‘Cool down man, you are literally spitting on me now!’ Rohan blurted.
‘You son of a whore...’ Khalid raised his hand to slap Rohan on his face, Miah instantly stopped him.
‘What are you trying to do here? We have to be there for each other at this time, and you are trying to rip off each other?’ she scolded her husband as if he was a six year old who was punished in classroom for picking on his classmate. She asked ‘Just tell us why did you let her in?’
Khalid got up, took a deep breath and then spoke ‘I believe she is right.’
‘People of her kind are pests who sell lies out to people who are foolish enough to buy them. All they want is a sensational story on the primetime slot for the news channel. She will put you on air, make a good name for her and get a boost in her career and will leave you with a thank you Mr. Abdullah for joining us tonight! Don’t you know how these journalists are?’ Miah cried.
‘I do not know about other journalists, but I am well aware of this particular journalist. She might lie, but she would not lie about Manav.’ Khalid assured.
‘How can you be so sure?’ Miah tried to confirm. Rohan Kapoor, though sitting there as if nothing really mattered, raised his eyebrow.
‘She knows Manav much better than all of us put together.’ He pulled down the string that controlled the curtain on the window with his right hand. The curtain pulled up and a fresh deal of bright light entered the dully illuminated room, ‘It is time to shine some light...’
6
Tarifa, Southern Spain
The rain was breezing down on the coastal town of Tarifa as a tint of hope and gloom hovered on the horizon of the blissful town to the south of Spain. The town located on the Costa de la Luz or Coast of Light is the gateway to the mystic lands of Morocco or Marruecos as the Spaniards would call it. The sun placed itself deep inside the chest of the horizon as the bright oil lamps sparkled into illumination around the Castle of Guzman, as the historic monument prepared itself to showcase the first ever annual Flamenco festival. Hundreds of professional Flamenco dancers had arrived to take part in the inaugural festival and the stage was set for the first performance of the evening. Flamenco, the traditional dance form of the region of Andalusia, has a deeper root in the Romani culture or the culture of the gypsies. A female dancer wearing the traje de flamenco moved her body gracefully on the brightly lit stage. The audience waved their attention with her moves, as the mystifying rhythm coming from the guitar and handclaps took the audience by a trance that never seemed to end. Her long dress adorned with ruffles was blood red in colour.
Meanwhile, Marquez pushed open the door to his room at the motel where he was staying with his wife who was performing that night. He rushed towards the neatly packed colt and threw the young girl he was carrying in his arms on the bed. He unhooked the crispy trouser he was wearing and it sliced down his legs, he shook it off his feet and it fell on the floor. He pounced lustily on the teenager just like a hungry tiger pouncing on a tender deer. She was wearing a red satin gown only; Marquez slid his hand through the slit opening near her thigh and touched her navel from within.
‘Yo te haré famosa, si tu me haces feliz.’ He took a deep breath as he pressed his thumb into her navel sending a quick shiver across her tender body. He hissed in Spanish, ‘Compromiso conmigo.’
‘Si!’ the girl affirmed in Spanish.
‘There is nothing more satisfying than a fifteen year old virgin. It gives me the hell of a time in heaven…’ he laughed like an evil cobra. The girl didn’t understand a word he uttered for the poor creature didn’t know any other language than Spanish. There was a fear in the girl’s eyes for this was her first time, and such violent were his actions that she closed her brown eyes for it to get over real fast. He had promised to make her famous, if she made him happy, and she was trying to make him happy. She awaited the fame of her lifetime at the end of it. Marquez took his wrinkled hand out of her gown and then gently swivelled it over her face and ran it down softly over her nose, lips, neck and all of a sudden tore of the red satin gown from the collar and her pulpy breasts were exposed. Marquez threw away the cloth from the gown behind and bit the nipple on the left breast.
‘Bastardo!’ cursed a woman who was standing at the door which Marquez had left open.
Marquez recognized the voice immediately and got up from the bed in the greatest state of shock. He said bumbling ‘Eva… I thought you were p..p…performing tonight…’
‘I wish to talk to you… alone… outside… por favor!’ Eva said blankly, as if nothing had happened at all. Eva stepped out of the room quietly.
The girl on the bed looked more worried than scared now and questioned with her eyes if she should stay or leave.
‘Más tarde!’ Marquez whispered into the girl’s ear as he gathered his trouser and wore it quickly. He tried to catch up with Eva who was already on her way downstairs. He took longer strides. ‘Eva, you know I love you so much!’ he tried to make up an explanation.
‘Shhhh…’ Eva said, ‘You don’t have to explain anything to me, dear. Just follow me quietly. We’ll talk there.’
‘Where?’ He enquired.
‘Do you trust me?’ She asked unjadedly.
‘Yes of course! I do, completely.’
‘Then don’t say anything more. Just come with me.’ She said and walked out of the door and into the street. Rain had started to drizzle down gently. The woman walked gently in her white traje de flamenco and the man followed her in the greatest confusion and a temporary guilt developed out of the shock of getting caught with a virgin by his wife.
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