That night, I didn’t sleep.
Lying in the bed of the residence, the air conditioning humming softly, I stared at the white ceiling as if I might find answers there. Outside, the sounds of Tana filtered through the half-open window: a dog barking in the distance, the rumble of a taxi-brousse climbing the slope of Ambatonakanga, muffled salegy music coming from a bar in Isoraka. But all of it felt far away. In my head, there was only her.
Ennemiah.
Her crystalline laugh when she made me taste the mofo gasy. The way her lambahoany dress clung slightly to her skin because of the humidity. Her full lips around a piece of mango, the juice slowly dripping down her chin, which she wiped away with a graceful flick of her hand. Her huge black eyes looking at me as if I were the only thing that mattered in this city of two million people.
I tossed and turned ten times, twenty times. I tried to think about work: the interviews scheduled for Monday, Rina and Andry who were starting to settle in, the email I had sent to headquarters to approve the training budget. Nothing worked. Her image kept coming back, sharper, more insistent.
Around two in the morning, I turned on the bedside lamp. My phone was on the nightstand. I opened the photo gallery, almost against my will. There was that photo I had taken at Lake Anosy, at her insistence: her next to me, her arm around my shoulder, her body pressed against mine, her head tilted toward me with that dazzling smile. Her braided hair brushed my neck on the screen, and I could almost smell the vanilla scent that came from her again.
I looked at it for a long time. Too long.
My hand slipped under the sheet without me really realizing it. I closed my eyes, picturing her hips swaying as she walked ahead of me through the aisles of the Analakely market, the curve of her lower back, the slenderness of her ankles. I thought of her singing voice pronouncing my name – “Damien” – with that accent that rolled the “r”.
I touched myself slowly at first, then faster, guilt and desire battling inside me. I had never done this thinking of any woman other than my wife since our marriage. But this time, it was stronger than me. When the pleasure came, violent and almost painful, I muffled a moan in the pillow, ashamed and relieved at the same time.
Afterward, I lay in the dark, breathing hard. I felt dirty. A traitor. And yet, I already knew I would call her again.
The next morning, I held out until noon. I ate lunch alone at the residence restaurant, a dish of ravitoto with pork and red rice, trying to focus on my computer. But every notification made my heart jump, hoping for her name. Finally, I couldn’t resist anymore. I picked up my phone and typed:
“Hello Ennemiah. Thank you again for yesterday. Would you be free this afternoon to continue the visit?”
Her reply came in less than a minute:
“Yes!!! I’ll wait for you at 3 p.m. in front of the café in Isoraka, the one with the wooden tables. I’m wearing a red dress this time 😘”
I closed my eyes for a moment. I knew I was playing with fire.
When I saw her, leaning against the café façade in a tight red dress that left little to the imagination, I felt my good resolutions crumble one by one. She kissed me on the cheeks, but this time her lips lingered a little closer to my mouth.
“I missed you, vazaha,” she whispered.
We walked through the streets of Isoraka, that bohemian neighbourhood with its old colonial buildings, art galleries, and trendy bars. She took me to a small hidden inner courtyard, a quiet place with flowering bougainvillea and stone benches. There was almost no one around.
She sat very close to me, her thigh against mine. She placed her hand on my knee, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“Do you think about me at night?” she asked softly, looking up at me.
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.
She leaned in, and this time I didn’t pull back. Her lips brushed mine, gently at first, then more deeply. Her tongue sought mine, warm, insistent. Her hands slid to the back of my neck, into my hair. I pulled her against me, feeling the heat of her body through the thin fabric of her dress.
I no longer resisted.
We kissed for a long time, as if the world around us no longer existed. When we separated, out of breath, she looked at me with a smile that was both victorious and tender.
“Come,” she whispered, standing up and taking my hand.
I followed her without thinking, my heart pounding wildly.
She led me down a small alley, then to a wooden gate behind which soft music could be heard. She took a key from her bag.
“It’s a friend’s place. She’s not here this afternoon.”
She opened the door, pulled me inside, and closed it behind us.
In the cool dimness of the house, she turned to me, wrapped her arms around my neck, and kissed me again, harder.
I knew I was about to cross the line.
And just as her fingers began to unbutton my shirt, as I felt her burning skin under my hands, my phone vibrated in my pocket.
An incoming call.
The name on the screen: “My love ❤️”
My wife.