We laugh lightly. Trevor sips his wine. I notice his eyes skirt Izabel. And then Nora.
A seemingly young woman, middle twenties, walks up carrying a tray of wine glasses. She, like the other servants making their rounds, is dressed in a simple black dress that drops just above her knees. A piece of black fabric is tied around her tiny waist, lending shape to her hourglass form and lavish breasts. She wears no jewelry, no makeup; her little black shoes are flat-soled; she never looks me in the eyes, even when serving me. I take a glass of wine from the tray; she bows her head and turns to Izabel, offering her the same.
Izabel looks at me first, smiles, bats her eyes. I nod and then she helps herself to a glass.
But the servant girl doesn’t offer Nora the same luxury, and this confirms two things: she is the same as ‘Aya’, and the servant girl knows it, because a slave knows another slave just as sheep knows another sheep.
I feel Miz Ghita’s eyes on the three of us, watching, waiting for one of us to fuck up.
Just as the servant girl begins to walk away, I stop her.
I hand my briefcase to Nora; she holds it with both hands down in front of her.
“Girl,” I say, and she halts, turns slowly but stops to face Miz Ghita without looking directly at her.
“Do as he says,” Miz Ghita consents, and then the girl turns to me, keeping her eyes to the floor.
Miz Ghita listens; Trevor Chamberlain sips his wine—he looks at Izabel again, and then Nora.
“Turn around,” I tell the girl.
She turns around. Slowly, so I can examine her; carefully so she doesn’t drop the tray balanced on one hand. She has long dark hair, almost black, that dips past her waist; creamy light caramel skin; deep brown eyes, and full, plump lips that alone could set even the most insensible or calloused man on the brink of sexual beggary.
“Lift one of the glasses,” I tell her.
The girl does exactly as I say, curling the slender fingers of her left hand around the stem of one glass and lifting it. She holds it there, unmoving.
“This one is not on the market, Mr. Augustin,” Miz Ghita speaks up.
I take a casual sip from my glass and say without taking my eyes off the girl, “Anyone can be bought, Miz Ghita; ask Mr. Chamberlain here.” I take another sip. “Don’t you agree?”
Trevor smiles a crooked smile and then joins me in checking out the girl.
It’s important to bond with the buyers, especially in front of the sellers—the sellers don’t like it when the buyers bond because they tend to have words about the merchandise behind the sellers backs—or in front of them—point out the things they don’t like, confer and weigh the pros and cons, shed light on flaws that the other buyer might not have noticed otherwise. But this, too, is all part of the game; buyers are never really friends, they want to point out flaws, over exaggerate them, make them up even, all to dissuade another buyer from bidding too high—or at all—on his merchandise. I really don’t care about the game, or any of this shit; I just want to make Miz Ghita nervous, put her in her place, intimidate her properly by showing her how difficult I can make it for her business if I don’t get what I want in the end.
The servant girl stands before me in all of her extensively learned obedience, never showing an ounce of discomfort even though that tray on her hand, and the other holding the glass in the same position for so long, has got to be taking its toll by now.
Bringing my glass to my lips, I take my time, watching the girl.
“I’m not in the market for a brunette, anyway,” I finally say. “I’m looking for something a little lighter, maybe in a honey. And besides, I don’t like left-handed girls; there’s something…” I wave my free hand in gesture, “…unnatural about them.” I laugh lightly and wave the servant girl away. “Call me superstitious.”
Trevor Chamberlain cocks a brow as his mouth touches the rim of his glass; he appears to be considering my comment—seed planted, score one for me. This particular buyer will now be checking any girls he’s interested in for ‘lefties’, and either offering less than he would have had she been a right-handed girl, or offering nothing at all—what a gullible idiot.
Miz Ghita, clearly perturbed by my pointing out the imperfection, wrinkles her mouth with displeasure, but says nothing, because after all, it would be bad business to argue with the clients in front of other clients.