Confessions of a Personal Secretary. Rosie Dixon
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I do not reply but follow the route suggested by Mr Hassan’s courteously extended arm. His manners are certainly impeccable. He was probably educated at King’s College School, Wimbledon or some other hallowed fount of learning in this country.
We turn right at the landing and Mr Hassan gestures me towards a room at the back of the house. I open the door and am surprised to see what at a first glance I take to be a coffee percolator bubbling away on the floor. I look closer and find that it has a couple of tubes running away from its top. Of course! It is a hookah, or whatever they call them. One of those water pipes that the Arabs smoke while the Turkish Delight and After Eights are being circulated. There are also some brightly coloured silk cushions littered about and an embroidered rug. I must say, they do cheer the place up. The picture on the wall of a woman drowning in a lily pond has never been a favourite of mine.
‘Rest yourself,’ says Hassan waving me towards the floor. ‘First, let me show you your flat.’
In fact I am not at all flat and I am just about to protest, when Akmed pushes an artist’s impression of what looks like a large apartment block into my hand. There is a clump of palm trees shown next to the sign reading ‘Shufti El Bints’ so I imagine it must be somewhere abroad.
‘Alexandria,’ says Akmed answering my unasked question as he throws himself down gracefully on the rug beside me. ‘Very near the sea. I think you would like it there.’
‘It does look nice,’ I say. ‘But surely it’s very expensive, isn’t it?’
‘The rent for the flat would be deducted from your earnings – I mean, salary,’ says Akmed. He flashes me a charming smile and extends one of the pipes from the hookah towards me. ‘You like to try? It is very much the habit when business is being talked in my country and we get down to business now, do we not? Insert it between your lips like so, and suck gently.’
Well, I am always game for anything above board and though I don’t really approve of smoking, one go can’t do any harm can it? I watch Akmed’s firm lips close round what looks like the ivory mouthpiece of the pipe and experience a strange sensation that it is difficult to put a finger on. A kind of mental shiver – more a tingle – runs through my nervous system when his cheeks hollow and he starts to suck. It is like bashing your funny bone against something. A disturbing sensation but fascinating at the same time.
Hoping that Akmed Hassan has not been talking business with any dirty old Arabs lately I slip the tube he proffers between my lips and give a nervous suck. A heavy fragrance hangs in the room and as the first whiff of smoke enters my nostrils I immediately identify it with the all-pervading odour. My, but it is strong! My head swims as I breathe out and a slight feeling of dizziness makes me close my eyes.
‘You like it.’ The tone of Akmed’s voice suggests that he is making a statement of fact, not asking a question, but I nod in a reflex gesture of politeness.
‘Mmm,’ I say, searching for the right words. ‘It’s very unusual. I’ve never come across anything quite like it before.’
Akmed smiles understandingly. ‘The world is full of new sensations. Now, perhaps you would explain your reservations about working in the Middle East and I will try to set your mind at rest. Perhaps you think that I and my fellow countrymen are – how do you put it – dirty wogs?’
‘Oh no!’ I say, taking another nervous puff at the hookah. ‘It’s not that at all – I mean, I don’t think you’re what you just said. Nothing of the sort. My dad put in oil-fired central heating before anyone else in the street. I think the pyramids are wonderful. They must have been terribly difficult to make. It’s just that I want to stay at home.’
I break off as another swirling mist envelopes me and I close my eyes. I feel as if I am floating above the ground. It must be something to do with the way the tobacco smoke is filtered through the water.
‘I think your services would be very much in demand,’ breathes Hassan rubbing the back of one of his fingers against my cheek.
‘That’s very kind of you,’ I say. ‘But I think my typing might let me down a bit.’
‘And I would be able to see you sometimes,’ husks Hassan. ‘We could drive to Sidi Shaba for dinner.’
‘I’d love to meet him,’ I murmur. ‘But are you sure I’d be able to cope – I mean, if I changed my mind and decided to come?’
Hassan squeezes my wrist comfortingly. ‘I am certain of it. You would not be alone at the Shufti El Bint. There are many girls who put up there—’ he smiles to himself ‘—girls from all round the world. And, as I have said, there would be me.’
‘And would I have far to go to work?’ I ask.
‘Much of your work would be done on the premises,’ says Hassan evenly. ‘Business in Arab countries is conducted in a much more fluid situation. Business men will come to you when they have need of your services.’
‘Gosh. It’s certainly different from this country, isn’t it?’ I say. Hassan’s proposition certainly deserves serious consideration but am I in the right mood to give it? I don’t know what it is about the man’s hookah but I have not felt so woozy since someone spiked the punch at the Eastwood Lawn Tennis Club Summer Ball. The room is swimming and Hassan’s handsome features remain my only point of focus. ‘You like the hubble-bubble?’ he asks.
‘I’m afraid that most of these new dances leave me cold,’ I say, wondering why he has changed the subject. ‘What kind of salary were you thinking about?’
Hassan does not reply but removes the pipe of the hookah from his lips and lets it drop between his legs. ‘Now we exchange pipes,’ he says. ‘Old Eastern custom.’
‘I don’t know if I can take much more,’ I say. ‘I feel a bit—’
‘Suck!’ There is a compelling edge to Hassan’s voice and the look of throbbing intensity in his eyes is so powerful that I have to turn away. I glance down and there is the heavy doorknob dome of Hassan’s – no! it can’t be!
‘Suck!’ Hassan’s spread fingers alight on the top of my head and begin to exert downward pressure. I must be having some kind of hallucination. I glance once more into Hassan’s eyes but find myself hypnotized by the mouthpiece of my hookah pipe which he guides sensually between his lips. He runs his tongue along its tip and then takes half a dozen quick puffs. Again I experience the near pain of identification with his act. What is happening to me? The downward pressure on my head increases and I obediently bend and take the fluted shaft between fingers and thumb. It could be a microphone or a— ‘Suck.’ The note of command has now left Hassan’s voice and is replaced by one almost of pleading. I close my eyes as another lazy, hazy wave breaks gently over me and part my lips. Wider, this time, opens my mouth and I feel the firm slippery surface buffeting my tongue. I return the pressure and, as if programmed by some secret force, repeat the actions that Hassan practised on the mouthpiece of his hookah. His hand falls to the back of my neck and kneads the flesh as one might fondle a dog. There is a sinuous urging in his movements and I respond to it, drawing more and more forcefully on the shaft between my lips until it seems that I must bring the liquid in the gourd bubbling to the surface.
‘Allah be merciful!!’ gasps Hassan. ‘Eeeegh! It is too much.’ With this remark, he jerks the pipe of his hookah from between my lips and kisses me passionately on the mouth. Well! you can imagine how taken aback I am! This is not at all the kind of thing I was expecting when I came upstairs to discuss job opportunities in the Middle East. I think too, that some of the potency of the pipe must have worn off because my last few puffs did not have such a head-clouding effect on me.
‘Mr Hassan!’ I draw back horrified and am even more disturbed to discover that the advantage-taking Arab’s pussy-pummeller is rearing into the air from between his legs – not that, unless you had led an incredibly sheltered life, you would expect it to be rearing from anywhere else. I try to scramble to my feet but Hassan seizes me and hurls me back against the cushions. To think