VIGNETTE - Jan

Jan Mintoff looks like the young Alexander Godunov in the movie Money Pit. Blond hair that rest on his shoulders, the smiling eyes, the chiseled chin and the agility of his body as he moves from his desk to the door of the office to meet me.

"I'm looking for Peter Harrington, is he here?" I ask.

His mouth breaks into a big smile, perfectly crowned teeth flashing.

"No, Peter's out, but he told me you were coming," he says.

And he's a smooth talker, too. God knows Peter Harrington does not even know who I am let alone I'm coming to see him. Jan looks out at the parking lot and points at the red Miata. "Nice wheels you have there."

"Company car." He raises his eyebrows and his eyes bulge. Perhaps because I say "company car" so non-chalantly.

"You must be important!"

I turn to the woman at the desk nearest me. "Are you Mr. Harrington's assistant?"

"Yes, what can I do for you?"

"I would like to see one of your two-bedroom units. My secretary was trying to call this morning to make an appointment..."

The woman starts to stand up but Jan Mintoff comes between us and declares, "I'll attend to this. Don't worry." Turning to me, he says, "I'll show you the best unit in the building."

Hatat house is one of the newest residences in downtown Muscat, an L-shaped, five-story condominium building that the Minister of Petroleum has recommended to the office for my accommodation. In the Minister's words, "total luxury living", with an outdoor regulation clay tennis court, a squash court and an Olympic sized swimming pool. The price has been settled, all I need to do is choose which unit I want to occupy, hence my visit.

Jan Mintoff, though, is obviously in love with the red Miata he saw me drive coming in. "Who are you? You seem very important!"

"I'm not important," I say not hiding my ennui. "My boss only happens to have the right connections."

He consults the folder in his hands. Again the eyes bulge at seeing that our company's patron is the Minister of Petroleum. There are only two other big shots in the Omani government below His Excellency the Sultan: his top adviser and the Petroleum Minister. The Miata indicates my status as only the oil companies can afford to provide their employees with a Miata or other "high end" car.

Presently, we arrive at the 'show' unit - a well appointed two-bedroom apartment with two and a half baths, a large living room, an even larger dining room and a kitchen half the size of the large living room.

"Can we have coffee later on?" he asks as we walk around the apartment.

The afternoon sun shines through the glass doors of the back terrace. Jan Mintoff stands by the glass doors, his back towards the sun. I stand in the middle of the room and when I turn to look at him to ask a question, all I can make out is his silhoutte. Something caught me off guard as I look at him.

He stands with his legs apart and his trousers are thin enough for the light to shine through and I can make out the shape of his legs. Above the knee, mid-thigh, I make out his penis dangling from his boxers. I suddenly burst out laughing. No, I giggle first and that's when I have lost control and I burst out laughing. I hear him say, "What?"

I cover my face with both my hands and look away. I see the half-opened door of the dishwashing machine and I walk over to close it. He is instantly behind me.

"So, can we go for coffee later on?"

"My Miata can't go for coffee with you, young man." I am still laughing and losing composure fast. "And I have a boyfriend who works at the Hotel Intercontinental so I will have to ask permission from him if I can drive my Miata so it can have coffee with you."

"That's mean," he says quietly. "I wasn't interested in your car."

He's a good actor, too.

"I'm sorry," I tell him. "I didn't mean it that way. But thank you for the coffee. Now, can I see the actual unit that had been reserved for me?"

He smiles and we walk out of the show unit.

"What do you do at Atlantic Oil?" His eyes are again smiling. He holds my elbow as we enter the elevator.

"Executive Assistant. A glorified secretary, if you will."

"Wow! I know the British girl who works there. What's her name?" He squints his eyes and flicks his fingers, willing the name to come to his mouth. "Leila?"

"Leslie," I say.

"Leslie!"

And then it dawns on me. Leslie has been telling me about this guy she's dating, one of the rugby players for the city, who has got a really long penis. Not good in bed and not a very bright guy, but his "dick" is good enough for her.

"So what sport do you play, Jan?" I ask.

"How do you know I play sport?"

"Oh," I say, "You look athletic." I can bullshit, too, when I want. "What is it, soccer? Rugby?"

"Rugby." He pulls me towards him, and cups my face with his hands, the fingers sifting my hair. "Coffee, tea or me?"

I burst out laughing. "No, thank you," I manage to say after I slip away from him.

"Don't think so, buddy." I head for the door. "But tell Harrington to have this unit ready by the weekend." All business-like.

"Where can I call you?" He stands against the sunlight again. "Please let me call you." He knows the novelty has worn off.

"At my office. You have the number." I point at the folder in his hand with the car key.

He watches as I drive away in my red Miata.