I take a beer at the hotel bar
as I read the news on my phone. Two women sit at the table across from me and I
catch their glances from time to time. Eventually the younger of the two
gestures to me. Neither is attractive and both are rotundly overweight but I
join them at their table because I am a few days alone and this is what you do. They begin with the common pleasantries and my responses
are succinct and absentminded but not rude, I think. I am in the mood for a
conversation but I prefer that it be one I do not feel responsible for or that
I would not be upset to walk away from.
I
ask them if they are guests at the hotel.
‘No,’
says the older of the two, ‘we just saw the place when we were passing on the
street.’
Then
I knew that they are on the clock and this seems so very strange to me because
they are so big and passed whatever prime they might have had.
‘Maybe
you could buy us a drink,’ the older of the two says.
‘Sure,
I can buy you a drink,’ I say, assenting because I have Kenyan shillings
burning a hole in my pocket and because I am still curious about how they play
the game.
There
are more pleasantries during the time when the drinks are ordered and poured
and delivered. In the other room, two musicians are playing popular covers and
a large group of young North American missionaries sing along, drink beer, and
shuttle between their rooms and the restaurant.
After
a few pulls from her drink, the younger of the two ladies says, ‘I would like
to give you a massage.’
‘Thank
you but I don’t think that I am needing a massage,’ I say.
‘It
would be like a thank you for buying the drinks,’ she explains and adds, ‘I
like to give massages and I am very good.’
‘Thank
you and I am sure you are,’ I reply, ‘but the drinks were my pleasure and I do
not need anything in return.’
We
sit a while longer and the small talk continues. A curious rendition of ‘Thriller’
is now playing in the other room.
‘Maybe
you would like to spend the night with me - in your room?’ the young one
offers.
I
know that it has been coming to this and, it having come, I consider it, sort
of as a small gesture to keeping an open mind about the world and its infinite
possibilities. But the idea is unpleasant and the bearer of it can do nothing
to dress up what it is.
‘Thank
you,’ I say, smiling and making up a story because it seems the easier
approach, ‘but I have a girl and I do not think she would like it much.’
‘She
would not have to know.’
‘I
would know,’ I say, ‘and, besides,’ I add, ‘she would know - they always know,
don’t they.’
She
tries again but lets it go when she perceives it is my lack of interest not my
loyalty to my imaginary girl that she persuading against.
The
pitch being made and rebuffed and remade and again rebuffed, the small talk is
ended and we sit silently now. I finish my drink and I thank the ladies for
their company and wish them a good night.
‘Maybe
you could give money for a cab home,’ the older of the two suggests.
‘No
sorry,’ I say as I am rising to my feet.
‘How
about buying us another drink?’
