Carefully slipping my hand into his shirt, I touched the cloth of the t-shirt over his stomach, heated by the body underneath. The music drifted away from me. Over the rushing in my ears, I loudly heard his fast, shallow breaths coming through parted lips, his stomach under my hand rising and falling in time.

Then I moved into him, my right hand sliding around his waist, diving deep into his clothes, pulling the left hem of his shirt from his pants in the process. I felt him letting go of the horse behind me. His eye lids flickered shut. His mouth was dry both from arousal and from drinking wine; he still tasted of it, sweet and bitter. Arms closed around me.

And then I pulled him down with me.

***

I'd never been one of the party people, not during school and not during university, either. But being a Junior Lawyer, stuck somewhere between the Bar Exam and the Bench Exam, the parties are the best thing. You've made it. You've passed the Bar Exam. You stumble down the stone steps of court, and for a while you are so high, you think it just can't get better than this and nothing will ever matter to you again. For years you have been studying, preparing, worrying, and suddenly you are somebody, a young academic in the second half of your twenties with the world at your fingertips. In the morning you've been nothing but a nerdy student, and in the afternoon police officers click their heels when you as much as look at them funny. That's a turn of events to set anyone's head spinning.

Though having already worked in court for a few months and having spent the same amount of time with the prosecution, that was still the state of mind in which I came to the West-German Consulate General in Los Angeles, a few months in an attorney's office in Japan fixed for a follow-up, the booked ticket already in my pocket. I had spent a year in university in Japan and was looking forward to returning to the country. LA was the icing on the cake; summer, sunshine, a few months away from court in a place where nobody knew your name. It was the last time before the seriousness of the legal profession would require a more settled behaviour, and my colleague Christina and I were determined to make the very best of it. The Consulate didn't really have much work for lawyers anyway. So we set to working the parties whenever an official invitation was passed down to us.

One of the best parties was a hotel opening on a Friday night. The food was superb, when your champagne glass was empty you were given a new one, and the music was live. We didn't know anyone, but lawyers are good at keep-talking-when-you-haven't-got-a-clue, and by the time most of the food had been eaten and the music had become funkier, we had found ourselves a fine group of party people consisting of the hotel executive, the engineer and the team of interior designers from Hawaii, all men in their late thirties safe for one lady. We sat around a table in the hotel bar dinking Veuve Clicquot, talking, laughing and clearly being up to no good. The party was like a bubble; local politicians, diplomats, artists, money, and two little lawyers who were having a ball - or were at least trying their very best to.

One of the artists present was Michael Jackson. He merged with the bubble, stood talking with one group of people, then with another. My colleague didn't show any interest in him, though I pointed him out to her. "He's weird," she said. "He's no fun."

Granted, he did stand around holding on to a glass of what might have been orange juice, clearly not being one of the party folks. But when the Champagne bottle at our table was empty, and I noticed him standing alone for a moment - watching the band, maybe - I offered to get a new one from the bar. The orange labelled bottle in hand I casually walked over to him.

"Hello, good evening. How are you?"

"I'm fine," he smiled friendly. "And you?"

"Oh, I'm great! It's a wonderful party, a pleasure to be here." I paused, then, "I'm sorry! My name is Anna. I'm from the West-German Consulate General." That was always the door opener.

"Michael," he offered his hand, and I shook it. "You're working for the German Consulate?"

"Yes. I'm a legal consultant there. My colleague and I," I pointed with my head at the table across the room, "have only been in LA for about a month, so we hardly know anybody tonight. But everyone is extremely friendly. What brings you here?"

"I'm friends with __________,"and he indicated a person in the crowd that I couldn't make out. I had forgotten the name before he had finished pronouncing it, but I nodded nonetheless. We went on talking about the party, the band, the weather, the hotel.

After a few minutes - my colleague was already signalling for me to get my act together and bring the bottle over -, someone interrupted our small talk.

"I'm sorry to have to lead you away from that young lady, Michael," he said pleasantly, "but I would like to introduce you to __________."

"That's okay," I smiled. "I'm asked for anyway." We said our good-byes and nice to meet you and walked off in separate directions.

The party progressed, the band went home and was replaced by a disc jockey, formal jackets were taken off, ties were loosened, and people started dancing. I danced with several men, not knowing the name of a single one of them. One time I saw Michael Jackson dancing politely by the side of the dance floor with the lady from the interior design team, but otherwise he was lost in the crowd.

As the party was getting more and more champagne drenched, I was dancing with the hotel executive, whom everybody called Danny. It was a foxtrot, and he was a self-assured dancer, swirling me around and making a show of it, having a good time. He bent me backwards, and as he held me securely I allowed him to bend me till my hair touched the floor, enjoying the funny sight of formal dresses and suit pants upside down.

And there he was, Michael Jackson, standing with his shoulder turned in my direction, but looking straight at me through a corridor between heads and shoulders, with - was it interest? Disapproval of us making such a show? The expression was hard to discern upside down. Maybe we were dancing off beat - I couldn't have cared less. Then Danny pulled me up to his shoulder again.

As he turned us around, Michael came back in sight, this time the right way around, still looking at me. I flashed him a joyful laugh. He smiled and looked to the floor.

When we came round next time, the corridor had vanished and I couldn't see him anymore.

The song came to a close. While Danny returned to the table, I remained in the middle of the floor scanning the crowd for Michael Jackson. I was in the mood to ask him for the next dance. No point in just staring at me. And he had better not tell me he couldn't dance! But he was nowhere to be seen, and as I couldn't by rights raid the hotel for him to drag him back onto the dance floor, I finally returned to the table, too.

I didn't see him again, though I kept my eyes open for him. He must have left at some point.

The party went on until the bar ran out of French champagne, and staff started to clean up. The engineer picked up a red rose that had fallen off the decoration and gave it to me. As I was standing around, Danny walked by me from behind and bit off half of the blossom, chewing delightfully. When I offered him the second half he ate that, too. My colleague was more than a little tipsy. Taxis were called. Our group of party folks moved on to another bar, and yet to another after that.

It was some days later that I returned to my desk from some assignment to find the phone ringing. It was Jane, the lady from the entrance.

"There's been a call for you," she said. "Mr Michael Jackson is asking you to call him back. He left a number."

"Alright. I'll do it right away. Did he say what he wanted?" I asked into the receiver.

"No, he said he knows you from a party."

"Oh. Okay. What's the number?"

I noted it down, hung up and gave my colleague on the desk opposite mine a blank look.

"Who was it?"

"Just the entrance. But she said Michael Jackson called the Consulate asking for me."

"That Michael Jackson?"

"Looks like it. He said he knows me from a party."

"You talked to him, didn't you? Okay, I'm curious. What did you say to him?"

"Nice tie!"

"Really?"

"Actually, I don't think he was wearing one. No, nothing fancy as far as I remember."

"Well, must have been something he liked, anyway." She winked at me. "What did he want?"

"He didn't say. Maybe a visa."

"He wouldn't need to request the legal department for a visa."

Well, that was certainly true. Raising my eyebrows I reached for the phone. "Let's just call and find out."

It rang, then a man's voice answered. From all I could tell, it was not Jackson himself.

"Good afternoon, my name is Anna. I'm calling from the West-German Consulate General Los Angeles. I'm trying to return Mr Jackson's call."

"Mr Michael Jackson?"

"Yes, Sir."

"The singer?"

I gave the receiver a surprised look and considered the possibility. "I think so. Is there more than one person by that name around?"

"And he called himself?"

"I wasn't on the phone, but from what I understand, it seems that he called himself, yes."

"And you've been given this number, ma'am?"

"Yes, that's correct, Sir. Why? I'm sorry, is there something wrong? Do I have the wrong number? Maybe I misdialled or didn't hear it right."

"No, ma'am, I think you got the number right. It's just... Erm..." he seemed troubled. "Maybe you might want to call the management, ma'am. They are probably more qualified to help you."

"Of course. If you think that's what I should do, then I'll do that."

"I think that's what you should do, ma'am."

I was given a new number and dialled it. This time a woman answered the phone and judging from the surrounding noises I had been connected to an office. I explained the situation to her.

"Well, I don't think we have been calling you, but... I see he's free. Hold on, ma'am, I'll connect you to his manager. Maybe he knows something about it."

"Thank you, that'd be lovely."

I was connected, and a man's voice came on, giving a name I didn't catch. Patiently, I started my story over. He listened intently.

"We didn't call ye!" he said after I had broken it down to him. "If he called ye, and he gave ye a number, ye should call that."

"I did, but they sent me here. I take it, you don't know anything about it?"

"No, Miss. What number have ye been giv'n?"

I repeated the number to him.

"That's the dance studio. He should be there. They should jus' get him on da phone!"

"Oh, well," I said suddenly concerned, "I don't want to interrupt..."

"If he gives out that number he gotta deal with being called there, Miss. Jus' call 'em and say I said they should get 'im on da phone!" he chuckled.

"Alright. Thank you. I'll do that, then."

"Bye, Miss."

I hung up and looked at my phone for a moment, reluctant to call a studio of whatever sort. Then making a face I pick up the receiver again and dialled the original number a second time. There was the male voice answering again.

"Hello, this is the West-German Consulate again. We've spoken to each other a moment ago. I've spoken to his manager and he's sending me back to you."

"I see..." was all of an answer he had to offer, followed by silence.

"Look, it's as follows. I'm trying to return a call. That seems problematic. Can you take a message?"

"Yes, ma'am, I can do that."

"Alright. Please let Mr Jackson know that I tried to return his call but I couldn't get through." 'Just get him on the phone' seemed inappropriate.

"Yeah, well... Well, hold on, ma'am."

Then he said something away from the phone that I didn't catch. The answer I couldn't hear at all, but there must have been one, because I heard him speak again, the only word I could make out being 'Consulate'.

"Oh, yeah, good," came the answer, now considerably closer to the phone. There was some shuffling as the receiver was handed around, and then I heard Michael Jackson's somewhat airy voice speaking into the phone.

"Hi. Hello." Then I could hear him smile.

Involuntarily, I sat a bit straighter, leaning forward on my desk. My colleague raised her eyebrows in amusement.

"Hello. This is Anna from the West-German Consulate General. I was trying to return your call. I'm sorry, I wasn't available earlier today. How may I help you?"

"Oh!" he laughed a little. Then apparently a door was closed, for the background noise disappeared.

"Hi," he said again.

"Hi," I returned friendly but a little confused, having the strong impression of talking to a child. "How may I... You did call earlier, didn't you?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, good. So is there something I can do for you?" I said encouragingly.

"Yeah," he said and nothing more.

"Are you going to let me know?" I asked somewhere between amusement and confusion.

"Yeah," he chuckled.

"Okay, fire away." By now my colleague was really enjoying herself.

"We met at that hotel opening," he said off topic.

"Yes, we did." I made a helpless gesture at Christina.

"I wished we could have talked a bit more. But I had to go."

"Oh, yes, well. It couldn't be helped. Maybe some other time." Yes, as talking was clearly his speciality!

"Yeah!" He said enthusiastically by his standard. "So I was wondering if maybe you would eat dinner with me."

I blinked. And I seriously asked myself if I was feeling like spending an evening making this kind of conversation. All due respect for Michael Jackson, but a dinner at which you can't find anything to say is a horrible thing!

"I promise I'll be better conversation!" he said quickly into the occurring silence. "It's just, I'm shy talking on the phone, you know..."

And then again, eating dinner with Michael Jackson is something you can tell your grandchildren about, no matter how it goes.

"Oh, erm, yes, sure, why not." I wasn't so sure about it anymore after I had said it. What was I getting myself into?

"Yes? Oh, that's great! Erm, there's one more thing... It's a bit complicated..."

"Okay?"

"Erm, do you think you could come to my ranch? I'm sorry, I know that's odd! But, you know, going out with me isn't fun. There're people everywhere, cameras everywhere. They would even poke them in my soup, if they could! They put microphones in the flowers. There's no getting grid off them..." His voice had assumed a pleading tone. Then he exhaled. "I just would like to eat dinner, and that's how it is."

"Well, where do you live?" Somehow I felt oddly defeated.

"Close to Santa Ynes. That's about two hours from LA..."

"I got a car." What was I doing here?

"Oh, that's good!" He sounded relieved. "When would be good for you?"

I thought quickly. "Oh, I don't know. What's good for you? Maybe Tuesday?" I considered that Tuesday would be extraordinarily good. On Wednesday the Secret Service would check the Consulate for wires, and as their machinery was emitting radioactivity, people had to leave their offices while they worked. To keep the chaos to a minimum all personnel who weren't absolutely necessary to keep the place in working order were asked to come in only after lunch. And of course no-one really needed the Junior Lawyers.

"Yes! Tuesday is fine. Perfect. Erm... Maybe 6:30?"

He gave me the address and explained how I would get there from LA. I hung up stunned.

Christina was gapping at me. "You are going to meet him?"

I nodded. "I got bats in the belfry..."

"You can say that again!"

~~~~~

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