The Erotic Quest of Dirk and Honey (7 page)

Sinbad’s Cave turned out to be a tiny establishment deep in the bowels of an ancient fort. Inside, the air was
blue with smoke and the place was packed to the stone walls with patrons, mainly Columbian businessmen, lounging on mirrored
pillows around small brass-topped tables that ringed a small dance floor. Off to one side, in front of a purple tapestry cloth,
an authentic band of Middle Eastern musicians played their instruments as two averagely attractive females in traditional
harem garb twirled and danced, displaying a great deal of skin but, in Dirk’s opinion, not much talent.

He sank to an available pillow against the rear wall and tried to find a comfortable position for his long legs. Already he
was doubting the information he had received from his New York photographer pal. The prospect of finding an exact duplicate
of the enchanting blonde of Central Park, performing here in such a dingy hole, was almost too absurd to contemplate. But
Dirk was so obsessed with finding the magical young woman that he would willingly have journeyed by dogsled to Siberia in
the dead of winter to track down any possible lead.

The club’s entertainment dragged on, the weird, atonal music loud and irritating, heavy on the beat of odd-shaped drums and
wailing, nasal-sounding wind instruments; the parade of women performers danced as if they had been trained in burlesque,
and perfunctorily went through their routines with bored expressions on their perspiring faces. The density of smoke increased,
as did Dirk’s headache. An hour into the show, he was positive he’d seen all the dancers, and not one bore even a faint resemblance
to the girl of his quest. He was about to chalk up the entire trip as a damned dead end, when the master of ceremonies—a rotund,
swarthy little man dressed only in a beaded vest and baggy orange satin pants—stepped to the microphone to announce in Spanish
the main attraction, “Jamilia.” Enthusiastic applause and cheers from the
spectators greeted the news, as if they had been waiting for this moment.

The lights blinked off, the foreign-sounding music began again, and suddenly, in a white spotlight, a tall figure appeared,
swathed from head to toe in gauzy blue veils. She swayed and twirled to the slow music, remaining completely covered except
for a small open band across her eyes. Dirk strained forward and felt a stirring in his groin. Unlike the previous performers,
this one was obviously talented. Her movements were graceful, rhythmic, highly sensual, and the more she danced, the more
she raised his curiosity and his bird of paradise. He could not believe how aroused he’d become in such a short time—especially
by a totally covered woman.

The pounding music picked up tempo and she spun faster, holding out the top veil, forming a billowy canopy of blue over her
still-covered head. Dipping, swaying, gyrating, she gradually lowered the blue veil, revealing a creamy expanse of bouncing
breast packed tightly into a skimpy bra covered with gold coins. An excited, guttural cheer broke from the men around Dirk.
With her face hidden behind a smaller veil, Jamilia danced fluidly, slowly lowering the large veil in her hands. Glimpses
of her breathtaking figure were possible now. Her slightly rounded belly undulated and rolled. In her navel, a large emerald
glistened and twinkled like a small green island of calm in the midst of a windswept white lake. Low on her rounded, swiveling
hips, another band of gold coins clinked in rhythm to her erotic movements, a small girdle of tinkling sounds. A full skirt
of shiny blue material, split enticingly up the front, swept around her in a full circle and her creamy thighs flashed through,
and now and then her perfectly proportioned legs.

One look at the fully rounded figure, the large white
breasts jiggling provocatively, told Dirk for certain that whoever this Jamilia was, she could not be the exact duplicate
of his mystery blonde. That beauty he’d found in Central Park had been a mere girl no more than sixteen .years old, and though
she was spectacular, she did not as yet possess such a full-blown womanly body. However, in the heat of this moment, he was
so entranced by the accomplished dancer before him that he did not care; he was dying of curiosity to see her face.

As if Jamilia had read his mind, at that precise instant, with her back to the audience, her hands rose gracefully to the
scarf covering her head. With a quick tug, she yanked free the gauzy piece of material and shook loose a mass of striking
blonde hair that tumbled past her shoulders, shimmering like spun gold in the bright spotlight.

Dirk bolted upright on the pillow—her hair was exactly the same tone of blonde as that of the girl in the park! He waited
breathlessly for her to turn to the crowd of hollering, appreciative men. Her full hips swaying like a flag in a gentle breeze,
she slowly came about, her face partially obscured by soft, curly tendrils of golden hair. With an almost impatient toss of
her head, she threw the hair back from her forehead and smiled serenely—straight in his direction. He stared, frozen in surprise
and delight.

His pal had not steered him wrong. Jamilia
was
the spitting image of the fantasy blond he’d captured on film. In spite of the differences in their bodies, their lovely,
angelic faces were identical—the same fine sweep of brow, the same classic nose, the same high, regal cheekbones, the same
full, sensual mouth. Dirk’s expert camera eye could not be misled; the facial similarities were too strong to be a mere coincidence.
Jamilia
had
to be related to his quarry in some way. Entranced all the more, he
swallowed his excitement, and his bird of paradise sprang into a full-grown boner. He could not wait until he was alone, face
to face, with the magical beauty. He began to sweat with tension.

Immediately upon the conclusion of Jamilia’s ripely erotic dance, he pushed himself to his feet and, weaving through the densely
packed crowd of raucously cheering men, made his way to the backstage entrance. He pushed through the beaded curtain and bumped
into the portly master of ceremonies, who emphatically barred his entrance. Dirk pulled a hundred-dollar bill from his money
clip and shoved it into the obstinate man’s greasy palm. At once, a more-than-pleased grin broke out on the swarthy face and
the rotund man bowed mockingly, pointing to a small, grimy door.

Pushing his rigid dick into a less noticeable position, Dirk knocked and a woman’s musical voice called out in Spanish, “Come
on in.” He opened the door and stepped into a cluttered, cramped dressing room that smelled like the inside of a Moroccan
whorehouse—sickly sweet perfume, sweat, and the arousing, intoxicating scent of women. Jamilia stood before a full-length
mirror on the opposite wall, wiping her beautiful face with a towel. Her full breasts, heaving in the tight coin-bra from
the recent exertion, rose and fell like rapidly inflating and deflating balloons, their creamy skin filmed with perspiration.
She swung to him questioningly and his heart hammered even harder. She was even more breathtaking in person. Her large, pale
eyes stared boldly into his, and he could not find his tongue to speak.

“Yes?” she asked lightly.

“I… I think I’m in love with you,” he stammered. She laughed as if she’d heard that line before. “You’re from the States?”

He nodded, transfixed by her mesmerizing allure. She
laughed again at his silence and stepped behind a folding screen of tightly woven latticework. From behind it she asked, “What
brings you to Cartagena?”

“I… I came to find you…”

“Me?” she queried, her blonde head appearing briefly above the screen. “Why?” With a soft clinking sound, she flung her coin-covered
bra onto the top of the wood screen.

Just thinking of her womanly body being exposed behind the lattice wiped all other thoughts from his mind, and for a moment
he forgot the pressing reason for his visit. With a soft rushing sound, her billowy blue skirt appeared next to her bra, then
her heavy coin girdle. She poked her gorgeous head up again. “We don’t get many Americans down this way,” she commented easily.
A bemused but interested smile graced her lips.

Pulling his thoughts together, he fumbled into a pocket of his blue blazer and brought out, a slightly crumpled copy of the
photograph of his vanished blonde. Hesitantly he took a step forward and held it out.

Perplexed, Jamilia reached a graceful hand over the screen and took it, holding it up to the ceiling light to look at it.
At once her face blanched. “Kolina?” she gasped, and disappeared.

“Kolina?” he repeated. “You
do
know her, then?”

With a flurry, Jamilia scooted from behind the screen, gathering a sky-blue silk robe about her nude figure, her lovely face
a mask of concern. “Where did you get this?” she demanded hoarsely.

“I took it myself. In New York.”

“When?”

“A week ago Sunday,” he replied, increasingly concerned by her obvious alarm.

Almost frantically she searched his face, then burst into tears. “My darling Kolina,” she sobbed, and kissed the
photo. She collapsed into a straight-backed chair and wept openly into her hands. In a flash he was kneeling beside her, his
arms around her soft body, pressing her head to his shoulders, his fingers tracing the silken robe on her back. She did not
resist his embrace, and he marveled at her open trustfulness. “There, there,” he said quietly into her blonde mass of sweet-smelling
hair.

She cried for several moments, and with each renting sob, his desire to help her intensified all the more. Finally she pushed
away and her tear-filled eyes sought his, imploringly. “You must tell me everything you know about her. I beg of you.”

Burning with his own curiosity, he hurriedly relayed the entire story of his encounter with the girl in Central Park, her
plea for help, and the two thugs who chased him and whisked her away. He finished with how and why he had come to Cartagena,
then quickly added, “Now it’s your turn. Who is this Kolina?”

She stiffled a sob. “She’s my younger sister. And she’s been missing for over a month.”

As Jamilia hastily pulled on her street clothes behind the lattice screen, she explained in broken phrases, often interrupted
by a new burst of tears, what she knew of Kolina’s disappearance. Much to Dirk’s disappointment, he learned very little, but
he could piece together a general outline.

Jamilia had been paying for Kolina’s education in an exclusive girl’s school in Switzerland ever since their parents had drowned
in a freak boating accident in the Mediterranean, some five years earlier. She and Kolina were very, very close and would
meet in Paris each summer to spend Kolina’s vacation touring and having a grand time together. During the school term, Kolina
wrote to her often, and occasionally, when Jamilia felt especially flush, she would call overseas for a friendly little chat
with her
sister. She had spoken to Kolina in this manner only two days before the telegram arrived.

The fateful cable from the Swiss school’s headmistress had awoken Jamilia one morning over a month ago. Kolina had disappeared
overnight from the school’s grounds and could not be found. Desperately, Jamilia had flown to Switzerland and spent two frustrating,
ennervating, and painful weeks hounding the school, the local police, even Interpol, but no trace of Kolina could be found,
not even a single clue as to what might have happened to her. Heartbroken, Jamilia had returned to her high-paying job in
Cartagena, waiting in dread each day for some word. Until Dirk had shown up with the photo taken only a short time before,
Jamilia had not known for certain that her precious little sister was even still alive.

Protectively, Dirk walked the distraught exotic dancer back to her place within the oldest part of the city. She lived on
the top floor of a white stone house surrounded by wrought-iron balconies. Reaching her door, at the top of the narrow stone
stairs off a small interior courtyard, Dirk was longing to comfort the beautiful creature on even more intimate terms. But
he was too much of a gentlemen to press his own raging needs upon the obviously upset young woman.

Much to his delight, Jamilia invited him inside. Her small apartment was decorated charmingly with handicrafts of local artisans.
colorful wall hangings of patchwork appliques, thickly woven wool rugs, stuffed lizards of various sizes; a huge stuffed tortoise,
balancing a sheet of glass on its shell, served as a coffee table before a comfortable-looking couch. In an alcove, a large
bed was covered with hand-embroidered pillows. Jamilia switched on a pounded-brass lamp and threw open the glass doors to
the small balcony, revealing the twinkling lights ringing the harbor. She indicated an array of liquor bottles
on a shelf near the kitchenette and told him to help himself while she took a bath. She entered the adjoining bathroom and
closed the door.

Listening to the soft sounds of her bathing, he nursed a straight Scotch and stood on the small balcony, seeking a cool breeze
and trying to deal with his rising expectations. He felt inextricably drawn to her, as if he were the only one in the whole
world who could help her find Kolina. He pledged to himself that he would do everything within his power and resources to
reunite the two sisters.

He was thinking of trying to reach Honey with news of the recent developments when Jamilia emerged from the bathroom, her
voluptuous figure wrapped only in a large, damp bath towel. Wordlessly she poured herself a small cognac in a large snifter.

He raised his own glass. “To finding Kolina.”

“You will help me, then?”

“Of course, Jamilia,” he said. “My sister and I have already begun.”

She moved closer to him, sipping from the snifter, eyeing him over the rim. “Jamilia is my dancing name. My real name is Barbro.”

“Barbro and Kolina,” he murmured. “Those are Swedish, aren’t they?” He could feel the heat rising within him like mercury
in a thermometer.

She nodded. “We were born outside of Goteborg on a small farm. Our father was a professor of economics at the university.”
Her lovely, light blue eyes welled with tears again. “And our mother was a folk dancer in a professional troop.”