“I’ll need to get a new passport when we get to London”.

Lisa and I were walking around Stephen’s Green in Dublin. It was cold and dry, a pleasant enough day for the time of year.

“Why’s that? Can you not get it while you’re here?”

“No, I would need to get the local police to sign the application. In London I have more options. I’ll start working on it tomorrow; I’ll need to get some other documents first.”

We left the Green and walked along a pedestrianised shopping street. We were minding our cash and this was our main form of recreation while we were staying in Dublin. The shops were closing down and some commercial vans were moving slowly amongst the thinning crowd of pedestrians. We strolled down a side street to avoid these and I noticed a sign saying Restaurant Baalbek. Arabic writing on the sign presumably said the same and was there for effect as there were very few Arabic speakers in Dublin at the time.

One thing that I had picked up during my involuntary sojourn in Egypt was a liking for Arabic food so we went in to make a booking. The place was very quiet, with few diners. Would there be a table available for 7PM? No problem. The owner was short and balding with good, though accented English. Two younger men were waiting on the handful of diners; there were no female staff visible. I thanked the owner in Arabic…

“Shocraes, hagablic al-saha sabaa.”

“Ah, where did you learn Arabic? You sound like an Egyptian.”

“Actually, you’re right; I learned some in Egypt.”

“What were you doing there?”

What do I say? When dissembling I always prefer to stay as close to the truth as possible; it’s easier to remember what you’ve said.

“I was learning to dance.”

“Dance?”

“Yes, Egyptian style belly dance; I think that I will be able to make some money teaching it over here.”

“And you dance as well?” The owner was now looking at Lisa.

“I’m just learning” Lisa responded.

“But she’s good!” I interjected. The owner’s interest seemed more than just passing and the seeds of an idea were already forming in my mind. I continued…

“Do you have dancers here? I would have thought that that would attract the crowd?”

“No, there are no dancers that we know of in Dublin. On the weekends we would not have room as trade is good, but it is a bit slack during the week as you can see.”

We headed back to our guest house, showered and changed for dinner. We had moved out of the hotel to save money and had negotiated a good rate for an extended stay. Dinner was excellent and, as we were finishing the owner came and sat at our table. He introduced himself as Sameed. The other two waiters were his sons; his wife, daughter and uncle ran the kitchen.

“What brought you to Dublin?” Lisa asked.

“We left Lebanon because of the war. There were Irish soldiers there with the UN and we liked them so we thought that Ireland would be a good country to move to. Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“I’ve been thinking about our conversation earlier. A dancer could improve business during the week; would you be interested in trying this out?”

If Sameed hadn’t asked, I would have raised this subject myself.

“If we could come to a satisfactory arrangement, yes, I would give it a try.”

We arranged to return the next day before the restaurant opened to discuss the details and for me to give a demonstration of the show. Sameed would not accept payment for our meal and we walked slowly back to our guest house.

“That was a surprise; are you comfortable doing this?” Lisa was worried that this was too close to my Egyptian experience.

“Yes, I actually like to dance; it makes me feel very feminine, almost erotic! And a restaurant is a safe environment so I’ll be fine. I’ll need you there with the gettoblaster or whatever we use for the music. If you had an outfit you could even dance?”

“Yes, I’d like that.”

The next day was busy. I phoned my old school and asked for contact details for my Greek teacher. He had now retired from teaching on age grounds and, despite there being no shortage of priests in Ireland at the time, assisted in a parish from time to time as was the general practice for retired priest-teachers. Having got his number, I called him and arranged to meet Saturday mid-morning. When he heard that I was coming by train, he offered to meet me at the station, an offer I gratefully accepted.

Next, Lisa and I made our way to the restaurant, burdened with the gettoblaster, a bag with the dancing costume that I had been wearing when rescued, and some cassette tapes. Sameed tut-tutted when we arrived… he should have collected us at the guest house. The first problem was where to change. The only solution was the Ladies room. This was fine while the restaurant was closed, but would be more difficult when the place was busy. Leaving the two sons, Haasim and Hamees, to sort out the sound system, Lisa and I went to the Ladies room where I changed. I had been careful to try on the outfit the previous night when we came back from dinner but now, getting ready to wear it in front of strangers, all men at the moment, I felt a thrill of nervous anticipation. I wasn’t attracted to men and at the time would not have contemplated having a physical relationship with one, but I did enjoy being the object of their admiration, even lust, as long as that was where it stopped.

Once dressed, we rejoined the men in the dining area. As expected, they looked at me with more than just casual interest and I guessed that Haasim and Hamees had designs on both myself and Lisa; they would have been rather taken aback had they known what was under my dancing skirt! A quick conversation saw one table being removed and we agreed that we would start the music before I “appeared”. The only way I could make an entrance was to emerge from the small corridor that led to the Ladies and Gents rooms. This was already partially separated from the dining room by a heavy tapestry which was ideal for the purpose. We discussed how the show would proceed from a slow start to a very vigorous finale, taking 15 minutes. This would be repeated three times, with different music, with 30 minutes separating the performances. For the rehearsal, the music would have to be selected from tapes. The lads had connected the gettoblaster to the restaurant’s sound system alongside their own tape player so that Lisa could have one track ready on one machine while the previous track was playing on the other machine. For a performance we would need the full track on one tape, with a second tape running in parallel as a backup.

All this in place, Lisa started the tape and I started to dance. I felt good! Maybe I’m a born show off but I loved the attention. I knew that at least 3 pairs of eyes were fixated on me, and when I saw Lisa’s face, that made 4 pairs. Then I noticed that the 3 kitchen staff had come out to watch as well. When the dance stopped, I received a resounding round of applause and Sameed risked his wife’s ire by catching my hand, pulling me into an embrace and kissing me on the cheek. He pulled at my skirt to read the name tattooed to my thigh… Xania.

So we sat down to do business. We would be picked up each night from the guest house and driven to the restaurant. This enabled me to dress in the guest house, come into the restaurant through the service entrance directly into the kitchen and slip into the corridor just before the show. Once finished, Lisa and I would have dinner on the restaurant after I had changed out of my dancing outfit – It’s easier to get out of the gear than into it! We would, in addition, be paid £10 per night, directly from the till. This was a good deal for us as 4 nights work almost covered the cost of our accommodation for the week.

The following day was Friday and it was agreed that I would start on Monday as Friday, Saturday and Sunday were busy nights. Hassim had taken some photographs during the rehearsal and he would have some posters made up to advertise the show; I would be billed as Xania, the name tattooed on my thighs. Lisa and I treated ourselves to a better than usual night out, joined by my sister and her boyfriend, and the following day, Saturday, I walked to the station and took a train to meet my old Greek teacher.

I had given this meeting a lot of thought. Instead of my usual denim mini, I was wearing a long patterned brown skirt, heavy tights, long brown boots, brown polo-neck sweater and had even bought a long coat, hat and gloves. The train pulled into the station and as I walked out, I could see Fr. Tom’s car parked near the entrance, in a No Parking zone! Noone would dare give a priest a parking ticket! His eyes were searching the crowd for a young man… I knocked on the front passenger window, he looked over, I opened the door…

“Hi Fr. Tom, may I get in?”

Confusion on his face…

“Sorry! I’m waiting to collect…

“Jim”, I finished his sentence for him.

“Yes, Jim. How did you know? Who are you?”

“Father, I owe you an explanation; I used to be Jim.”

“But…But…But…”

“Father, can we walk around the school garden and I’ll tell you what happened?”

I had picked this walk as I knew he liked it and would feel safe there. The students were at study so we would not meet anyone before 2pm. As we drove, and then walked, I gave him an edited version of my story. I described being kidnapped and what had happened subsequently, and being rescued before “real harm” befell me. I omitted to tell him that I was already dressing as a girl when I was kidnapped, and that this was the probable reason why I was targeted. Was this dishonest? Yes, and I felt bad about it, but to divulge this would have lost his sympathy.

“So you see Father, having been mostly turned into a girl, I can’t go back to living as a man.”

“It’s an almost unbelievable story, how can these things happen these days?”

“Father, I can show you my slave name tattooed to my thighs if you don’t believe me?”

“Oh No, I believe you!” I knew that a priest would not go as far as examining a girl’s thighs!

“So why tell me? What can I do for you?” He was shocked, yes, but still shrewd enough to know that I had a reason for telling him.

“Father, I need a Baptismal Certificate, showing my name as Jasmine.”

“Why?”

“Father, I probably shouldn’t tell you”.

He thought for a while… “Leave it with me… let’s meet same time next week. I’ll pick you up at the station. In the meantime, I want you to promise that you’ll never tell anyone that you have spoken to me.”

“Yes Father, but they know at the school that I looked for your number.”

“They’ll hardly remember that… and if they do, we talked about your college placing next year”.

“Yes Father”.

He drove me back to the station and I caught a train to Dublin. Lisa met me at the station.

“How did that go?”

“About as good as I could hope.”

We spent Sunday working hard on both my show and getting the tapes formatted into one. We were picked up on Monday as arranged albeit my dress leaving the guest house left the manager reaching for his heart medication. Sameed was happy, bookings were already up following the publication of the posters. I saw them for the first time and realised that Haasim was a talented photographer. He used a long exposure on his SLR camera to give the shadow of movement thus creating a picture of great energy. I would have something to live up to!

Cue the music, emerge, dance… their eyes are boring into me, men and women… the men want to lay me…. the women want to be me… it’s intoxicating… I’m feeling great… at one with the music…almost a trance…

This isn’t work I think to myself as I take my first break, and I’m being paid for it! Two more sessions and I’m in the Ladies to change… Lisa follows me in… she pins me to the wall and kisses me deeply, her tongue probing around in my mouth…

“Wait ‘till I get you home!” she pants into my ear…

Things kept getting better all week and it was clear that the show was packing ‘em in. Sameed was delighted and, being a shrewd businessman, paid us an extra £20 on Thursday. We arranged to meet my sister and her boyfriend again for dinner on Friday.

“Nice posters!” He had obviously seen them.

“Thanks, but it’s hard work”.

“Just as long as it doesn’t get home”, my sister was nervous.

“Noone will recognise me. You only did because you know my backstory”.

“Hope so…”

Saturday morning I’m on the train to meet Fr. Tom. He picks me up at the station and we drive to the cathedral. We sit at the back and he passed me a large brown envelope. I open it and pull out six baptismal certificates, all in the name of Jasmine, and stamped with my local parish stamp.

“You’ll likely need more than one” he whispered.

There was more… I also had six certificates from the local convent girls school listing my leaving certificate results all in the name of Jasmine. I hadn’t even considered these.

“Don’t ask. If anyone rings the convent school, your records are there.”

“Father, I don’t know what to say!”

“You don’t have to say anything. It’s not going to be an easy life and I wish you well. Keep in touch and I’m happy to help out where I can.”

I held his hand, something a boy would never have done…

“Thanks Father.”

On Monday I took the train again to the County town and called to the County Registrar’s office. I had my short form birth certificate which I had received at the same time as I had ordered a long form birth certificate to get my passport. In those pre internet days, coordination between offices was weak and I knew that they would not know that I had already received a passport on the basis of the long form certificate already issued. I was back in my denim mini, this time with sheer tights, heels, a white blouse and had gone heavy on the make-up.

The bored clerk oozed officialdom when it came to my turn at the hatch….

“HI, I got this birth certificate last year but never really looked at it until now… there’s a mistake somewhere…” I pushed the short form certificate through the hatch where it was reluctantly viewed by Ms Officialdom.

“What’s wrong with it?” I seriously hadn’t expected that level of stupidity. I was presenting as a girl and had just showed her a male birth certificate.

“Wrong name, wrong sex… here’s my baptismal certificate.”

She looked at the documents blankly… nothing much happening upstairs…

“Same parents, same address, baptism 2 weeks after birth” I offered helpfully…

“Wait here…”

Having clearly lost the ability to think, Ms Officialdom had to consult her superiors.

I sat back on the waiting chairs, the resentment of the others in the queue obvious. I was causing a problem and delaying them. Eventually the hatch door opened and the face of a middle-aged man appeared. I stood up and he said, pleasantly,

“Won’t you come through?” opening a door beside the hatch.

I beamed my most pleasant smile and came into the holy of holies … I followed him into his office passing Ms Officialdom as she resumed her role as terroriser of the public.

“Please, have a seat.”

I sat, hitching up my skirt and crossing my legs in front of him. He couldn’t help but stare.

“What seems to be the problem?”

“Only that my birth cert says that I’m a boy… obviously I’m not…”

I had let my shoe slip off my foot and was now dangling it on my toe.

“Obviously!” He looked at the birth certificate, then at the baptismal certificate, noted the parents’ names and address and proceeded to search in a large book which was on the desk. Records were physically entered in this. He looked at the record and then back to me. I smiled sweetly… lay it on!

“There appears to be a clerical error in the register”, he said. “It’s generally not a problem to correct clerical errors but I will need the approval of the Superintendent Registrar”.

“Will that take long?”

“Normally a few weeks. Is there any particular urgency?”

“I will need to apply for a passport as I have a job offer in Greece working on a yacht.”

That would have sounded impressive back then, and believable, as the Irish economy had tanked in the early 80s and emigration was rife.

“When do you start?”

“February, and I’m told that the passport office is slow.”

“I’ll see what I can do; call me next week and I’ll let you know how I’m getting on.” I was fiddling with the end of a necklace that I was wearing both for effect and to distract from the residual mark that the collar that was locked on my neck for most of my time in captivity had left. I was drawing his attention to my open necked blouse and what he would have expected to find inside it.

“Is it OK if I call in? I’ll be in town anyway and it’s often easier to talk in person.” This was a lie of course but I guessed that he would appreciate another visit. His face brightened a little.

“Yes, that would be fine.”

The rest of the week went well and trade at the restaurant was, if anything, better than the week before. Again, we met my sister and her boyfriend for dinner on Friday and agrees to go to lunch at my parents’ house with them on Sunday. He would drive us in his new Toyota Corolla, of which he was most proud. It all went well, no one slipped up and mentioned my new dancing gig and we left my parents believing that Lisa and I were doing some waitressing work to supplement our savings.

On Monday morning I again took a train to the County town and called into the registrar’s office. I had bought a small tester bottle of expensive perfume which I applied on the train. Ms Officialdom was determined to ignore me but I popped up to her hatch immediately she had finished dealing with a customer, or supplicant as she would have seen them, and asked to see the manager. He came out quite quickly and I brushed off him – just a little – as he ushered me into his office. Good news, he had called the Superintendent Registrar given the urgency of my situation and had received permission to amend the register and issue me with my birth certificates. Unfortunately, he could not waive the fee; the County was rather strict in this regard. I assured him that this was no problem and he personally filled out two long form and two short form certificates. I handed him the money and he put the certificates into an envelope and came around from behind his desk to give them to me. I stood up, let him come very close, took the envelope. He extended his hand to shake hands, and held mine for a few seconds as he wished me well in Greece. I smiled and slipped out the door. Actually I felt sorry for him, trapped in a boring job in a boring office with Ms Officialdom as his co-worker, but mission accomplished… I now had a certificate to say that I was a girl!