Fruit Gathering [Kakoli]

Bid me and I shall gather my fruits to bring them in full baskets into your courtyard, though some are lost and some not ripe.

After a short struggle, she finally pulled the zipper over her chest This dress was particularly tight there - well it was tight all over, but especially across her breasts. And that was just how she liked it. It created a certain reaction in the men she interacted with. Someone wanted to meet her. He would be buying her dinner first, and she was supposed to stay for the night. That is what the escort agency told her. And that was what she was prepared for.

For the season grows heavy with its fulness, and there is a plaintive shepherd's pipe in the shade.

Sometimes, a dinner would be enough for these men. Usually, they were ugly or lonely. Always, they were hopelessly stuck within their cages of 'high society' and 'dignity' - and needed an escape. Kakoli - with her soft breasts and thighs that sloped very gently and generously to the plump narrow of her little waist - provided the medicine that many of these sick men needed. They loved to use their filthy hands to touch her, to grab her, to play with the bounteous field of her womanhood. They would make her sick, sometime. Their dirty parts, their painful bodies, their harsh voices, their ugliness - would refuse to be gentle with her. They would thrash her sensitivity around - sometimes - and she would weep.

But then she would be brought back to earth, by the wad of cash that would enter her possession. She looked at the run down flat, that a few other girls lived in, and then she looked at the expensive dress that sat so snugly on her body. She occupied two different worlds. One was that foreign masculine world, and one was the world of herself and the other escorts - the world of femininity.

Bid me and I shall set sail on the river.

She powdered her face with concealer that was lighter than her skin - already altered by lightening cream. Darker eyeshadow was applied. She ran the eyeliner above and then under her eye. The lipstick went on her sweet lips. The real gold of her nose-ring went in. Her long almost-black, almost-red hair was combed to the side. She tied on a golden necklace, golden bangles, golden earrings. Her little feet slipped into those deceptive heels.

Kakoli looked in the mirror. She reached for her purse - and the small handgun that sat within the purse. Just in case. She was not unhappy with what she saw. But she knew her figure longed to be in the sari of her native Bengal.

The March wind is fretful, fretting the languid waves into murmurs.

She quietly exited the flat. Some of the other woman asked her if she had a call. Yes. She answered. Would she be home? No. She answered. Who was she meeting? She didn't know. She answered.

Her neighborhood was scary. The gun was necessary, she knew, from experience. Why didn't she sell the gold gifts for a better home, a better job, a better life? She didn't know. She answered. She was born in poverty and made her home in poverty.

And she was out of place between those beautiful streets, besides those beautiful homes, near those beautiful shops and restaurants of Northern Hill. She did not look out of place. Of course, she was as well dressed as the rest. Her clothing was as expensive as the rest. But her spirit did not belong with the rest. She occupied and was embraced by a world that they did not understand. She merged with the crowd and her spiritual poverty suppressed itself. But a sense of longing - a desire for expression always ate up her deeply passionate soul.

She looked up, at the name of the French restaraunt, and then below, at the scrap of paper with her directions. She was at the right place.

The Bengali woman passed through that moment of self-awareness and introduced herself to her surroundings. She walked into the restaurant.

"Your reservation, madame."

"Black."

"This way."

The man was not there yet. She was early. Why? She didn't know. So she sat down.

The garden has yielded its all, and in the weary hour of evening the call comes from your house on the shore in the sunset.

She hummed the words that existed somewhere within that poem by the famous Tagore.

And she waited.

(Italics is quotes from the first verse of Fruit-Gathering by Rabindranath Tagore. Kakoli and Anthony's first meeting--- Sorry this is so long. /shot)

Anthony couldn't say that this was exactly the sort of thing he did on a regular basis-- but when he did he liked to make sure he would impress. He'd booked this woman who he'd yet to meet (apparently her name was Kakoli, something to make a mental note of) and had booked for the night, also. But he wasn't sure if he'd actually go through with that part yet. He'd still pay her for the time, of course, but if she was ugly then... Well, that didn't bear thinking about.

Exiting his car and leaving his coat locked inside on the car seat, he headed into the restaurant. It was easy for him to know which of the restaurants it was, after all, he'd booked it himself and had now arrived ten minutes before the time he'd said to meet him there. He'd ever openly stated it before, but it was by far his favourite restaurant.

He smiled at the waitress as she asked for his reservation and giving his name before following after her. The almost sickly smile faded from his mouth as soon as she wasn't looking and quickly following after her and pulling the gloves from his hands and eyes scanning the other tables like a hawk for his potential companion for the night.

He visibly twitched at seeing another, less than attractive woman sitting alone on the other side of the restaurant and hoping to god that that wasn't her until the woman stopped, indicating the table to him. Of course a French waiter would not show him all the way to the table when someone else was already there, but her thanked her, none the less, pulling off his other glove.

He was a little taken aback by how pretty she actually was, though he wasn't sure what he was expecting, it certainly wasn't this. He gave her a brief, genuine smile for a moment as he approached before before putting on the usual polite smile and holding out a hand to take the her's and kissing it briefly.

"Kakoli, I presume? It's a pleasure to meet someone as beautiful as yourself." The smile hadn't faded from his lips, just making him look incredibly pleased with himself-- which he was to an extent, in honestly. She was certainly better than he'd been expecting. He might have chosen a less vibrant dress because of his own dislike of attention, but this was no time for nit picking, he decided as he took the seat opposite her.

Tucking the gloves into his pocket and fighting the urge to be anti social as his hand moved in to grab his phone and stopping himself by patting the pin striped pockets and adjusting his suit to compensate for the change in body position. Though all in all it wasn't just pody position that he had to change to pretend that he was actual social like he tried to fool people into thinking he was. After all, the people much prefer a friendly politician to a sour puss like himself.

"So where are you from, Kakoli? I wouldn't like to make assumptions in case I unintentionally offend you," he laughed, his own fingers intertwining with each other as the rested on the table with care not to get his elbows on the table. His attention was drawn away from her for a moment as the rude waitress (well, he deemed her to be rude, but you didn't have to do much for him to consider you rude) had returned, asking what they'd like to drink.

"Whatever the lady would like," he hummed, looking back to his companion for the night with another smile that was not quite as genuine as the first before he hid himself in the menu for the moment.

[[ do not be sorry shhh ]]

She let him take her hand. Few men granted her such a gesture. 

"Oh sir, please don't flatter me. I don't know if I can handle such language from a man as fine looking as yourself." She laughed, feigning shyness as she coyly covered mouth and looked down. Of course she wasn't shy about receiving compliments. Men told her how beautiful she was all the time. Men had on multiple occasions, flattered her appearance and then assaulted the delicacies of her body. Abuse had hardened her sensibilities, his words struck her as superficial.

Raising her eyes from their coyness- she took a good look at the man. He was not unattractive. Rather, he was good looking and most importantly, young.  A little thin, very scrawny - but that did not detract from his good qualities. He was tall, and tall men - though often awkward in bed with the 5' 0" girl - were still her favorite.

Kakoli looked at the waitress, with a small reserved smile, she asked for one of the more expensive wine choices. Not the most expensive by any means - the woman didn't want to ask for so much from a customer that she would not mind maintaining a steady business with. However choosing a cheap wine would make her look cheap. Kakoli knew she wouldn't be able to tell the difference, taste wise - she was not a wine person. However, this was a matter of keeping an image, of saving face.

She was hesitant to tell him where she was from. The agency she worked for engaged in a sort of trafficking that was fairly illegal. Her last action in Kolkata - the accidental murder of her pimp - was also fairly illegal. She was snatched up by the company and told to forgot the land that she came from. She would not forget, but sometime she would pretend to forget. Sometimes she did lie. But India was a big country - she left her origins with the vague 'India.' Though Kolkata was big, it's name made Kakoli's name more traceable. The two names were tied by fate. Kolkata was her secret lover, the forbidden homeland. 

"You are welcome to imagine me from any place. Though I will tell you, I am from India." Her English was perfect, but accented. It would betray her if she said otherwise. "I have lived in New Vida for most of my life, though. My parents moved here when I was just a very small girl." A lie, of course. But one that was not easy to detect.

"And you, sir? I'm going to guess, and hopefully not offend- you are English?" Her reddened lips fluttered into a cheeky, coy smile.

"But first let me say, before the night begins - thank you very much, Mr. Black, it is really an honor for you to take me out like this." she spoke softly with a smile, before grabbing her empty wine glass and leaning just slightly towards him. She put herself in a position, so that with her low cut dress - her cleavage was on full display for her new client. 

Sometimes it was hard to forget these women had so many clients such as himself, though probably not quite as... Fresh as himself. Not that he really thought he was as fresh as he'd used to be, what with having both his younger siblings now grown up and one of the two of them already on their second marriage, it did help to make you feel even older than you were-- but he was getting off topic.

He took a careful mental note about the drink she had ordered, as well about her movements and most of all the way she spoke. He found her accent to be rather pleasant-- Not unlike some people he'd met before back in London. But because of his likening it to people he'd known back in London, it made the concept of her living in an American city since she was a child was something he'd have to strain to believe. Being an expert liar surrounded by expert liars in his business did also help to fish out other people's lies.

But he would not pry into her business further than polite conversation would allow, although the look on his face for that brief moment may have made what he was thinking more clear.

"I am, indeed British. From London to be more exact," He smiled, watching her closely still, "But India? Interesting. I haven't been to India for quite some time-- But it is very beautiful, I think. Have you ever been since your family moved?"

He stopped at the sudden thanks-- Less because he hadn't been expecting that and more because he hadn't been expecting the sudden exposure of cleavage. It had caught him off guard for a moment, eyes taking a little longer than a moment to move back to her face and smiling again, mentally cursing himself for being caught of guard like it was some sort of competition; although it may as well have been a competition for Anthony.

"Oh, please, the pleasure is all mine!" He grinned, now fully composed again and back to carefully watching her for any signs as to not be caught off guard again.

She beamed, he had been caught in her sudden display of boobs. If she caught him that easily, she assumed that it would not be difficult to drag him somewhere dirty tonight. Briefly, she wondered what enthralled him, sexually. She had the whole dinner to prepare. Then tonight, if she got too rough, she would scare him away. If she was too tame, she would leave him wanting someone better. It was critical that she studied him now, to prepare for then. She leaned herself backwards, as not to make it too difficult for him to look in her eyes. She delicatly hid her lips with a sip of water - leaving a slight red stain as she did so.

"Oh, you have been to India?" And you haven't discovered the spiritual realities of the universe? Or did you eradicate poverty? She wanted to ask - however - realizing that it would betray her feigned shyness and possibly upset her customer she tucked her scathing sarcasm to the side. She had seen her customs and people exploited, she had been the subject of that 'spiritually rich but impoverished' painting, and she stood against it now with hostility. But, a comment was not necessary. He didn't say anything.

"I mean, we don't go too often, but we used to go back to visit family every other winter." A lie again. Her family didn't even live in the same place. Ever since her brother married that Pakistani woman, the family broke apart. "But that's really unimportant. As far as things go, my life has been fairly boring. I'd prefer to learn more about you. Where did you travel in India, if you don't mind me asking, sir? Have you traveled a lot?" She needed a part to play. The young Bengali woman believed herself a good actress. Although, rejected from members of the business before: 'because she was too dark' every night, she prove herself a good actress. She fine-tuned herself perfectly, her body, her personality, her everything to fit the role these men wanted her to play. She existed as their canvas, and that was what that filthy gender liked. Rarely, did they get the opportunity to paint a new woman. That power almost always drove them mad with pleasure.

"And do you like London?"

This was all information gathering.

He scowled childishly in response to her grin, crossing his arms over his chest in a brief sulk, missing her reaction that went along with confirming that he had been there. It was only once she continued again that he started giving her his full attention again.

"'Used to'? Do you not really go back anymore, then?" He asked, raising an eyebrow before smiling at her, "And I'm sure your life's been more interesting than you're letting on."

He paused for a moment to pick the menu back up and actually read it this time whilst he decided whether or not to lie. "But I went to Calcutta when I was still at university. One of my friend's family was from there but he'd never been and asked me to go with him," He shrugged, looking up at her. The friend had been a fabrication, but the rest was true. "But I'd like to think I'm fairly well traveled, at least.... But I do prefer London, to be honest. Travelling is interesting and all but it's fairly tiring, in all honesty..."

He trailed off, spotting the waitress coming over to them again with the wine that she had chosen. "You should decide on what you want to eat, if you haven't already. If you don't know any French I can translate some of the names for you if it doesn't say in English."

Her eyes widened, she was not expecting the name of her home city to come from the Brit's mouth. Most of the men she met were well traveled, it was extremely rare that any of them went to India and if they did - they never went to Calcutta. She didn't know how to respond. She wasn't sure if she should reveal that she was from Calcutta or not. He could have been making the fact up to rope her in. Maybe, she was being over-cautious but she did not leave her home on good terms. Her pimp had tried to kill her in a kitchen fire, but she resisted, and in self-defense killed her attempted murderer and accidentally destroyed part of the brothel. And if she came back, it would not be on good terms either.

She wanted to ask him when he went there, where he went, how did he like it. Her last few days were spent in Sonagachi - the red light district. Tourists would go there sometime - and she hoped that this man was not affiliated with the sex trade. She hoped it was mere coincidence. She was getting visually nervous - but after a few moments she lowered her eyes and feigned coyness again.

She didn't absorb the rest of his conversation well enough to gain the important pieces of his personality that he had dropped.

"No, no, really, bad economy, we don't have the money to visit much anymore." She laughed, regaining her composure. "It's all terribly boring, really, sir. I wish you would tell me more about yourself!"

Was that revealing too much? It was a lie, hopefully not a suspicious one.  "But to be honest, I... I can hardly read any of these meals. I am not familiar with French food. What would you recommend for me, sir?"

He narrowed his eyes a little at the way she'd reacted upon mentioning Calcutta-- Perhaps she had realized it was a partial lie? No... Was it... Where she was from? Perhaps. He would go by that assumption for now-- and if it wasn't it was a place she had always wanted to visit.

No you wouldn't look nervous if a place you were interested in was mentioned, you would look excited to talk about it. Perhaps there was someone after her for something and that was why she'd left? It must have been.

He nodded a little at the mention of not having the money to visit. It was entirely plausible. People did not enter her line of work because they were rich, the reason she was doing this and and the reason she was no longer in India had to be related. He didn't respond much to her whilst he analysed her, only coming out with, "I see, I'm sorry to hear that. I'd hate to not be able to go home... But it was quite a beautiful place." He smiled lightly at her, trying to hide how closely he was going to watch her reaction.

"Oh course," He hummed, eyes dropping to the menu again before his brows furrowed in concentration. If he remembered correctly... People from that area liked fish, so it only made sense to suggest one of the fish meals, "Hmm... Probably the Tuna Nicoise? It is just tuna and vegetables, really." He made special care to pronounce the French correctly, as he always did when he wasn't around his French 'friends' around whom he made a special effort to pronounce it as badly as possible. It was always amusing to watch their faces as he veritably butchered their language and it was a good way to ensure that they spoke English with him.

He smiled again at the waitress as she came over with the wine, pouring a glass for them both before leaving the bottle on the table. "May I take you order?"

"Yes, can I have the boeu--" He stopped suddenly, trailing off at realising it probably wasn't the best idea to eat beef in front of an Indian woman. "Uh, coq au vin," he paused, only to be prompted for what he wanted for dessert, realising he'd not suggested anything to her for dessert and wondering what she'd do, "And coeur à la crème with caramelized strawberries, I think. Thank you."

The woman nodded, taking the menu from him now that he no longer needed it and looking to his companion, "And you madame?"

She smiled to hide her indecision. The mention of Calcutta, and the way he responded to her reaction off set the Bengali girl. She was on guard for the smallest things now. It was suddenly a huge decision to accept the offer for fish. If she did accept, then she basically gave away her entire history. He would know she was Bengali - and then he would assume she was from Calcutta - and then he would have access to her entire past. He would arrest her for sure. However, if she didn't accept then he would be on to her. She obviously looked Bengali and to not accept the fish would seem suspicious. It would seem like she was trying to hide her origins. She would be going against the biggest and truest stereotype of her people - that would have to look suspicious. If he did not suspect her of the uproar she had caused back at home - he would suspect her of it now. It was impossible to manipulate this decision in her favor. It was impossible to read what type of answer this man wanted from her.

Swallowing her fears, she smiled. "I'd love whatever you suggest for me," She stated with a noticeably forced tone in her voice.

She looked at the waitress with a more composed smile. "The tuna nicoise and I'd like the same coeur a la creme as well for desert, please." Her French wasn't spoken as well as the Englishman's was - but it was spoken very well who someone who claimed to be unable to read the menu.

She looked down, after the waitress left to bring their orders to the chef. She fidgeted with the purse that sat in her lap. Unbelievable. It was unbelievable that she would have been made so nervous. It was unbelievable - no inconceivable that she responded in such a way. Her reaction was small, hardly visible, but any sort of inconsistency was a stray away from the image the men wanted from her. It was her duty to mold herself in the image that men wanted. It was her duty to disregard herself, her emotions, her history, her humanity. But then here she was - responding in such a human way. Men didn't want this. Mr. Black would not like this. She worked herself over again, worrying herself with thought of reputation, image, wealth and freedom. What she was doing was illegal, it was so easy for these men to screw her over. Prison would treat her worse than Sonagachi did.

But no, she wasn't in immediate danger. Everything would be okay, she told herself.

Faintly, she remembered passing an article recently about a Hindu family killed by extremists in Bangladesh. She looked up at Mr. Black again. Crocodile tears filled her eyes.

"Really, the truth is that my family at home was killed in sectarian violence in Bangladesh. It's such a bad situation back there for us - I can't even dare say we are from Bangladesh! I'm sorry that I lied to you, sir!" Her voice cracked, but she spoke in hushed tones. "Family friends in Calcutta tried to help, that's why the name produced such a strong reaction."

She had never even been to Bangladesh. But she had some family that lived there. Frankly, she didn't have any clue about sectarian violence in the country - but she could probably make something up.

Drying her tears, she gave a desperate, yet hopeful gaze at her date and customer. Biting her lip slight, she dried her fake teary eyes. "It's really so sad, Mr. Black, but I feel so much safer right now here with you."

Kakoli's personality was a little too strong for some people. She was an incredibly dynamic and bombastic young women. And most men, even the weaker ones found entertainment of that. She was a little too much for some men to make a regular out of her. But, she was certainly in demand.

It was almost hard to hide how amused his reaction had made him-- but he managed. He just began to look increasingly concerned the longer she went without talking after she had ordered her meal. He was a little curious about just what she was planning to get out of the situation he'd put her in, he could faintly tell her was planning something.

The story she came out with was certainly a surprise, enough so for him to look a little taken aback. The true question was was this a lie or not. Given that she's already lied to him this evening and the fact that he had seen many a fake sob in his life leant him closer to lying-- but he had no way of proving it.

Would family friends provoke such a reaction? He believed not, but he was never the most reactive and it could just be a case if different people reacting differently. After a long pause he decided that it would be worth calling her bluff on the situation.

"Kakoli..." He stared at a spot on the table for a moment before bringing his eyes to meet hers and mustering the most sincere look he could, "you don't need to lie to me, you know. I work with liars all day long, and if you're worried about anything you should know I value privacy highly so I'll not tell anyone anything you tell me. I promise." He laughed lightly, trying to reassure the woman. It wouldn't exactly go well for him, either, having to explain why he was with a call girl, "besides, it's nice to know I'm talking to an actual person not the equivalent of of a human doll."

"You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to; but I'd rather you didn't lie to me about it," he hummed, sipping on his wine. It was a big gamble to take based on a 'it maybe be a lie', but it would be a much more enjoyable evening if he was right.

This was the first call Kakoli had ever taken where she was had acted so erratically. Most of the men did not care about her past. They did not care how, why or where Kakoli existed. For most men, the call girl served the function of an active and responsive blow-up doll. Most of her customers were old or ugly or simply unsightly. They hired call girls because it was difficult for them to receive sex. This man really was the best looking customer Kakoli had. It seemed odd that he would need a call girl - when he mustn't have had a difficult time finding sex. This customer was difficult and Kakoli was unsure if she was capable of gauging his fantasy woman.

He said he wanted honesty. Men lied a lot. Men expected a lot. Men were shallow creatures and honesty often hurt them. However, Kakoli was getting the sense that this man was exceptionally experienced in the art of differentiating the bullshit from the truth. He wasn't stupid. And when he asked for honesty - Kakoli knew she should probably give it to him. She was quiet for a moment as she composed her thoughts. She was so used to creating herself in a certain image with these men, she almost forgot how to be honest. She almost forgot how to be herself.

"You know, I think in a lot of Western film, the audience is under the presumption that they are watching something that is based off life. However, in much mainstream Indian film - Bollywood - there is not even a presumption of realism. The audience is aware that what they are watching is fake - be it through the gaudiness, the dance sequences, the melodrama, the plot twists. Indian cinema is an absolute pleasure - because it is so unreal. Those of my profession are taught - not be schools - but by experience to create a situation where our customer experiences absolute pleasure. We are taught to create ourselves into the image of your fantasies. We are supposed to be unrealistic. We are supposed to become dolls. You go on actual dates for a realistic experience. But right now, I exist to cater towards you. I am supposed to be the dance sequence of your life that somehow replaces the sensual yet deeply restricted touch that you find in some of your Western films. The gripping emotion behind the touch is hard to show, and it makes the audience uncomfortable. It's difficult to get it right. But the dance is easy. We, the women of my profession are easy, sir." She smiled. Kakoli herself, was raised on the Bengali film tradition. She was raised to a culture which emphasized eloquence and art in all things. Speech was not an exception. She was taught that expression was supposed to be artful and subtle - not obvious. She tried to enter the world of Hindi language film as a dancer, and the ingenuity made her uncomfortable. She didn't get far - before she was forced into a profession even more in-genuine and uncomfortable.

"If you really wanted to talk to an 'actual person' then sir, I would like to ask you what business you have with me. Surely you know, I'm not supposed to exist as an actual person." He wanted honesty, he would get it. If she offended him, it would be a shame. But, clearly, he was difficult. If he didn't appreciate her response, then maybe it wouldn't be that great of a loss. A cheeky grin spread across her face. She took a sip of the wine that matched the shade of her lips.

"I'm guessing you're either a politician or a lawyer. Your personality too is at the mercy of your audience. Is that why you're looking for an 'actual person' from an escort service?" 

It was not clear if she was offended by his language and accusations. As a woman, as an escort, she was told to be a human doll. Did he feel that he was liberating her? Or did he want to liberate himself?  What did he want? It was difficult to please a man who seemed to be claiming that he did not care for pleasure.

He watched her closely as she spoke, looking more interested as he listened to her effigy about her job than he had yet that night and almost smiling at how well constructed her words were. He was fond of literature over poetry, but it did not leave him unable to appreciate it by any means.

"Yes, but I can't say Im very likely to rewatch a film unless I'm able to become emotionally invested in it on it on some level, regardless of how realistic or unrealistic it is," he hummed, "I simply enjoy films with well thought out characters I can understand and films that make me think. I've never come across a doll that fit that description before."

The question about why he had hired her simply made him laugh, "of course I'm aware of that; but we're all a little guilty of wishful thinking sometimes. And I am, indeed, a politician. I didn't offended you with calling you out for acting a little fake, did I?" He paused for a moment, to consider before smirking a little.

"How honest would you like me to be? I suppose it's only fair that I'm honest also. I am... Quote-unquote 'miserable little shit with no friends'," he laughed a little too harshly at that, sipping the drink quickly to try and hide it, "and sometimes I like to pretend I have friends and if I'm going to pay someone to be my friend why shouldn't it be a beautiful young woman such as yourself? If I'd only been interested in a doll that only wanted to please me I'd have hired a prostitute rather than an escort."

It may have been a little blunt, but it was the truth, at least. He very seldom gave that out to people he'd only just met but since she was the first to not be absolutely dumbfounded by the concept or just turned out to be incredibly two dimensional he thought he at least owed her that. "Plus I do find the similarities between two entirely different professions interesting."

Kakoli smiled. She was gauging his interest. How unusual was it that a more genuine personality gauged the man better than one of her acts. 

"Sir, please, every woman has emotional depth, we are just taught to operate under the assumption that you don't want to access it. No woman you speak to is going to be 'realistic.' Whores, politicians, any of your ex-girlfriends or sisters, we all deal with men the same. Whores just paint themselves as caricatures of the idealized woman." Maybe it was going to far to mention the 'sisters' part - but he asked for it. If the man had a sister, Kakoli was confident she was no less than the woman.

"But it's fine, sir. I have worked with politicians before, they have all really been similar. I would say that the men of your profession have a deeply repressed sense of self. You can see that in bed." She chuckled. Sometimes these men went crazy. Most of Kakoli's experience with S&M came from her interaction with
those customers. The Bengali woman could go crazy and she often did. 

She was sure this man would want something kinky at night. He described himself as boring, he liked being treated honestly and he was seemingly normal looking. It would be crude to ask such things, and Kakoli was not a crude woman, so she just wondered.

"Oh, sir, I am sure you aren't an entirely unlikeable person. You are good looking, probably well educated. You must have some friends or family that you can go out with?" There must have been something else. Clearly he liked weird sex.

"I know, I did not meant to imply that and if I've offended you-- I apologize," He responded, watching her closely. The response was almost automatic. It was not uncommon for hm to apologise for things instinctively; including those who had bumped into him and once a door he had pushed rather than pulled.

Dropping the subject all together he just laughed at the comment about politicians. "Do you think so? I don't personally think I have a repressed sense of self. I know that the person I pretend to be when I'm out in public and the person I actually am are two entirely different personas... Though they do tend to influence each other at times."

"Thank you, I think," he chuckled, before just sighing, "It's a combination of being likable and unfriendly, I think. I do tend to be a bit misanthropic at times... Which leads me into the probably unsurprising fact that I have no-one I would consider a friend rather than an acquaintance and as we speak my younger brother and sister are at a party."

He stopped, realising he was probably complaining too much at that point, clearing his throat and shifting in his seat a little awkwardy before smiling at her again, "But enough of that, this isn't some weird Catcher-in-the-Rye-esque situation... Well perhaps slightly since i just want to talk at the minute. Do you read often?"

A soft and heart-felt laugh escaped from Kakoli's lips. She couldn't help herself at the Catcher in the Rye reference. She had read the book before - before it all - before she entered the world of prostitution - before she was so absolutely desolate. Kakoli did not finish school, but she was enrolled in an English language school before the cost of education conflicted with the cost of survival. But she did remember every book she read. And she remembered - fresh out of school, fresh out of her very poor but relatively normal  life - an incident where she was in that Catcher-in-the-Rye-esque situation. She laughed then. And she had been in those situations a few other times. They were always funny, sometimes pleasant as long as she got payed.

"It's all fine, sir. At least, you are able to seem honest. Or, we're able to engage in a genuine conversation. That is very rare amongst your crowd." Her hand lingered on to the wine-glass. She didn't really like the taste of it, but it was comfortable to be able to do something with her hand. She lifted the glass slightly.

"Yes, mostly Bengali language novels and poetry." And though she was without a doubt an amateur, she also tried to write some from time to time. But that life was mostly a secret.  "I've read many pieces of English literature, but I've always found that there is something..." She paused for a moment, thinking of the correct word. "Amiss, while reading in an adopted language. The poetry of our first language is a default in our mind. When we read in another language, we are reading it through a lens of our first language." She smiled, taking a sip of the wine.

"So though I may be fluent in your language, it's impossible for me to understand the rhythm and poetry of your language under the terms that you understand it in. And likewise, though your nation can read the work of Tagore, and award him for his greatness, you won't understand his genius in the same way we do."

Kakoli loved these types of discussions. Yet, she rarely had them. Her family members used to speak about such things, but when they split up that stopped. The conversations ran dry with the love that used to unify them. Interestingly, he spoke negatively of his family situation. She would love to hound him on that - later - though. But initially, she was dismissive. All these upper-middle-class white families had some sort of invented tragedy.

"And you? Are you well-read, or do you just claim to be?" She laughed at her own joke. She would believe that this man was well-read, of course, he seemed it. But she had so many clients who just claimed to be, who thought that it made them seem more meaningful or wiser or something. Kakoli never had the chance to call them out. She just held back irritation.

"It's my job to act honest. But I'm trying my best to be genuinely honest. Is it convincing?" he laughed, looking pleased that she had actually gotten and laughed at his reference. The smile faded as he listened, a natural frowner as he considered things and nodding. "No I agree. I've read some novels in French and then been berated for not understanding it in the same way a Frenchman did-- thinking about it I've not really read any poetry in another language... I'd imagine that it's even worse then."

His brow furrowed deeper as he thought, intertwined fingers shifting a little, "I'm not overly fond of translations, either, usually. I feel as though you have to read at least two of three different ones before you actually get an actual feel for what's going on."

Was he well-read? He supposed the question itself was subjective, pausing for a moment with an 'ahh' whilst he thought. "I think I am... but there's always someone who's better read than you when you think about it." He had, initially, studied English Literature for his degree at Oxford and only realised after his first year that the potential careers conflicted with his love of money and that was his other favourite hobby crossed out as a career. "Do you get many people claiming that they've read a lot, then?" He asked, grinning a little at realising why she was laughing, "Do you watch a lot of film, also?"

"Yes, as hard as we try, I am not sure if we can ever understand anything in the same way. So I suppose that can go for non-translations as well. Maybe we aren't meant to understand each other. Is that good or bad?" She smiled, there were few people that Kakoli could speak about her interests with. Kakoli thought highly of her own intellect - and she was not afraid to admit it. Sometimes it would turn people off - but this man was a man of learning, he must like these types of discussion. And Kakoli didn't consider herself arrogant, she was honest with herself.

"You would be surprised just how arrogant some people can be, Mr. Black..." she began, with a pause, as if she was leaving time to remember something. "Well no, you are a politician. I guess it wouldn't really surprise you." And an Englishman- but she wasn't going to include that part. It wasn't that she knew many English people - but she had read much to suggest that they were a more arrogant group of people.

"Ah," she blushed a bit - when he asked about the films. She did love the Bengali language films of her home city. No, she didn't just love them, she was raised into them. "Yes, I am rather fond of a number of Bengali-language films.
They are quite unconventional from the typical Indian film. Bengali films draw off our strong and extraordinary literary, musical and visual tradition. Our films - the ones I prefer - focus on art more than entertainment. Which, is quite the opposite from Bollywood film - those run on pure entertainment. Naturally, I find pleasure in those films, but except for the case of a few, I am left in want of more. Film, like literature needs beauty and meaning."

She didn't want to admit her experience with the film industry. She had tried acting before - and could not find a way into the industry. She had played minor roles - bystanders, beggars, dancers, but nothing more.

The waitress finally came with the food that the pair had ordered. Kakoli's meal looked nice - though odd. But she had been a call-girl long enough now that she was getting used to these types of meals. It was fish - and though fish would be prepared differently by different types of people - it always did taste good. She waited for her date to start eating first.

"Now tell me," she lifted her fork. "This type of conversation doesn't bore you? Are you as intellectually stimulated by an uneducated call girl than your highly educated colleagues?" A small grin lighted across her face.