Maria

It was Terry’s last week in Dubai. We’d known each other since we were ten, and pretty much grew up together. We were the ultimates, Terry and I. From shoplifting at City Centre to dabbling with the Greek mafia, he and I were always getting into trouble – usually with me getting us into the fire, and Terry pulling the both of us out just before it went too far. And it mostly never did. In the end, we always came to school the next day with the most incredible stories, but nothing to show for our mischief. Except of course, that time we almost accidentally killed this kid from a rival school. But that’s a story for another day.

Terry’s dad found a job in the US – the family’s big break – and the fucker was finally leaving the Middle East. I was devastated. I had just learned how to play guitar and Terry was already trying to play drums. We were supposed to form a band. The biggest band in the world. We called ourselves Urban Ceremonies. What did it mean? Oh, nothing. It just made us sound like we knew what we were doing when we stared down at our instruments and proceeded to make the most disgusting racket in the universe.

I found out about his dad’s new job at the end of third-year high school. We were both fifteen, Terry being just a few months older. He always tried to act like the mature one. But that day, when he opened the door to his house, he looked as innocent and lost as when he first moved to our neighborhood five years before.

“Terry, man,” I said.

“Michael, man,” he replied. This was how we greeted each other, but there was something somber in his tone. As if he just woke up.

It was, I think, during the 12th round of Mortal Kombat II (I was leading 8-4, Terry just wasn’t playing properly) when he finally opened up.

“Mike, my family’s going to the US.”

“Oh, ok,” I said, focusing on the screen as I attempted to pull off a Fatality. “Tell them to get us some Guns N Roses posters.”

“No man. My dad found a better job. We’re all moving there next month.”

My Liu Kang became motionless. I never cited Terry as my best friend. When I had to fill in those stupid high school scrap books, I always wrote Jesus or Buddha when asked ‘Who’s your best bud?” But it was then that I realized there was a reason for that. Terry wasn’t really just some friend. He was like the quiet older brother I never had, the kind who followed you into a fight to make sure you don’t hurt yourself. Best friend? No, man. Would your best friend forgive you for sleeping with his girlfriend? Of course not. Only brothers do that.

And that’s what Terry was.

“When are you going?’ I asked.

“A month from now, I think.”

Terry got up and walked to smoke a cigarette in the kitchen. In my grief, I forgot just how good of a break this was for Terry and his family. US, man! He’d finally get to leave this hell hole and go somewhere and be someone. His family would have a real life. Not some artificial day-to-day routine of working / eating / shopping / sleeping / working. Because in the end, that’s all you’ll really do in Dubai.

I followed Terry to the kitchen to tell him I was happy for him.

But when I saw him looking out the window, taking in the dull sights of the one place he’s known all his life, I decided to say nothing.

________________________________________________________

It happened two days before their flight.

The plan was simple enough. Steal five hundred dirhams from Terry’s mom, find a bar that wasn’t too tight on underage kids and drink until we’re blind. In between, we’d reminisce the days gone by, laugh about all our exploits, makes all sorts of poetic toasts, then go home and get a shouting from the parents. Nothing special.

It was 8pm when we arrived at Nihal Hotel. We took the lift to the fourth floor, and when the doors opened, were immediately greeted by the loud live music of the 80s cover band. I knew the bouncer at the door. Unfortunately, the circumstances of our last meeting was rather, well, unpleasant.

“Is’ you,” said the buffed-up 6’7’’ African.

“Bruno, man,” I replied.

“Mistah Miranda says you kinna come in.”

Terry backed a step away. You would have too. The guy looked like he could demolish a building. But I remained calm. I fancied I looked like a Chinese hustler who knew he’d get his way in the end.

“Bruno, I’m sorry about last month.”

“We almost los’ ah license because of you.’

“Look, my friend Terry here is leaving Dubai. For good.” Bruno turned to Terry. “This is his last night out with his best friend. We just want to have a few drinks. We’ll be quiet, alright?”

Bruno had been staring at Terry intently. Suddenly, recognition dawned on his face.

“Is Rex yo’ father?” he said.

“Yeah?” Terry half-asked, half-answered.

“How’s yo’ dad?”

“Okay, I guess.’

There was an awkward silence.

“Bruno?” I finally asked.

“Oh, ahke, ahke,” chanted Bruno. He meant ‘okay, okay.’

He stepped aside to let us through, and we promptly walked forward. Bruno started to say something behind us but Terry stalked off so fast I had no choice but to quickly follow.

A hundred faces turned to look at us as we came in. There were a few couples sat at the tables, each of the men with an arm around their women. Single men sat at the bar, around them milled a few blonde temptresses. The dance floor was packed. At the moment we entered, a girl laughing like a lunatic, exited the dance floor to join her friends at the pool table. The sight presented itself as a congregation of silhouettes, of half faces and big teeth, of smudged lipsticks and weary eyes, of plans to fuck and ways to get paid. It felt like the wrong place to be. Which, to two curious 15-year olds, was exactly where you wanted to be.

“What was that all about?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Terry replied. “Why wouldn’t the bouncer let you in?”

“Answer me first.”

“Forget it,” Terry mumbled, before heading straight to the tables in the far corner, safe from the eyes of any undercover CID. I followed with more questions in tow.

The darkness has a way of making strangers even stranger. And it was in the arms of shadows that the most alluring of strangers awaited our arrival. A woman of many talents. A siren with a thousand charms.

We approached what looked like an empty table only to find someone sitting there. We began to turn around, to perhaps head to the bar instead, but then heard a voice so unmistakable in its promise that we had to heed its call.

“Come sit,” it said.

We looked at our host.

It was too dark to make out the fine details, but what I saw was enough. Long jet black hair, sacred and straight like a geisha’s, lips of foreboding red, and a generous chest sitting proud over crossed arms. And eyes. I’ll never forget those deep pools of mystery, big and round and full of intent.

Terry sat on her right, I on her left.

She regarded us with a smile and asked for our names. Terry responded shyly. Then she turned to me.

“Michael,” I said. “Like the angel.”

She giggled. It was a wondrous sound, like chapel bells on Sunday morning.

“And what’s your name?” Terry asked her.

She smiled at Terry, took a sip from her cocktail, then looked at me.

“Maria,” she replied. “Like the virgin.”

______________________________________________________


We ordered a round of drinks. We played our trademark act – Terry being the quiet mature type, me the inquisitive charmer who smiled a lot and talked shit. She seemed to like our company. She patted my thigh a couple of times, and at one point played with Terry’s hair. But our greatest ego booster was when a huge Eastern European approached our table and said something garbled to Maria, who then replied with a curt ‘no’ before holding on to my arm and kissing my cheek. The man scoffed and went away.

“He wants me to go home with him,” Maria explained.

“You didn’t want to?” I asked.

“I want to go home with you,” she replied, turning to Terry to include him.

We’ve heard stories about this kind of thing. But we knew nothing about the specifics. Where do we take her, for one, and how long will we have her. Most importantly, how much.

Fortunately, our hostess understood our inexperience, and took efforts to offer us a smooth transaction.

“You have a house?” she asked.

“Yes… no… it’s my parent’s house,” Terry replied.

“I have a place, if you want,” Maria offered.

“And, er, the, you’ll, you know, you’ll do everything?”

“Excuse me?”

“What he means,” I interrupted, “is, will you give us a ‘full service’?”

Maria chuckled. Like a teacher being asked a silly question by a feeble student.

“Everything you want,” she says.

Hearing her say that ignited my soul. This was it. This had to happen. I was ready to go. And from the way the bastard kept nodding his head, I could tell Terry was too.


It was an old flat in Deira. There were five other girls who shared the apartment with her. Maria explained that they were what would otherwise be called freelancers. They had no ‘boss’. The risks that necessitated a pimp – harassment, bad payment, the cops, etc. – were offset by the girls’ simple decision to stick with a few but highly affluent clients. There were girls who worked for quantity. Maria and her friends chose quality. But not everyone could do so. Among other considerations, the girl must match Dubai’s criteria for beauty, an element of which includes not just a pretty face and long legs, but also charm and glamour. A glimpse at Maria’s friends confirmed as much.

We saw two of them as we entered, one reading a magazine on the couch, the other coming out of the bathroom with a pink towel wrapped around her. The girl on the couch resembled Catherine Zeta Jones before Michael Douglas got her pregnant. The other looked like an angry stepsister. The kind you’d want to eat out just to hear her beg.

The girls looked at us and frowned. One of them said something to Maria, after which they started to argue with each other. They spoke a Slavic form of language which made their argument sound all the more heated. Terry looked at me with a worried face. This to him was real spot of bother. Over the years, Terry has learned to keep away from trouble by recognizing it before it happens. I, on the other hand, have learned that some troubles are worth getting into.

“I’m sorry,” I butted in. “Is there a problem?”

“Yes,” the couch girl replied. “You cannot stay here.”

Later, I would understand that one of the rules of their job was ‘No take home’. Apparently, only the lesser girls took clients to their flat. This lot maintained their up-scale standards by trying to lead normal lives outside of their work, making their time in the arms of strangers a more exclusive purchase reserved only for those who could afford it.

“Okay, we’ll just leave,” Terry mumbled.

Then Maria said something to her friends. She said it slowly, almost too soft to hear. Then she took Terry’s hand and led him to a bedroom.

I stood there for a moment and looked at the two girls. They spoke among themselves then turned their backs on me to watch the TV. Years later, I would fantasize about walking over to stand in front of the girls, unzipping my trousers before their surprised faces. The brunette would then look at the other girl and giggle before taking me in her mouth. It would never have happened. Besides, they looked more interested in NPYD Blue than in the clueless teenager who stood staring behind them.

My cue to exit. I went to look for the other two.

[To be continued]