering attraction that she felt for Antonio. The very thought of never seeing him again sent a dagger of pain through her that was almost paralyzing.

Taking her coffee with her she walked back into the air conditioned bedroom and removed the leather bound book she used as a journal from her bureau drawer.

Sitting down in a chair she turned on a reading lamp and tried to still herself as she sat in the quiet darkened room with just the purr of the air conditioner. She thumbed back through the pages, and read some of her impressions when they had first arrived in Somalia, and as she went forward in time she could see the gradual deterioration of her spirits as the boredom and monotony of Mogadishu began to wear on her. There were frequent references to the amounts that both she and Greg had had to drink at one party or another as well as the ebbing away of passion and sexual desire. Taking a pen from the table beside the chair she began to write:

Mogadishu, Somalia

Why would I flee from the Garden of Eden to leave husband, children and comfort behind me? Who or what has possessed me? What Goddess has captured my soul to live out her own agenda in my body? I am not the submissive and passive Eve who was tempted and tricked into believing that the fire in her womb was the work of the Devil. But who am I? I must go out and find myself in the wild, untamed Somali bush that calls me, tempts me, beckons me to surrender to a fate that is cruel and unforgiving, but where the prize is beyond belief; to think that I have a choice is an illusion. Has Lilith possessed me?

Maggie closed the book, returned it to the drawer then dressed and walked back out to the breakfast table where Kathy now sat with Amina, her Ayah. Their houseboy, Id, was mopping the tile floors and Yassin was cleaning the kitchen. Everyone was following the routine and instructions which Maggie had initiated and instilled in them when they arrived in Mogadishu, and Maggie was free to do what ever she wished.

Leaning over Kathy, Maggie kissed her on the cheek. "Good morning, sunshine. I'm going over to the commissary, and when I come back, I'll take you down to the beach club." She then walked out to the kitchen to see what Yassin needed from the commissary. On her own mental shopping list she had included a bottle of French St. Emilion wine, tinned Brie cheese, some smoked oysters and any other delicacies that might be available. She had no idea what Antonio's tastes were, but she felt certain that any imported foodstuffs would be appreciated since there was nothing available on the local economy. Only those who had diplomatic privileges and access to a commissary could enjoy them, and she wanted to take something special with her that would please him.

Getting Greg's approval to make the trip did not prove to be the problem that she, in her mind, had conjured up. In fact it was so simple that she wondered why she had ever thought otherwise. It never occurred to her that only she saw the visit as anything other than innocent.

On Sunday evening at dinner she casually told Greg that she had forgotten that at the reception one of the Italian banana growers had invited them to his plantation to see the wild animals he kept there. She said it in such a way that it sounded as though it had been an invitation to the family. Greg was pleased and urged her to go and take the children; she was relieved when he declined the invitation saying that he had too much work to do.

Gene McCoy © July 1998

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© 1997 ginofso@gte.net