i s h t a r r i a........

With eyes riveted on me, he placed his cup on the copier, and he maintained a steady pace towards me, which pushed me into stepping further backwards, my helpless hands pleading and warning. Suddenly, I realized that I hit something. It was the wall now right behind me. I was trapped. But he wouldn’t stop. ‘Please… Martin… please stop… stop please…’ I murmured, imploring fervently. On realizing the futility of my pleas, I impulsively held up my arms, both palms facing him, so that they formed a ‘protective’ shield, but apparently not protective enough to produce the desired result. It seemed that he stopped only when he sensed the tip of his shoes touching mine. ‘Martin, don’t, please don’t’, I pleaded in a breath of a sound that was barely audible. Powerless in the face of his looming impetuousness, I swiftly covered my eyes with both my hands. Such a defensive move seemed the wisest spontaneous reaction my artlessness could come up with to ward off danger. Well, I thought if he’d...

It was around eleven when he showed up. He had, as was usual for him, picked upon the most perfect time. A short while earlier, Gerhard, the last of the advisors, had left the offices; I was on my own, working behind my desk, with only Fury on the other side across the glass panel. ‘Morning gorgeous’, he saluted, as he stood at the doorway, hands in pockets, seemingly yearning for whatever would make up for his one-day away, perhaps a smile, or a tender word, or, hopefully, an affectionate gesture. But the lioness in me was in a completely different valley now, immersed in her preparations for a court hearing, and, on the face of it, not the least interested in any form of love or salutation. ‘I missed you’, he murmured softly as he drew closer. I just ignored him, head down, busy working, or feigning business rather. “Hey kiddo, what’s up?’ he uttered in a mirthful tone as he approached my desk. …………. ‘Mad at me for not coming yesterday?’ …………. ‘Something wrong I have done?’ he said ...

Assaying to ease up the aggravating tension, my splendidly thoughtful friend Fury instantaneously assumed the role of Sherlock Holmes and plunged fervidly into the action of verifying the identity of the ‘alien’ voice. Fifteen minutes of artful chitchat with Martin’s assistant and she was back holding the banner of triumphal success. If she had persisted with her ‘research’ a bit longer, she would have, I reckon, traced the woman’s roots several antecedents back. She joyfully gave me the facts in a nutshell: ‘She’s the housemaid. Her name is Jocelyn. She’s Assyrian and goes there twice a week’. Well, the name and ethnicity of the alleged housemaid seemed to make a perfectly logical match. Apart from Christian names shared by both denominations, Iraqi Assyrians tended to favour Western names, unlike their fellow Chaldeans who were inclined towards Arabic names. I had, yet, one more reason for accepting Fury’s anecdote. The majority of Iraqi Assyrians spoke English adequately enough to ...

While the cigarette functioned as a discreet cover for expressing my bashful love, jealousy, in its turn, scooted zealously into action, trumpeting it. Thinking of Fattin ? No, no, it wasn’t Fattin. For she had altogether melted into the background once I stepped into Martin’s life. Back then, however, I was still on shore, and hadn’t waded as deeply yet in the stormy sea of love. Who was it then this time? Well, who else would it be other than Jocelyn? The most ‘wonderful’ Jocelyn, who, while she truly wrecked my nerves, inadvertently did Martin a great favour. It started during one of Martin’s rare mid-week absences. Early morning, on the way down to the office, I was surprised to find that his car wasn’t in its usual parking spot. A sweeping glance around the parking lot obliterated my fervent hope that such vanishing was a mere shift of location compelled by someone having taken prior possession of his customary parking spot. An immediate sensation of dispiritedness and disquiet s...

I mustered enough courage to take up the gauntlet in anticipation of yet another test of strength. It was one of those hectic days that Martin was having. He was lighting up frequently, his entrances invariably preceded by a miasma of smoke as if he were a walking chimney. This time, though, I contemplated finding the middle ground. He would usually have a packet of cigarette in the pocket of his shirt or in his hand. He was making himself a cup of coffee when I approached him with a proffer. ‘Why don’t you leave this packet with me, and every time you come over I will give you one cigarette’, I said in a placid, persuasive manner. His leaving the packet with me, I believed, would reduce the number of cigarettes he smoked during the whole working day down to just the number of visits he made to my office. Busy making his coffee, he met my suggestion with little, if any, interest, and he acted as if he didn’t hear me. His nonchalance incited my tenacity, ‘Martin? You heard what I said?...

My dislike for the cigarette underwent a change. Ulterior motives led me to view it as an ally. It became my darling vehicle, which gave tongue to emotions that my bashfulness had hitherto kept suppressed. It also proved to be an instrument that Martin would use to lure into the open my feelings for him whenever he wished. Cigarettes were no longer lit to appease an addiction but only to be extinguished purposefully. Our romance advanced splendidly with a burning intensity with every cigarette killed. Having enticed him like a temptress for years, the cigarette seemed like a dangerously seductive Delilah who avenged her zealously extinguished light by fanning the flame in Martin’s heart. Not only his love seemed to be escalating wildly in intensity, but his respect and admiration for my innocence also mounted. I was no longer unattainable simply because of the obstacles posed by tradition, religion, or my own ingrained Puritanism. My artless innocence, which surfaced in the impeccant ...

Having been brought up in a family that never hid its aversion for the cigarette, it would never have occurred to me that this tiny object for which I bore a vehement dislike, and which my parents had strictly forbidden in our house, with interminable warnings about its detrimental effects, would play such a fortuitous role in reinforcing the bond between Martin and myself, and intensifying our love. Martin smoked, not heavily, but it was the only thing about him that I wished had been otherwise. Seeking to circumscribe his affection for the cigarette, my diffident endeavours, in the first two or three months of our romance, would not have exceeded a few pieces of well-cloaked affectionate advice such as, ‘Smoking is not good for your health’, or ‘Why don’t you quit?’ Feminine coquettishness, however, came into play in due course in order to produce the desired effect. Once I started my mannered cough, he would extinguish his cigarette in the nearest ashtray with a warm, affectionate ...