The Polish Affair

‘Pawel, stop it!’ Greeneyes said. ‘On the table, her purse – take it!’

‘But…’ Pawel gasped.

‘Think, man!’ Greeneyes persisted. ‘Something is totally wrong – can’t you see it?!’

For her it was not so easy to follow this argument in Polish; but it was clear enough that Greeneyes was not stupid. That in a way was irritating because the situation had held, well attractive perspective. On the other hand it made her even more interested in him. Greeneyes, that is. This Pawel was probably a good fucker but not much brains, and whatever little might rattle between his ears it was slow, foggy, dim, dull…

Control, girl, take it easy girl, you don't know yet, do you girl! Selfcontrol, girl.

She took a deep breath to decrease her rising anger. And smiled gently at the boys with questionmarks in bigbrowneyes.

‘She not attractive, no?’ (still she spoke halting German to them).

Greeneyes ignored her but spoke to his comrade,

‘Don’t you see? She’s not afraid of us!’

‘So?’ Pawel answered.

‘So something is wrong,’ Greeneyes snapped. ‘Check her papers – now!’

Now it was Greeneyes holding her in a spell of his glance.

Katarina could smile to him – and she did – but he was very tense and alert.

They were still fencing glances when Pawel cursed loudly.

Well, she supposed it was a curse, the words were new to her.

She escaped the spell of the green eyes for long enough to see Pawel let her duskblue passport fall on the table, as if it had bitten or burned his fingers.

‘(Another curse in Polish), we’re in deep shit!’ Pawel yelled. ‘I’m out of here!’

So he was, indeed.

Slamming the door after him, and banging down the stairs with his soldierboots moving so fast it almost sounded like tapdancing.

‘What a comrade,’ she mumbled and smiled into the green eyes.

This time she spoke Russian, as he of course would understand that.

He nodded and looked thoughtful.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘Pawel is a peasant; sound, basic instincts, no imagination, and panics at a new problem…’

She was standing there, totally naked in front of him. Longthickdarkhair cascading down over her slender, fullshaped body.

And he, tall, strong, trained - in uniform, with club, handcuffs, and pistol hanging from his belt.

‘So,’ she said with a tiny, teasing laugh, ‘this girl is a problem?’

‘Oh yes,’ he answered. ‘An adorable problem, and I’m pondering…’

‘Yes…?’ she whispered.

‘Well,’ he said after a little while, ‘clearly you’re untouchable..?’

He lifted one eyebrow slightly – nice, dark and bushy it was, by the way.

‘Legally…’ she answered with a nod, ‘so it is.’

‘I’m not even going to look at that passport,‘ he went on; as if he spoke to himself (but he spoke Russian, so…).

‘Clearly it’s a UN diplomatic passport,’ he correctly stated, ‘and no doubt there is a stamp from KGB or the politburo or the president or whatever insisting that all public servants give you all help and full respect…’

She nodded, he was pretty near to the truth.

‘Still, you’re not afraid of me?’ she asked and smiled deep into his greeneyes.

‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘Because you’re not going to ask anybody to do anything to me. However…’

‘However?’ she asked.

‘You are a very attractive girl, and when I’m off duty this evening I’ll take you out for dinner – and a dance, if you like dancing. Also…’ He hesitated, and she threw her bigbrowneyes deep into his green waves.

‘Also, you’re a wicked wayward vixen, I only don’t know…’

‘Yessir,’ she gasped, ‘what don’t you know?’

’What you want from me...'

He is not stupid, girl. Careful, girl, cautious, girl. Control, girl. Still you don't know for sure, do you girl!

'Your name might a good start,' she said with a smile.

‘I’m corporal Lobkowicz,' he said stiffly.

Selfcontrol, girl! Do not show your triumph, girl! Control, girl!

'Pleased to meet you, corporal,' she said with a feint smile. 'I'm Lišácká...'

She got up in one, graceful catlike movement, kissed his hand first, then his mouth; and added, ‘Later there’s a third part of you I’ll kiss!’

The amazement in his green eyes was her reward.

‘All right, ‘he said. ‘I’ll pick you up down in the foyer at seven –1900 o’clock, right?’

‘Ummnnn,’ was her intelligent answer.

But then, ‘What should I wear?’

‘Stupid!’ he said while he checked pistol, handcuffs, and club on his belt, probably to make sure she'd not stolen the items. ‘Clothes, of course!’

Men!

‘Forgive me,’ now there was some domination back in her voice, ‘but what kind? Casual, stylish, pornographic, whatever…?’

‘Is there any difference?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ she admitted, ‘it can all be pornographic. But stylish or casual?’

He gulped, and from the fog in his greeneyes she understood that he had absolutely no idea, and probably did not even understand the question.

Not because he did not understand Russian – that he did!

Not because he was stupid – certainly he was intelligent!

But because he did not understand women.

Yet.

She knew then that this was going to be a great experience!

Clay in her hands…

She smiled gently.

‘We’re going fancy places, or colloquial?

Again he gulped.

She liked that!

This boy was strong, fit, smart, fast, intelligent – still she made him gulp!

‘Well, this is a small provincial town,’ he said. ‘And if you’re used to New York and such places, then probably nothing is fancy here…’

‘Show me,’ she laughed. ‘So, fancy?’

‘But don’t overdo it,’ he’d said and left her.