Free Finnish Wood by Kojo Black Page A

pleasantly as she walks. Her face, arms and midriff had bronzed easily in the sun and her lustrous black hair falls nearly to the small of her back. Laughing, she explained that every summer all manner of people would approach her and begin babbling in Spanish, assuming her to be Caribbean or Latin American.
    In any event, I had a social engagement in St. Petersburg at around the same time as her book signing. So I suggested we make it a joint expedition. I was as delighted as she was excited, and in two weeks we were on our way to Finland.
    From London, she and I and a brace of press coordinators flew to Helsinki. The flight is not a long one and the plane did not need to be luxurious. Still, it was functional and comfortable and I did not resist the urge to doze.
    My dreams were peculiar; flitting between incongruous events, as dreams can when one sleeps fitfully. But, as I became more comfortable in slumber, my dreams became longer and more cohesive.
    I stood in a completely spherical room. The room was painted with lavender swirls. Across the room was a door that appeared to be made from upholstered purple suede. Aisha appeared from behind me, as though she’d been there the whole time.
    â€œHow long have you been waiting?” she said.
    I didn’t know. So I didn’t say anything.
    Aisha just smiled and touched my face gently with her fingertips. She backed away from me and beckoned me to follow before turning and walking toward the door. We crossed the floor together and, when we arrived at the door, Aisha pulled it open. She craned her neck around it, before flashing me a licentious smile, as though she was looking at something she shouldn’t on the other side. She held her finger to her lips and once again beckoned me to her.
    I peered round, over her head, to find a large room in which there stood a number of people, bewildered and drenched in oil. We were definitely indoors, but the light was of the most dazzling sunlight, as though we were outside. Oil oozed from the walls, creating slow-moving waterfalls and making little tidal pools here and there around the room. In places, oil fountains gurgled up from the floor, while elsewhere oil gurgled in streams and rivulets away into the distance. And everywhere the sunlight made the amber liquid sparkle like gold.
    I made to enter the room, but Aisha held me back.
    â€œWait,” she whispered. “It’s about to start.”
    The people in the room were slightly built, brown and strong. Their light cotton clothing was saturated with oil and it hung heavily and uncomfortably about them. The men struggled to hold up their trousers under the weight of the liquid, and the dresses of the women trailed heavily along the floor. Their hair, faces, and bodies were smooth and slick, and their clothes stuck to them, outlining every contour and bulge. The women tried to preserve some modesty by pulling the viscous fibers away from their bodies, but it was no use. The thin, saturated cloth covered their sleek frames and simply sprung back into place, growing tighter with every tug. The unctuous fabric clung to their thighs, their buttocks, their tight bellies and small breasts. The fabric rudely and conspicuously highlighted the delta at the apex of their thighs, as it clung and sucked and sought to enter those secret crevices.
    The men looked to each other with expressions of despair as their clothes grew heavier and heavier, and more and more useless. Between the weight of the fabric and the frictionlessness of their skin, the men eventually allowed their ineffective trousers to fall from their slight, muscular bodies. One by one, the gooey garments slid to the floor. There was almost a sense of relief at the inevitable. The men stepped free of their pants as they pulled their oil-logged shirts up and off over their heads. Their strong, healthy bodies and work-chiseled torsos shone in the light. Here and there the odd smile began to crease the lips of