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Quent Cordair

The Seduction of Santi Banesh

First published by The Atlantean Press, 1994.

His leg was smooth and hard, the skin deeply tanned. Her finger moved along the armrest of her seat, unconsciously following the groove between the muscles, from beneath the tennis shorts, down the length of the thigh, rising gently to the knee, cutting in again down the calf to the ankle. Below the short sleeve of the shirt a matching, well-defined arm flowed to long, strong fingers, which held her ankles as the lips touched the back of her thigh, just above the knee—

Her hand whipped from the armrest to clutch at the amulet hanging between her breasts. The graying man in the business suit across the plane's aisle had stopped staring at her some hours ago, his head now buried in a slick-covered paperback. The god in tennis shorts was in the row ahead of him and, from the more forward position, wouldn't have seen her looking. Her parents still sat in front of her, and her little brother, bless his heart, had his face plastered to the window, watching the sea below. Through her robe she held the amulet tightly and closed her eyes. She hadn't eaten in three days, and there were still five days to go. She tried not to think of it. One day at a time, she reminded herself. One hour at a time. She had to compose herself, to be strong, to fight her body. And how was it that men were looking more and more like food?

Santi Banesh was a sultan's dream of dark olive skin and burnt-umber eyes, huge almond pools that could drown a man. The long loose folds of her traditional wrap tried to hide her body, but the entrapping eyes, slender hands, the rise and fall of her chest and her graceful, sensual walk only made the robe work contrary to its intention, its overt defenses posing a rude challenge to imaginations which proceeded to lay waste to the veiling walls. And imaginations tend to be thorough beasts. Santi had been ravaged by well over a hundred men, though she was still a virgin, and only fifteen.

And now, just as her body was straining for perfection, it was starving. A third day without food and it was screaming. Everyone had said that after two days the hunger pangs disappeared, and for most girls they probably did, but her insides had set up a protest which had started about an hour before the first missed meal and had only escalated since. She had always been a healthy eater anyway. Her mother scolded that she would turn into an elephant once she had borne children. But Santi's body burned more brightly and hotly than most—it needed the food—and it found this deprivation unforgivable.

She would rather have been severely beaten than be the cause of her own torture, but she knew that this was exactly the point of the ritual anyway: the eight-day Fast of Virgins was to teach control of physical desire and conquest of the hungry body. It was the highest duty and honor of every girl in the spring of her fifteenth year, at the critical age when a girl knew what it was to want, but hopefully before she had done anything about it. The wisdom of ancient clerics had shown that if a woman learned to starve herself of food, there was a much better chance, though not a guarantee, that she could resist sexual temptation as well.

Santi had worn the customary amulet, which hung from a silver chain around her neck, since she was thirteen. It was engraved with the figure of a kneeling woman. If once caught cheating during the Fast of Virgins, she would lose the amulet. No amulet—no husband, and she would spend her life tending her parents' home. And if she were caught so much as kissing a man before marriage, she would be publicly stoned by her community leaders, family and friends. Santi wanted to be good—she really did—but she had determined in advance that if she were ever to be stoned, she would get a hell of a lot more than a kiss for her troubles. The thought of men made her stomach growl again, and taking a last look at the tennis shorts, she tried to banish both hungers from her mind.

Her little brother was eating honey-roasted peanuts. When he saw his sister's eyes fasten on the gold-and-brown bag, he made a quick check of the parents and silently pushed the peanuts toward her. Santi gently pushed them back and kissed him on the forehead.

Andjani was eight-years old and even more beautiful than she, with the same dark features, rich skin tone and quiet grace. Girls openly envied his eyelashes. He would often come to his sister's room at night and crawl into bed with her.

The parents, Rakeel and Sumi Banesh, were model citizens. Rakeel was Second Prime Minister of Foreign Affairs, and his wife was the Wife of the Second Prime Minister of Foreign Affairs. They moved in the highest of their respective circles and were well regarded. The children had been expected of them and were a fine touch when entertaining in their modestly luxurious home, which had both electricity and indoor plumbing.

Their nation was at least equivalent in size to an average Texas ranch, and its theocracy was respected and feared by neighboring countries. Few others were aware of its existence. Up until now Rakeel's job of assisting with foreign affairs had been relatively simple, due to the general lack thereof, but his superior had been bedridden with malaria only three days before a critical appointment before a reviewing committee of the World Bank, and now that task had fallen to Rakeel. He was excited and equally nervous: a successful wooing of the World Bank meant instant acclaim and an assured promotion, but if he said anything stupid enough to cause a decrease in the current funding level, he would surely go the way of a former colleague who had committed that very sin a few years ago. There was a saying in the language similar to the English, "sink or swim," but it was used more literally, and the "swim" wasn't really an option.

The meeting was at 10 a.m. tomorrow in New York City, but first they were flying into San Francisco, where today he was to meet with board members of a local museum concerning a future display of his country's "primitive art." He was certain he could supply the stuff in ample quantity, even if it had to be made special for the occasion. The exhibit would be a great boon to tourism.

The family was along only because the Prime Minister of Internal Security had hinted that he wouldn't mind watching their house while they were gone, which meant that he wanted to use it for an illicit tryst. The thought of the fat, oily body rolling around in his bed nearly made Rakeel sick, but the position of Prime Minister of Internal Security had certain fringe benefits, like being able to murder at will. Rakeel made a mental note to buy a new set of sheets while in the States, the good soft ones you couldn't get back home.

The plane had descended through a drizzling fog to the level of the surrounding hilltops, and the waters of the San Francisco Bay were coming up fast beneath the craft's belly. Rakeel closed his eyes in fretful anticipation of the inevitable landing jolt. A full thirty seconds after it should have happened his eyes popped open in terror, but the pilot was taxiing slowly towards the terminal. The passengers hadn't felt a thing. Damn these cocky Americans with their we-can-do-everything-perfectly attitudes. One of these days they'll be brought to their knees.

The plane rolled to a stop, and a flurry of activity converged on them through the wetness—yellow towing vehicles, fueling trucks, cargo escalators, elevating food-and-beverage trucks and white tractors pulling trains of luggage cars. As Santi watched the well-oiled precision of the rain-suited men and their clean machines, there was an uneasy, excited stirring within her. It was like one of those hunger pangs, but deeper. There was something very different about this place. Her breathing quickened and she reached for Andjani's hand. The lights on a massive jet beside them winked as it was pushed away from the terminal, toward the runway.

The limousine door shut, and at last, they were safe. None of them had spoken a word since they had left customs and started walking through the terminal.

The assault on their senses had actually begun when they first boarded the jet aircraft nine hours earlier, but by the time they landed, they had become somewhat accustomed to the friendly smiles, the cushioning comforts, the little technologies of the cabin, and the beautifully, colorfully dressed people. Santi had decided that, when airborne, people just didn't seem to weigh as much.

Rakeel had expected a jolt when landing, but if the plane had done a half roll and landed on its back, it would have been less a shock than the one he received in the terminal. There was no military band, no cluster of greeting potentates, no perfunctory crowd of cheering citizens. Soft piano jazz floated down from unseen speakers. The uniformed man he mistook for the mayor only nodded, put their luggage on a cart and walked away with it. The few people who even looked their way only smiled, either to them or at them.

They hurriedly followed the bellhop. The terminal was equally unfathomable to Sumi and the children. There was no rude shoving and scuffling, no machine guns, no livestock. The place was bright, shining and clean, though they saw no one cleaning it. Lights, chrome, glass and steel. Everything looked new. There were shops and stands packed with the most beautiful clothes, magazines and books, stuffed animals, flowers, gold-foiled boxes of candies, and trinkets of every sort. There were barbershops and shoeshine stands. Escalators, elevators, and people movers which Sumi refused to step onto. Bars, cafes and restaurants that opened right out into the terminal proper. Not a single dirty beggar to avoid. Andjani didn't let go of his sister's hand, but his eyes were those of a pirate who had just spotted a Spanish galleon riding fat and heavy with gold bullion. Santi couldn't stop watching the faces of the people. How could they be so...so...?

By the time the family had followed their luggage through the sliding glass door to the outside, Rakeel was furious, Sumi was terrified, and the children were simply in shock.