Page 45 of Sapphire Spring

“Jonas, do you watch anything on television besides PBS?”

“BBC Select.Sothisdrunken Scandinavian character has placed no parameters on the requestwhatsoever?”

“I said, ‘Within reason, right?’ and he said, ‘Those areyour words, not mine.’” He’d managed a pretty good MasonWortherimpression, capturing a voice that turned suggestive and husky whenever itdropped below a certain volume.

“So ostensibly you could tie his wrists to the bed frame andflog him for three hours and you’d be within the bounds of your agreement.”

Naser’s fork froze halfway to his mouth. “Ostensibly. Sure.But I don’t have much flogging experience.”

“Much?”

“Any.”

“I see. But you’re uncomfortable with the idea of adding anintimate dimension to his offer.”

“Yes.”

“And that’s why you didn’t have depraved, slobbering sexwith him on the floor of his office Monday morning?”

“Slobbering? Jonas Jacobs! I am stunned. You’venever spoken to me this way before.”

“We’ve never discussed our sex lives before.”

“And we’re not now. This is not about my sex life. I am nothaving sex with MasonWorther. It’s a terrible idea.It would make me feel like a…I don’t know, a sellout. Or, you know, some clichéof a queer man who’s sexualized his oppressor. I can’t get involved in allthat. As you just said, it’s too complicated.”

“Come now, Mr. Kazemi. I’m not saying you should getinvolvedwith him. He sounds like a train wreck caused by a plane crash.”

“Well, then what are you saying?”

“I’m saying you should have filthy, depraved,forget-your-name sex with him for three hours and then never speak to himagain. That should square the debt quite nicely, don’t you think?”

“Is that what you’d do in my situation?”

“We’re not talking about me, mainly because my type isn’tgiant, frequently drunk white boys who look like they should be raiding Englishvillages.”

“MasonWortheris notmy type!”

Naser dropped his eyes to his lap to hide the fact that,minus the drinking, MasonWortherwas totally histype.

“Nas, where’s your mom?” Gloria’svoice made Naser jump. Suddenly, she was standing over the table, lookingpuzzled and concerned, sweet floral perfume coming off her in pleasantly distractingwaves.

“What about my mom?”

“I saw her in the lobby a few minutes ago. I figured she waswaiting for you. I thought she was joining you guys.”

Naser looked to Jonas. “Go,” he said with a wave of hishand. “Mothers trump all. But I might eat all the bread.”

Naser promised he’d be back as soon as he figured out whatwas going on.

When he spotted his mother, she was slouched over the far cornerof the front desk, giant sunglasses hiding most of her face, either content to beignored by the two staff members working the reception desk or waiting onsomeone who’d already assisted her. She was dressed in one of hersignatureflowing black dresses, threaded with a brightscarf that almost matched the color of her hair, a heavily dyed page-boy cut ofthe kind Googoosh had helped popularize among Iranian women in the latesixties. Despite having a taste for designer labels, she had never gone out inpublic wearing one of her daughter’s designs. Together with the giantsunglasses, the fact that she’d draped the scarf over her head suggested shewas trying to go incognito. If only it hadn’t been bright gold.

“Mom!”

Mahin Kazemi jumped and cried out. “What are you doinghere?”

“I'm sorry,I’mthe surprise? I work here.”

“But your checkup, Naser-joon.”

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