29 January 2022 06:00 am Views - 318
We landed in Berlin in the thick of winter, when I say ‘we,’ I was accompanied by one of my closest friends and companion in mayhem; a friendship that has lasted three decades and continues to this day. I was there to produce an event and he was there on business of a ‘high flying nature.’ Having settled into our hotel rooms we met in the lobby of our hotel, the night was still young and as most travelers do, we looked around to see where we could go to experience the much-vaunted night life Berlin is known for. With another friend in tow we decided to head for a bar as our first stop.
Armed with an address provided by a friend, with absolutely no idea of where we were headed to, we hailed a taxi and set off for the night . The name of the place we had been given sounded exotic enough to arouse our curiosity, ‘Arabian Nights,’ shades of Ali Baba and the forty thieves, harems and houris come to mind.
The taxi pulled up down a deserted street in what seemed like a quiet residential area, wondering if by some chance we had got the address wrong, we waved the piece of paper under the cabby's nose to be certain that this was the place, he nodded and pointed to the door of a house, a large imposing two storied edifice with none of the usual chaos of cars and people one would normally expect to see outside a bar or nightclub,
We approached, and much to our relief, a very discreet sign on the door indicated we had arrived at our destination. Upon knocking on the door, a gentleman who was built on the lines of a professional boxer waved us in, I was expecting to be patted down and almost every mobster movie I had seen flashed through my mind. By this time, while my high-flying companion turned on the charm and greeted the heavy at the door with his usual aplomb, all I could think of was getting in there and out in one piece, alive and kicking preferably.
Lo and behold, from the foyer another door led straight into a lovely cozy bar, alive with people nursing the tipple of their choice and carrying on animated conversations, waitresses looking as if they had stepped straight out of the pages of fashion magazine, making certain that none of the customers went thirsty, and presiding over the bar a magnificent example of womanhood. Smooth chocolate colored skin, on rather statuesque lines she oozed sensuality from the top of her head to her stiletto encased toes. The three of us with almost telepathic consensus headed straight for the bar and perched on the stools provided for the weary visitor to sit and imbibe and handed ourselves over to the ministrations of the lady (of the liquid kind of course).
Looking around drink in hand, it was then that realization began to dawn that all was not as it seemed. Waitresses kept disappearing behind the doors with the customers to what I presumed were other parts of the house. The ladies around the bar were friendlier than usual. I’m used to a friendly sociable smile, being met with a hard stare at most watering holes. It was a new experience to have warm friendly smiles coming back with machine gun regularity. Realization began to gradually dawn that we were in, what is described among civilized company, as a house of ill fame, or by some others as a brothel. But by whatever name we wished to describe the establishment we were in; it was certainly not your normal run of the mill bar or club. There was much more on offer here than liquid nourishment.
Quite sure that none of the clientele in this establishment understood Sinhalese I quickly communicated my discovery to my two fellow roisterers who not surprisingly were quite happy at the prospect of having arrived at such an unexpected haven of friendliness. It was then that I made my second discovery my friend had been having an animated conversation at the bar with the chocolate goddess, it was coming up to that time of the night when replete with the liquid gold so lovingly prepared by the distilleries of far-away Scotland, my dear companion was preparing to invite the lady to visit our island home. He asked her to show us the sights of Berlin or whatever line he would come up with and he had a countless number of them in his arsenal (I have been privy to most of them). Perhaps the fact that I was the only one from the trio sipping on a soft drink or it was years of experience being able to identify a musical note going awry that first made me aware that this beautiful, dusky damsel had a rather deep voice, too deep a voice to go with the package that was in front of my eyes. Gentleman, I whispered, "the lady is a Gent," I was immediately referred to opticians back home. Eric Rajapakse and numerous others, offers to make immediate appointments were made, and my assessment of the feminine physique was questioned vehemently.
I had to extract ourselves from this rather delicate situation without giving offense to the lady behind the bar, and we had a good reason not to. She was bigger than any one of us, and those stilettos had points on them that only a circus performer could balance on, and then inspiration dawned, I said, "watch her Adam’s apple.” I used her for want of a better description, the three of us focused intently on the neck of the lady and there it was, bobbing merrily away, a very pronounced Adams Apple. That put together with the low timbre voice that would have had Barry White go green with envy put the seal on it. We paid our bill and quietly stole away into the night. My friend to this day insists that the lady may have been a tramp but was certainly not of the male gender. I am just glad that we did not have to discover the truth of that in any manner other than the good old apple test. I have no idea if the much-vaunted apple keeps the doctor away, but it certainly helped keep my companion away from what could have been an encounter that would have been unforgettable to say the least.