A Sorority of Angels (2 page)

Rain stopped before we left and reflecting streets flickered as water fizzled under passing car tires while a clean scent hung in the dampness of settled dust that freshened and mixed well with our senses.

That combination stirred Laura and I to a casual walking pace as we headed for the international social, our arms entwined, walking with caution, sometimes ballet like to avoid splashing her white slacks. We turned left at First Avenue up the shallow incline to 51
^st
Street then turned left. Laura pointed across the street to an old heavy looking structure, a former elementary school.

“That building once served as the International Community Center where wives and children of diplomats gathered and socialized. Many outsiders never realize how strange and lonely it is for these families to come here not knowing anyone, the language, and culture, mainly spouses of junior U.N. diplomats. Wives of ambassadors travel in higher circles, but on occasion, they came here. Loneliness knows no boundaries, and regardless of differences in countries, they had this in common as strangers in a strange land with similar problems. However, a social structure exists in the U.N. It’s difficult for some to cope with the problems of housing and schools. The Hospitality Committee for U.N. Delegates helps to make their transition easier. Diplomatic service is less glamorous than perceived. Tonight’s party helps to meet and make new contacts.”

Arriving at the white brick apartment building on 51
^st
Street between First and Second Avenues, we survived a blue uniformed door attendant’s scrutiny. He recognized Laura. The lobby displayed numerous plants and Carrara marble; marble Michelangelo used for his sculptures.

“If similar to a Washington party, an international hodge-podge, introduce me by country. Some foreign names are tough to remember. Who is hosting?”

“Shaba and Alise…Congo and Syria; two other founders.”

“The social sounds like a great idea.”

“It’s timely.”

“I’ll bet it was your idea.”

“True.”

“How come I never met them before?”

“Nobody sponsored similar parties, meaning aides to ambassadors or U.N. representatives. I promise you an enjoyable evening.”

“I look forward to meeting them.”

“They’re good friends.”

Stainless steel elevator doors opened, we entered. Laura touched the round heat sensitive disc and lit number seven.

“Shaba is top aide to Congo’s ambassador. She’s married. Her husband, a Congolese Army general, lives in Congo, in Kinshasa. Last year, renegade forces killed her two children in a raid. Losing her children devastated her and she needed to leave. Her husband arranged the U.N. position through President Busambi. She presents a happy facade that disguises deep anguish for her children, trying to put the tragedy behind her. She plans to visit her country shortly to salvage her marriage.”

“Why leave her husband?”

“They weren’t compatible. When the children died, nothing remained. She returns to make an effort with him, having to do with tradition and marriage.”

“A terrific character trait. Maybe it’ll work out for her. Losing your children is an unending and painful tragedy. How about Alise?”

“She’s single – lost her parents and two younger sisters in a car accident outside Damascus.”

Elevator doors whizzed open. Chatter and Middle Eastern music filtered into the hallway. A multicolored WELCOME sign in various languages hung on the last door. Laura pressed the buzzer. The door opened. Room din and Shaba greeted us. In the background, a few curious heads turned towards the door. Shaba’s smiling face lit up.

“Laura!”

They touched cheeks.

“Shaba, Adam. Adam, Shaba.”

She extended her hand. I accepted.

“Good evening, Shaba delighted to meet you.”

“I heard so much about you that I’ve known you for years. Come here.” She kissed my cheek, stepped back, and looked me over. She wrapped her arm under mine. “Laura, get another date. This man is mine.”

“You can have him. He’s a dud.”

Shaba, attractive in her short Afro, colorful floor length native dress, and big round gold earrings smiled.

“I’ll take him anyway. I’m desperate. I have kitchen duty. Hold on to Adam because if you give him up I have first rights.”

Shaba winked at me, smiled wider, and vanished.

We greeted all countries, some with escorts: Thailand, Cambodia, Pakistan, India, Chile, Slovenia, Argentina, Ecuador, Egypt, Israel, Lebanon, South Africa, Nigeria, Algeria, and Bulgaria.

Due to the party’s purpose, the gathering exempted animosities between countries and among women.

“Laura, you have good attendance here. But I notice the absence of Canada, Greece, Russia, China, Germany, England, France, Italy, Australia, and the like.”

“More would have been crowded for tonight. We will expand later. The U.N. has over one-hundred and ninety members. Our group will increase periodically as socials increase but no more than fifteen women at each social, excluding the original four. We should complete all countries within a year.”

“Sounds like you plan to build an organization.”

“You might be right lover.”

“Where’s Syria, Alise?”

Laura craned her neck rising on toes.

“Not here, may be in the kitchen. Excuse me.”

She left. I drifted to the bar bobbing and weaving cautious among guests and ordered a vodka martini with five small olives from a hired bartender dressed in white shirt and black bow tie.

Swirling stucco covered the spacious apartment’s high ceilings, decorations representative of Africa and Middle East, furnishings contemporary modern with a generous heaping of metal and glass accessories. A deep red velvet sofa leaped out from a white wall background. On one wall, two spears crossed over a native shield with markings and colorful features. Several guests wore native dress, speech patterns varied, educated and pleasant, a fascinating collage of diverse cultures, and accents.

Laura returned. Tall, I stood as a landmark, easy to find.

“Alise left for a few minutes; a problem about her date having second thoughts about coming.”

“Do you know him?”

“Never met him. He’s the Syrian ambassador, and felt out of place here. Oh, don’t say anything,” she whispered, “but he pays Alise’s rent. Speaking on that subject, maybe you should do the same. I’m a poor working girl.”

“Stop getting stupid ideas.”

“We’ll discuss this subject the next time you get horny.”

My eyes drifted to a captivating woman of about thirty-seven who appeared unescorted talking to the couple from Thailand. Although names and countries blended into a tossed salad, I remembered her name and country – Pilar deLorenzo, from Argentina.

From her carriage and mannerisms, I knew she came from class, breeding obvious. An unmistakable sadness in her dark eyes continued to attract me instead of her poise, smile, or elegant beauty.

“How well do you know Argentina?” I asked Laura.

“I see her often. We’re close. She’s the fourth founder. The quartet sees each other regularly.”

“Is she alone tonight? No one accompanied her when you introduced me.”

“She came alone.”

“What’s her story?”

“Her husband was killed about a year ago in the economic riots in Buenos Aires. She has three children here in private schools. Her uncle, the president of Argentina, assigned her here when she wanted to leave Argentina for a while. Like Shaba, Pilar needed a change in geography to help her forget.”

“Looks like she never got over her loss.”

“She gives that impression; doesn’t date at all, still loyal to his memory. She’s a former Miss Argentina. Let’s go over and talk.”

“Who’s the other couple again? Thailand?”

“Kim and Tao Soom. Kim is her ambassador’s right hand. Tao interns at New York Hospital. Neurology, I believe.”

“Do they have a tragic background?”

“No.”

“That’s a relief. I began to believe everybody here had a tragedy.”

“Not so. I don’t have one – only you.”

Kim and Tao Soom and Pilar’s conversation stopped to greet us when we approached. We conversed for about fifteen minutes; subjects varied, but trivial. I cracked a few witty statements evoking intended laughter. Pilar lowered her facade to laugh although restrained. I was glad to contribute towards eradicating her sadness for a moment. Pilar owned a lovely smile with dimples exposing perfect teeth.

Tao laughed easily and Kim covered her mouth when laughing heartily, a gesture to prevent turning hysterical. Kim was educated, but I sensed a poverty stricken and difficult background. Kim wasn’t bred like Pilar. She strived to teach herself, having an air of dignity and pride that evoked a mystical Far Eastern beauty to captivate. It worked on me.

They wanted to know how I earned my living in this great country and I told them. I impressed.

Laura’s attention shifted to the front door.

Alise arrived alone.

“Come, Adam. I want you to meet Alise.”

Alise hung her tan raincoat in the closet then rushed into the kitchen to help Shaba.

As I entered behind Laura, I could hear Shaba mutter, “…and I expected no less.”

Someone upset Alise. When she saw Laura then me, she smiled and perked up.

Alise stood about five-foot-six with long dark hair and dark eyes and exquisite Middle East features. I loved her high cheekbones. Introductions exchanged; delighted to meet me, and friendly, but she ushered us out.

“Come on you two, out.” Her arms created sweeping motions. “Shaba and I share the work detail tonight. We’ll join you soon.”

Laura turned to me. “I’ll stay and help. You go ahead, catch up to you in a few.”

I joined two groups and chatted.

Laura, Shaba, Alise, and Pilar reviewed and divided their guest list, only women. During the evening, they each managed to talk privately to their assigned countries. In peripheral vision, I could see Laura trying to convince the woman from South Africa. Alise conversed with Asmir from India. Shaba talked to Jasmine from Algeria, her hands punctuated air. Pilar was leaving a group.

I assumed recruiting others to join their group.

My curiosity elevated after Laura’s fourth. I asked about her sidebar talks with those on her list.

“We caught up on gossip. Almost done. Why? Did you miss me?”

“I didn’t come here to be alone.”

“Patience for a few more minutes. Go talk to Pilar and cheer her up. She congratulated me before on how impressive and handsome you are.”

“You take me for granted when you throw me to Pilar.”

She lifted on toes and whispered in my ear, “If you don’t behave, I’ll get a headache later.”

Excuse the pun but Laura knew how to hit below the belt.

She left me, party progressed, buffet tasted exquisite. When finished gorging, I homed in on Pilar, who no longer needed cheering up. Music, good company, and white wine banished sadness. Her eyes sparkled. After conversation for a short while about her children, we joined Kim and Tao Soom.

Conversations and din increased; guests friendlier with camaraderie’s warmth; several men looked tipsy, glassy eyed.

Sounds of an Ude started followed by bongo drums – live entertainment from the Middle East. All gathered in a semicircle around two musicians. The exotic sound stimulated; bodies forced to sway.

Laura returned and joined the semicircle, swaying; crowd and we clapped in rhythm. I spotted Shaba heading for Alise. They left for the bedroom, talking. Alise entered the room. Shaba closed the door and approached the gathering as she clapped and swayed. When the music ended, Shaba hollered cutting applause.

“Quiet please! Hold it!” Her arms lifted emphasizing silence then imitating the voice and movements of a carnival barker. “Ladies and gentlemen. Hear ye! Hear ye! Intermission time. Get a fresh drink or whatever food you can find and come back and sit. Okay? Back in ten minutes. We have a special treat for you.” Many dispersed.

Ten minutes later Shaba returned. “Are you ready?”

“Yes!” roared the crowd.

“All right! Move back. We need room.” The man with the Ude waited, ready. Bongo man held a tambourine. Shaba nodded to them and a Middle Eastern rhythm began. “Ladies, hold on to your man’s eyeballs because right here direct from the Middle East by way of Damascus, the vivacious runaway slave girl from the harem…Alise!”

Music started.

From the bedroom drifted the sound of zills, small brass cymbals worn on the exotic dancer’s fingers. The door opened and Alise appeared in a belly dance outfit with veils vibrating to the music; dressed in colored veils and embroidered gold coins; whirling and curling around the floor dispensing sultry glances. She wore a jeweled and spangled girdle and an attached blue veil skirt with numerous crystals, hair long and straight. The guests gaped, transfixed, open mouthed watching a talented performer.

Her arms rippled as a snake, a graceful figure, fluid and sensuous.

She approached me as I sat Indian style on the floor in front, a devilish grin in her eyes. I studied her, awed as her body trembled towards me, artistic. I didn’t know where to look first. She smiled at Laura as if asking for permission to harass me then danced before me thrusting hips and shivering her belly as Laura urged her on.

Alise draped her veil over my head and gyrated about an inch or two from my face, cymbals zinging in my ears.

A glassy eyed wise guy yelled out, “Close your mouth!” and all laughed.

The gallery shouted for me to get up. Amidst shrills and howls Laura encouraged me with nudges.

Alise retreated, zills summoned me. Laura urged me on again. Then Alise started the artistic act of unveiling accentuating basic movements of the dance. She returned to me and flirted again. The last martini must have kicked in because I stood amidst applause and encouragement. I removed my jacket and passed it to Laura.

I tried to quiver and gyrate with Alise, hands overhead, fingers snapping. We stood toe-to-toe. She picked up speed, muscles moved faster. I gyrated, awkward but good doing my own thing. Alise danced around me, artistic, I, close to burlesque, worse.

Laura nearly doubled over from laughter.

The crowd loved me.

You would have been proud of me.

Alise glided in front of me and her hands slithered around my body and head, her body close, tempting without touching. She stared into my eyes, smiling, teasing. Then she broke away spinning and dancing faster as music tempo increased, finished with me, discarded.

I sat to applause, a hero.

Alise danced, veils floating, gliding on bare feet a vision of pure grace. When Alise ended the dance, noise qualified Shaba and Alise for eviction.

Laura stayed at my side the remainder of the evening. Nothing diverted her from me. Shaba joined Pilar and Kim. They switched to the balcony although air turned brisk. Alise joined them. Their conversation lasted at least fifteen minutes. Tao waited inside enjoying a martini with me.

I call it a spectacular social. I had to agree Laura and friends came up with an innovative idea based on the international foods and culture theme, a lure to attract more women to their group.

By the way, Laura didn’t get a headache.