A Kiss is Just a Kiss.

They say revenge is a dish best served cold. This is a tale of revenge, served up like a dish of hot chilly chicken, Chinese style.

There was, in one of Colombo’s five-star hotels, a singer, a crooner in fact, and a very good one at that. Equipped with rugged good looks and a voice to match, he crooned and mooned over a variety of ladies that passed through the luxurious lobby, invariably sharing the rest of his night with one of them at the end of his stint; usually at the nightclub of the hotel he sang in. I happened to be friends and de facto Manager of the aforesaid crooner, and one fine evening decided to drop in on my protégé. I walked in towards the tail-end of his performance for the evening and noticed he was paying a good deal of attention to an absolutely stunning example of the female species. She was obviously of far Eastern origin; alabaster skin, hourglass figure and had all the males in the lobby under her spell.

Hovering around her, was the Lobby Manager of said hotel. He was a gentleman who hated our singing friend with an envious passion. This hatred was fueled by our singer’s success with the ladies, while the said Manager was somewhat lacking in that department. His hatred manifested itself in his using of authority to make our singer’s life as uncomfortable as possible in as many ways he could possibly think of. Tonight, was no different. The Manager hovered plying the lady with drinks and attention, the crooner crooned and had her moving to the sound of his voice (very similar to the technique used by snake charmers, just replace the flute with the voice), and the inevitable drama played out with our crooning singer leaving in the direction of the nightclub with the lady in tow. At this juncture, let me make it clear that the Lobby Manager and our singer maintained an outward civility towards each other and were on talking terms, had they not been, the night might have ended very differently for our unfortunate Lobby Manager.

Shifting our scene of action now to the nightclub where the dancefloor was pulsating to frenzied dance moves by Colombo’s jet-set busily testing the elasticity of their limbs, which I am quite certain they would regret the next morning. The singer and his lady friend were taking a twirl around the floor, and from my vantage point of the dance floor I could see something was amiss. He had her held close to him and I could just see his face over her shoulder and from an expression of puzzlement he proceeded to a broad smile and an almost wolfish grin (did I mention our crooner was possessed of a sense of humor, which put mildly could be described as mischievous, but at worst positively devilish). Enter stage left through the doors of the club, our old friend the Lobby Manager, still on a quest for feminine companionship. My singing friend deposited his lady friend with me and went over to the Manager where after a quick conversation they arrived at our table. Singer and Manager seemed to have called a truce for the night or so it seemed. A few moments later our Manager invited the lady on to the dance floor and my singing companion watched with a constant smile almost pasted on his face. By this time, I was confused, but didn’t say anything since I have found conversations in a nightclub over blasting music is an invitation for laryngitis.

After some time, our Manager popped up again to his now bosom buddy and asked to borrow his car keys, with much winking accompanying the request which could have been misinterpreted as a nervous twitch. I did place the correct interpretation on it however surmising that our managerial friend was off to the vehicle for what is described in some circles as a little bit of slap and tickle. Having pocketed the said keys he was off showing a turn of speed that would have put a racehorse to shame, with the lady from the orient in tow. Five minutes hadn’t passed when the Manager dashed through the doors of the club like a jack rabbit. He looked disheveled and in some kind of shock. He passed by us at top speed and headed for the toilets. Consumed with curiosity I followed to find the man vigorously washing his mouth and gargling with such violence that I feared for his tonsils. I offered my assistance but was met with no answer. In fact it seemed our managerial friend had taken a vow of silence and fully intended keeping it that way.

I came back to find my friend the singer rolling with laughter and it was not until the next day I got the full story. It seems that my singer while dancing with his beautiful companion in an octopus-like embrace  had realized that there were some parts of the anatomy which the female species generally didn’t possess down under (and I am not referring to the continent). Seeing his old foe the Manager enter the club, his devilish sense of humor had given him the idea for revenge and he had approached our Manager, sung the praises of the lady (let’s call her that), and made up a story which precluded him from succumbing to the lady’s charms. Hence, in a magnanimous gesture of friendship he handed her over to the hospitality of the Manager and the rest we know.

Later from a description given by the Manager who still had no inkling that his singing buddy had prior knowledge of the lady’s peculiar attributes, I gathered what had transpired in the car. The Manager imagining Christmas had arrived early, had set to work without any further ado and engaged in a session of passionate kissing which would have had a Frenchman go green with envy. Whilst engaged in this exercise he had let his hands wander down past the equatorial line, but instead of meeting the curves and valleys he was expecting to meet, he had hit a most definite bump in the road. When the first shock and horror passed, he had extracted himself from the embrace he was in at the speed of light and that was when I saw him flash by in his search for water with the eagerness of a camel spotting an oasis in the desert. My friend the singer never had any problems with him thereafter. After all he was the keeper of his secrets. The Manager has a decided allergy to Chinese food as it seems to bring on associations he would rather forget.

For some strange reason, whenever I see him the song from the movie Casablanca runs through my head, the one that goes, “a kiss is just a kiss…”