He was too close, I could smell him. He wore a musky perfume, thick, oriental. I could taste it in the back of my throat, and under it, he smelled of sweat.
I cleared my throat and edged away from him slightly, carefully pulling my hand away. "I want to be a dancer," I told him, "Or a choreographer if I'm not good enough..."
"A dancer!" His eyebrows rose. Was he amused or scornful? He sounded like an adult reacting to a five-year-old admitting his ambition to be an astronaut.
"Yes," I said. "I'm studying at the university, under Madame Roselle. She's brilliant! She was a prima ballerina at the National Ballet..."
He smiled and slid his hand down my arm, recaptured my hand. "I've made culture and education a priority of my administration," he said.
"It is one of the triumphs of the revolution that every young man and woman in Belvaria can attend university, no matter how rich or poor their families are."
His tongue came out and touched the exact center of his upper lip, then retreated like some animal scuttling into its den.
His mouth widened into a smile. "This is what you and those young ones at the protest don't understand, little Dita If it wasn't for me you wouldn't be protesting, you wouldn't be students. You'd be working the fields, scrubbing floors, sweeping streets."
He raised my hand to his lips and kissed it. His mouth was wet from his tongue, slimy. "My little Dita wouldn't be a dancer!"
"But," I whispered. I was afraid, but I remembered Carlos' eyes, his pretty pouty lips, and said what he would have said. "But so many students disappear..."
The Generalissimo -- Papa Juan -- looked sorrowful and nodded. "There is an epidemic spreading across our country because of the Americanos, Dita. They are stealing our young ones, our future from us, and selling them, trafficking them."
"Trafficking?" I asked, dazed. "But surely... The army..."
He shook his head sadly. "The army has failed to protect the children, and it is my greatest shame. We are even now implementing changes. We will be concentrating our forces in the streets of our cities, not on the borders. What is the use of protecting the borders against invasion if they are stealing the young from their homes?"
"I... I see," I whispered. "Am I safe? Here? Will I... Be trafficked?" Would I be going back to the gray room, is what I meant.
He laughed again, throwing back his head on his thick neck, flashing big teeth. "No, no!" he cried. "My little Dita is safe, she is my special friend, is that not so?"
I smiled back, but I remembered the gray room, and the meaty man's hand pushing up my skirt, fumbling for my panties. I wondered if I would be back there if I didn't prove to be a satisfactorily devoted little friend.
I raised my head and looked him in the eye and gave him my best smile. "I am honored to be your friend, Papa Juan."
I squeezed his sweaty hand, and inhaled deeply, drawing the smell of him into my lungs. I remembered my grandmother's stories.
Oh, the boys who rode the tiger could never get off, never, never. Because then the tiger would see he was fresh meat, and devour him.
I was fresh meat, so I smiled widely, admiringly, and giggled childishly. That was another mistake, but I wasn't to know that for many years.
MC
