Tsunami Connection

by Michael James Gallagher

  "You're probably right. Do you wanna help me?"

  "There's a hinge in the middle. We can run the bike up one side and I can wait on the other side and roll it down. There. Done. Now get that old grey tarp over there. Don't forget to lock it up before you cover it. There, drape the tarp over it and secure it with those bungee cords."

  The couple made their way along the outside of the houseboat, using the slant of the deck as an excuse to tentatively hold hands. Michael reached over the top of the roof near the door and found a key. She had to use a penknife to remove it, but it fit the door. There was a musty smell inside, but it was cozy. The cushions in the kitchenette were damp, but the propane heater filled the living space with warmth almost immediately. Michael started cooking an omelet and found some coffee for Kefira. It was instant coffee, but it warmed their hearts as they sat over a steamy cup each.

  "I'm going to make some mate. You'll see it's great. There's a shower in the back, behind the bedroom. Go ahead. You're the guest here," insisted Michael.

  "If you're sure you don't need any help. I'd love a shower."

  "I'll have one after you, when the cooking's done. The water heater needs about half an hour to be full hot again. Wait. What am I thinking about? It won't be hot yet. We just got here. I'm so stupid, sorry."

  "We can do it together, after eating,” said Kefira as she slunk into Michael's eager embrace.

  The Irish beauty blushed at the intimacy and then licked the lingering, salty taste from her lips, her expression softening in uncharacteristically doe-eyed submission.

  "Let me slice up that tomato," added Kefira, breaking the brimming emotional quality of the moment.

  They topped off the omelet and tomatoes with fresh papaya. Kefira moved, pretending tremulousness, into the bedroom and embraced Michael as they undressed each other. There was little urgency, just soft caresses and warm nibbles.

  Kefira sat on the edge of the bed and pulled Michael toward her. Michael's head was at the level of Kefira's pubis. She stroked her Brazilian-styled mound while Kefira pushed Michael's head closer to her. Michael let her tongue linger. Kefira's hips lunged outward. Kefira was very flexible. She bent over backwards and opened her legs outwards.

  "Don't hurt yourself bending like that."

  "You forget I am a professional dancer. I still do my exercises regularly."

  "I've never been with someone as beautiful as you,” said Michael, inhaling her partner's musky scent.

  "I might feel more at ease if we showered first," said Kefira.

  "Sweet as roses for me, but if you'd feel better," said Michael.

  "I love that. No. No. Push harder. Yes," blurted Kefira as she thrust up and down.

  "That's it. Push harder. Go with my movements. Yes," shouted Kefira as she came, her whole body quivering.

  Right after her orgasm, she bounced into a standing position and pushed Michael on to the bed. The urgency that was missing earlier soon had them rolling onto each other, crying out in unison.

  "Keffy, Keffy," said Michael, using a new love name.

  "What?"

  "Use your left hand and put your right hand around my throat. I need you to choke me, unless you can let me take control completely. I never come without choking or power."

  "Choking?"

  "You don't mind, do you?"

  "I am a bit afraid of hurting you," said Kefira, feigning concern, but inwardly starting to question her tactics as she was seriously enjoying herself.

  "You are so warm and gentle. You can't imagine what I have been through, but don't stop now. Just put your hand on my throat. Now squeeze, now play harder. Squeeze. Slap harder. Harder, please and squeeze. Yes. Harder! That's it. Yes. Slap my … no harder!"

  Kefira watched as Michael squirmed in her arms as she gently beat her and squeezed her throat. One part of the woman on top was having no trouble executing the requests. Pictures flashed like a kaleidoscope in her mind's eye. She saw her parents dying in the flames of the Embassy explosion and the memory of her team's demise in the Sinai. She slapped Michael one more time and had to be careful not to choke the woman she was pretending to love. A gagging ecstasy followed. Tears rolled down Michael's red, blotchy, and pale cheeks. Kefira leaned over and bit her nipple. Michael barely responded because she was desperate just to fill her lungs. Her head and shoulders convulsed. Kefira looked on, but strangely, something about her emotional connection to this woman was disturbing her resolve.

  "Would you do anything for me?" whispered Kefira into Michael's ear, as she pinched her nipples again, getting a pained rise out of her.

  "Anything, my love," Michael wheezed breathlessly.

  Kefira turned Michael over and slapped her buttocks hard, then turned her back over, knowing she had just discovered MacAuley's weak link. Today, for the first time, Kefira believed that she was one step ahead of MacAuley, the elder. The pair lolled in bed for a day and a half before Kefira judged the time right to start talking.

  "The sex is great, my Irish wraith, but where'd you pick up the need for pain?"

  "Where I come from, some say the church has a lot to answer for, but in my world it was the 'Troubles' and my brother that scarred me for life."

  "You mean your brother drove you from men, by violating you?" asked Kefira, starting more and more to sympathize with her adversary.

  "You never met Michael. He can be persuasive. Actually, it started back home. He rescued me from a real sadist in the movement. That bastard was really hurting me and Michael caught him."

  "What did he do about it?"

  "Let's say he started by cutting the lad's fingers off, one by one. He moved on to his nose and ears. Well, I guess you get the idea. Anyway, he made me watch the whole thing. Then, when he was finished, he told me he was the only person in the world I should trust."

  "That's loyalty taken a bit to the extreme, if you ask me. I hope you stay away from him now."

  "He comes and goes, and I never take the chance of having a lover because of what Michael might do to him. For some reason, he isn't threatened by my lesbian lovers. In fact, he likes to watch."

  "I don't know. You aren't expecting him, are you? He gives me the creeps."

  "I think he's in Asia now, but you never know with him. He always appears out of nowhere."

  They finished their conversation over the kitchen fold-out shelf. Michael was all for going back to bed and demonstrated it by running her coral colored toenails up Kefira's calf and thigh. Kefira affectionately rebuffed the attempt, and was surprised by the intensity of her feelings for Michael.

  "Let's get some air. I love you to bits, agapi mou," said Kefira, using a Greek pet name signifying 'my love', feeling inside for the first time that she might actually have meant it.

  "I love it when you say that. Your voice mellows in Greek. What do you want to do?"

  "I want to tango with you, baby," said Kefira.

  "I know just the place – Queer Tango, in San Telmo. We can stop at my place in town to get dressed. Then we can come back here in the early morning, after dancing."

  They left the houseboat, helping each other get the bike over the folding gangway again. Both were glad of the warm clothes that they had found in the boat. Kefira was wearing a worn but cozy pea jacket, leather gloves, and heavy Levi jeans. Nike running shoes covered her feet. Michael wore a jean jacket and a llama wool sweater from Peru. Something was bothering Kefira, but she could not put her finger on it until they were well onto the road into Buenos Aires.

  They drove first along an accesso, towards Tigre, and into town on a series of main streets for about 45 minutes. As they crossed Avenida Corrientes, where she should have gone towards the river on Peña, Kefira went straight. She then turned away from the river on Avenida de Mayo, and stopped where she could see the building holding the Israeli Embassy.

  It was too much for her. She did not know why she had risked so much with her enemy on her Duc, but the draw to the site of her parents' deaths was stronger than her.
She pulled up to the curb in front of a cafe called Avenida Hostel. The bike came to a halt on the curb and Kefira held it at a slant for Michael to get off. Michael came around her and flipped up the visor on Kefira's helmet. Tears were streaming from Kefira's eyes.

  "I had to stop. I couldn't see anything."

  "You went the wrong way back there, but I could feel you sobbing so I didn't say anything. What's wrong, my Keffy, agape mou, my love?"

  Searching for a way to recover her composure and give an explanation to the flood of emotion that was overwhelming her, Kefira said, "I've never been happier. My whole life I have been alone. As well, you are the first woman I've ever been with. I just couldn't believe the feelings I was having and we got here so fast. I usually don't let people in. Just now, I got confused."

  Kefira took off her helmet and she hauled the motor bike onto the sidewalk. Using their proximity as an excuse, despite their helmets colliding in their hands, Michael held Kefira close and some passing men commented, "Puta merde. Lastima, que lastima." The women took no notice, because they were too engrossed in each other. Kefira was playing with Michael's mahogany locks as they rolled down her lover's back. They hugged and then walked into the cafe.

  "Dos dobles, por favor," said Michael, meaning two double espressos. She also wanted two cognacs, but the barista behind the coffee bar said he had no liquor.

  Childhood visions of her parents flooded Kefira's mind. She downed the coffee and got up to leave right away. They walked the two long blocks to Plaza de Mayo, a large green space usually frequented by strolling families and couples in the early evening, but unseasonably cooler weather was keeping most people home that evening. They held each other on a park bench, under the watchful eye of the clock tower and the old colonial buildings around the square. The sobbing subsided.

  "We should get back to the bike. That lock won't keep the thieves away for long," said Kefira.

  "Wait. No one ever loved me before. No one ever said that to me before, Keffy. Is my luck finally turning? Come to me."

  They embraced and Kefira lamented her predicament, but not enough to stop what she had started, though she was truly unsettled by the strength of the bond she felt for the MacAuley woman. She feared that it endangered her duty, as well as defied logic. Confusing matters even more, Kefira remembered the mother of a prisoner that Kefira had incarcerated tearfully telling her that terrorists have families, too. They raced each other back to the Ducati, Kefira less the consummate actor, Michael falling deeper and deeper into the Mossad agent's incongruously warm trance.

  "The bungee cords. That's it," muttered Kefira, her words mouthing her unsettled sentiments from when she removed the tarp from the Streetfighter on the houseboat.

  Michael grabbed her arm and stopped her. The look in her eyes was more serious now. She shook Kefira, but Kefira, ever the chameleon, just laughed aloud to cover her slip.

  "The locket. I said the locket."

  She reached under her jacket and pulled out a silver locket. She flipped it open. Her eyes filled with tears again and she cried uncontrollably. "It's such a relief to cry. I've rarely let myself. You are one of the first people that I've let in since they died. It's my parents. It's a picture of them that I always carry."

  "Keffy, you are a worse basket case than me. Let's dance this out of ourselves."

  They walked back up Avenida de Mayo and got on the bike after noticing several fellows hanging around the area with an eye on the motorcycle. The drive to the apartment picked up Kefira's energy. She knew now that MacAuley was near. Someone had fiddled with the bungee cords that secured the motorcycle on the houseboat. She would have to be alert.

  They arrived at Michael's apartment and Kefira remained behind a bit. She unlocked a special compartment under the seat of the Ducati. It contained several flat blades made from a secret nano-ceramic material. They were flesh colored and could be looped at one end to adhere to a finger. Additionally, there was a ring set with a square, flat ruby. Under the faux ruby was a compartment containing a drug that could be used repeatedly in metered doses. The wearer of the ring could trigger the device by pressing the back of the finger band, or the side of the thin compartment. The drug could incapacitate a 200-pound man for at least an hour, and often for three or four hours.

  The two lovers dressed each other playfully, trying on one another's suggestions, all the while sipping Remy Martin Cognac. Kefira settled on a see-through, silver body stocking that meshed exquisitely with her skin. She wore tight, blood red shorts that rose over her buttocks with every step and looked like a g-string. Her white chiffon blouse, tied under her breasts, had no buttons. It was made of a stretchy material, leaving nothing to the imagination. She topped the outfit with a Marilyn Monroe, platinum blond wig and glued a birthmark on her cheek while comparing herself to a picture of Marilyn on the Internet.

  "You ask me, you're ten times more beautiful than her. Your skin outdoes hers by 10 to 1."

  "You're too nice," replied Kefira, as she knelt down in front of Michael.

  "Smell this," she added, holding a small glass bottle containing her musky body oil and perfume.

  "It excites me just to have it near me. I can picture your beauty with my eyes closed when I smell it. It reminds me so much of you."

  "This one is a little different than the one I usually use, but I think it will suit your skin and temperament because of the combination of essential oils."

  "I love you, my sweet. No one has ever done so many wonderful things for me. It's like we've been together forever. I can't believe it's happening so fast," said Michael.

  "Let me undo your top and rub this into your back and chest. Sit here in front of me, on the chair, with the chair back between your legs. Close your eyes. Inhale the fragrance. It is only for you," said Kefira.

  Kefira rubbed over Michael's neck, using her palm and fingertips in unison. The light green wrap around her strapless top fell slowly, letting loose Michael's milk-white breasts, both nipples pierced with silver and jade studs. Her emerald green eyes closed, showing subtle, pastel eye makeup. Kefira leaned over Michael to reach under the upper part of her dress and pressed firmly with both hands right down under the top of her waistband and onto her abdomen. Michael moaned, but Kefira restrained her and continued by massaging the oil into her lover's upper body.

  "Open your legs," she whispered as she replenished the oil.

  Kefira continued under a loosely fitting dark green silk skirt on Michael's inner thighs, through the silky nylons that she tore gently as she rubbed, forcing her fingers into the holes, eliciting another deep moan. She finished by applying the oil under Michael's chin and around her neck, as well as behind her ears.

  "Now we are ready to go."

  "What is that mixture?"

  "I'll tell you if you are lucky, but first I want you to sense it on yourself as we warm up while dancing tonight. Tell me about that club you were talking about. Shafiq won't be there, will he?"

  "Not a chance. He wouldn't be caught dead there."

  The two of them rushed down the stairs, shoe bags in hand, sneakers on their feet. Seasonal coats covered their outfits as they flagged a taxi in front of Michael's apartment. Kefira put on the ruby and kept the stone turned inward. The flesh tone ceramic blades were adhered to her body. The material was so thin the blades were barely visible, but nonetheless deadly. She stroked one under her arm for reassurance.

  Tango Queer was a club in the heart of the tango world of Buenos Aires. In this mostly macho city, in the early years of the first decade of the new millennium, a growing expatriate and local gay community sprouted roots with a blossoming of gay tourism sponsored by, among other events, the legalization of same sex marriage in Argentina.

  One of the curious aspects of the club was the plethora of straight women who loved to go there. In most tango clubs, women, especially women older than thirty, often spent whole evenings waiting for a partner to ask them to dance, because male leaders often were prima donnas
who preferred dancing with young women. At least with female leaders, the older women could have the pleasure of the dance, instead of just sitting and waiting all evening to be asked to dance. Besides, the atmosphere in the club was conducive to women learning the men's conventions and dancing both roles. Again, this openness gave 'the straights' even more time on the dance floor.

  At Tango Queer, there was no macho atmosphere, preventing dancers from simply trying with partners. There was a less judgmental mood. As a result, women, especially tourists who were more relaxed about homosexuality, flocked to Tango Queer, one of the only lesbian clubs in the city.

  The taxi dropped them off at Peru, 571 in San Telmo, the historic tango neighborhood in Buenos Aires. Both of their stunning outfits remained under wraps except for silvery legs and dusty, alluring makeup. Outside, it looked like nothing. The entranceway led through an open metal-grillwork door normally locked after the business day. In front of them, on the left, Michael felt for a light switch.

  "It's somewhere near here. Puta," she said as she tripped on the first stair.

  A door opened upstairs, casting a long, yellowish shadow, and the sound of tango music and voices flooded the hallway. Someone upstairs hit the switch and illuminated both floors and the stairwell.

  "Gracias," said Michael as two foreign, likely Northern European women, came down the stairs.

  "El gusto es nuestro," replied the strangers in Swedish accented Spanish, meaning that the pleasure was all theirs. They glanced appreciatively, but discreetly at the two women coming up the stairs.

  They entered the club and passed along the row of tables at the back of the dimly lit elongated room. On the stage, a small, classic orquesta típica consisting of a violin, a bandoneon, a classical bass, and an electric piano worked its way through a speedy milonga tandas with a particularly fast beat. The girls joined a table with two chairs vacant. They made pleasantries and then rushed to the dance floor as the song ended.