A group of flamboyantly beautiful youths in tight narrow jeans and T-shirts clinging to their perfect torsos were standing in one corner. Among them Giovanni Del Colombo stared moodily into space.
Unlike the rest of the audience who were uttering wild yelps, united in their frisky mood, Giovanni was abstracted and silent. His mind was elsewhere. Neither the uproar nor the carefree atmosphere around him could divert him.
Sébastien, a married Frenchman pushing forty with whom he’d had an intimate relationship for three years, had informed him a few nights back that it was all over. Forever. It had begun quite unexpectedly with a yellow Post-it note he’d found stuck in his briefcase one ordinary morning like any other. That evening came the ghastly meeting with Sébastien in Giovanni’s apartment, and his confession – the announcement that Seb didn’t want to know him anymore, would shortly be leaving Brussels, and that he intended to re-establish himself permanently in his native Paris and devote himself to the expansion of his business. His family would continue to live in Brussels even after his departure. Seb made it painfully clear that he wanted to cut off their relationship with a knife. A clean break, he called it. He went on defensively with a lot of feeble excuses; all of a sudden he claimed to feel terrible remorse and guilt towards his wife and his children and had decided that from now on, his relations with other men would stop dead.
Giovanni did not know how to react. The earth was falling away beneath his feet. He had to fight back a rising storm of tears.
After the disbelief, his sadness and despair turned into profound rage that filled him, drowned his very being. Writhing black serpents of tormenting suspicions came at him from everywhere. Had Sébastien made a new acquaintance in Paris and given him up for someone else? Why would he go off and abandon his wife and three children in Brussels if he wanted to dedicate more attention to his family? Interspersed with his many reactions to this unanticipated news, Giovanni tried to be accepting. He tried to analyse the relationship, the number of beautiful moments they had spent together in the last three years, what the two of them had invested in their attachment, in spite of the known constraints and enormous difficulties; how he had always tried to live discreetly in the margins of Seb’s life, asking almost nothing of him. He’d never created problems with his family, especially that wife and children who slept the sleep of the ignorant. He tried to remind Sébastien how he had borne the existence of his family, never tried to compete with it, had only tried to be giving.
A thousand times he asked him to reconsider his decision. Begged him to change his mind. He had reiterated his undying love, cajoled, pleaded; Sébastien was adamant. He answered only with a cold confirmation of the same answer. The decision was final and conclusive, and nothing would make him change his mind. Giovanni finally exhausted his last reserves of patience and goodwill. Seeing that his arguments had no impact whatsoever, he’d begun screaming hysterically, not letting Sébastien get a word in edgeways. And when his anger reached its peak and was completely out of control, he picked up a vase from the table and hurled it furiously at the wall, smashing it into hundreds of pieces. In the end, the Frenchman himself became upset and stamped out of Giovanni’s flat, slamming the door behind him, leaving him inconsolable, dissolved in tears. He’d collapsed on the first chair he found and given way to a thunderous and hysterical flood of tears.
... I've got all my life to live, and all my love to give, and I'll survive... Easy for her, thought Giovanni. Women have it so much easier. There’s always another man for them. Not for him. The thought that the first real relationship in his life was ended had broken him. He was lost; he knew that from now on, Seb's life would fundamentally change. And without him, Giovanni had no compelling reason to exist. Only then had he realised how truly, deeply he was in love. After hundreds of casual and meaningless encounters, he had found someone he wanted beside him for more than one night, a companion, a man with whom he had shared a special mental contact, and so many other aspects of life, besides raw sex. In all his thirty-five years, this was the first time he had found a possible partner, a relationship beyond what was offered by his sparing and infrequent casual contacts, and who had become an aching need. His patience was exhausted. There were no more arguments he could use to make Seb reconsider and possibly change his mind.
No, not I, I will survive!... But Giovanni was none too sure he wanted to.
He had never in his life seen his father. His mother, who adored him, was too poor to provide more than only the bare essentials. She’d struggled on her limited cleaner’s wage to raise him, educate him, to make him a man. And he had succeeded, with little financial assistance and based solely on his own powers, to escape from the poverty and misery of the small town to study languages on a scholarship at the Scuola Normale of Pisa, one of the best universities in Italy. He took his degree with honours and became an interpreter, thanks to a range of grants he had won thanks to his passion for languages and study. He had found the strength to accept, little by little, the reality of his sexuality, to courageously shake off all the negative and homophobic put-downs, the disparagements that so commonly infused his associates, his family and the closed, conservative Catholic social environment.
Giovanni had managed to reach a high professional standing with enviable perks by the time he was thirty-two, quite on his own without support, based solely on his own efforts. He had managed to pass the strict EU interpreters’ exam and win one of the coveted positions in Brussels with frequent trips to participate in important international meetings and conferences, interpreting for prominent politicians, eminent scientists, pioneering entrepreneurs, and even heads of state, kings and presidents, at key discussions. Though poverty, misery and the terrible natural disaster of the earthquake had conspired to almost deprive him of life, he had found the strength to build from scratch a comfortable life, cosmopolitan and interesting, full of expensive possessions and rewarding activity. A life that many could envy. He had not only survived… he had flourished. But alone.
Now all these accomplishments were as nothing. In one moment, everything had collapsed in meaningless ruins, not by natural disaster but by the one person he had loved more than anyone else in his life, his beloved Sébastien.
…I've got my life to live, and all my love to give and I'll survive! I will survive... While his mind was still spinning, the glittering Tiffany concluded her faux singing and bowed to her warm audience amid thunderous applause, whistles and wild shouts of admiration. A bouquet of red roses that clashed horribly with her wig was presented.
As she was swept off stage by the crowd, he thought, “But I am a survivor too!”
No, he was not going to submit so easily. Absolutely not! If there was one thing he had learned, it was to survive. From his childhood when the school had buried him alive in the terrible earthquake, he had learned one thing: to fight tooth and nail to succeed in his goals. Never to abandon the effort to make his dreams come true. Never give up, never quit at the first setback. He had found the strength then to emerge unharmed after eighteen whole hours from the wreckage where he had been trapped. Life had taught him early on to meet challenging trials with perseverance and resilience.
He stood up and absently observed the wild enthusiasm and frenzied atmosphere of the bar. No, it could not be all over. He would try to meet Sébastien for a last effort at reconciliation and the revitalising of their relationship. He would change his mind, try to make him see their situation in a different light. Only a chance to meet him again. Just one chance, that was all he asked... The mobile phone in his pocket was vibrating. He pulled it out and checked his messages. “Next Tuesday night around seven.”
Of course, it was Seb! His face lit up with a joyous smile of relief as his friends were pushing and joking loudly at the appearance of the sweat-streaked diva, oblivious of the matters that had been grinding away at his mind all evening.
A few days later on the Tuesday evening, Giovanni, on a wave of hope, headed for the famous ca
fé of the Metropole Hotel as soon as he could leave his office, to meet for the last time. It had taken a flurry of messages, but Seb must be there. In the desperate, awkward phone conversations that preceded this meeting, Sébastien had said he’d try to make this appointment, but because of work he couldn’t promise that he would be there for sure. Giovanni was a few minutes late and looked anxiously around him as he pushed through the heavy, bronze revolving doors. Seb was already there, comfortably seated on one of the leather sofas with a drink in front of him, casting an abstracted eye over some magazine. As soon as he saw him, Giovanni’s confusion and anxiety began to subside on a sigh of relief. Surely he could persuade Seb to change his mind even now; he’d approach him softly with good-will and plead with him to at least reconsider his decision. With anxiety and uncertainty mercilessly besieging him, Giovanni forced a smile and quickly went to sit close to him. “Good evening, sorry I’m late.”
Sébastien gave him a chilly glance and remained silent. Then it seemed as if he might be regretting that, as he observed Giovanni’s obvious black misery and the huge melancholy circles around his eyes, revealing all too clearly that the last few days had been very hard on him.
“I don’t have much time Giovanni.” he said softly. “You said on the phone that there’s some serious problem. What is it? What’s the matter?”
“Seb, we need to talk more about our relationship, it can’t end like this. It’s not possible…” began Giovanni with a voice torn from his depths.
“I think that we have already discussed all this more than we should,” interrupted Sébastien sharply.
“No! For God’s sake, our last discussion wasn’t finished!” Giovanni fought back the prickling of tears. “Seb, please, listen to me,” he begged, his voice breaking.
“There's nothing more to discuss. It’s no use going over it all again. What we had to say, we said. My decision is definite and final. It’s over. Nothing is going to make me change my mind,” said Seb in the same unfeeling voice, and started to get up from the couch.
“Don’t move! Sit down immediately!” ordered Giovanni in quite another tone of voice, for now a fire was rising within him, filling his belly and chest and rising to choke him. He grabbed for Seb’s hand in a desperate attempt to keep him seated. Sébastien glared at him angrily and pulled his hand away, sprang up and sped like a whirlwind to the door without looking behind him once. Giovanni remained stranded on the couch, dejectedly looking at the door through which the shadow of his friend had vanished. Curious looks from bystanders besieged him.
So his last attempt had failed miserably. Again, he felt the sense of grievance flooding though him.
One of the waiters approached, smiling, and asked what he would like to order. Ignoring him, Giovanni jumped up and left, leaving the waiter amazed by the rudeness of this unknown customer, scurrying to the exit in quick nervous steps.
Moments later, pushing through the revolving door and facing his own wretched image mirrored in the heavy glass, he had decided. His rage cut him off, not only from oxygen, but from any other course of action. All he sought at that moment, all that was left to him was the small satisfaction of revenge. To avenge blindly and wildly, as cruelly and inhumanely as Sébastien had done to him. Sébastien, who had exploited him for three whole years and more, betraying his wife and mocking, not only his family, but everyone else around him without any hesitation, without any guilt, and three years later, had suddenly decided to discard him like a squeezed-out lemon.
He was wholly determined. No, he would not let him escape so easily. He had already conceived the whole plan of revenge down to the last detail. As Seb had hurt him irreparably and destroyed his life, so would he hurt Seb and destroy his life and his family.
Last night he had sat down to write a three-page letter addressed to the unknown wife of Sébastien. He told her the whole story of his relations with her husband in all its details, from the most intimate to the most every day. He knew her name perfectly well and had easily found their address, from some bits and pieces Seb had left around in the past. He had already paid for the registered delivery and pasted on all the stamps and the necessary code. All that was left to do was to find the nearest mailbox.
It had been a difficult decision, but the only option he had left. Only a cruel revenge could perhaps ease the pain, give him a small relief from the hell he was in, the only act that could atone in his own eyes for his pain and disintegration.
“They say ‘revenge is a dish best served cold’ and Seb, yours is coming to you frozen solid!” he hissed through his teeth with hatred as he tossed the letter into the red mailbox on Avenue Anspach. Then he made a sharp turn and disappeared swiftly and decisively, like a skillful assassin fading into the anonymity of crowds in the night city, leaving no trace.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Fifth Stop: Montgomery – Sévérine
Sévérine d’Ydekem-Moret’s long cream cashmere coat floated majestically in the icy breath of the morning air, as she strode across the wide pavement of Avenue de Tervuren. She was walking towards the Arch du Cinquantenaire. Her pace betrayed impatience and perhaps a hint of tension as her high-heeled brown suede boots tap-tapped rapidly on the wet cobblestones. The early light revealed a typical winter’s day in a humid city huddled in on itself. The bare chestnut trees along the grand boulevard stood exposed to the bitter cold of winter, a depressing sight, and lamps on carved bronze posts still scattered brightness on the mirror of wet pavement. In the dull mornings of November, they must stay lit until full daylight. The sparse morning traffic on the boulevard gradually increased. Occasional pedestrians were appearing, hurrying along with bent heads, wrapped in thick clothes and scarves in an attempt to defend themselves against the chill.
But the cold was the last thing that bothered Sévérine. Instead, a strange excitement burned beneath her expensive coat. Everything was going without a hitch, confirming her supremacy. The sweet feeling that her actions and decisions dominated the lives and fortunes of others was utterly satisfying; even the foul weather became irrelevant. Her mind was occupied by three letters and three numbers: XZW 282. They were engraved in her memory. She arrived at the intersection of Tervuren and Ménapiens street and made a sharp right turn into the quiet passage. She tapped along, checking the line of parked cars. It did not take long. There it was, two hundred yards further up on the left, just as promised: the black BMW with darkened windows with the number plate XZW 282, standing in front of the old door of an apparently deserted warehouse. She proceeded to the parked car, her head held as confidently high as ever. When she was about three meters away, she heard the little click of its automatic door lock, and the hazard warning lights at the four corners of the car blinked.
Her instructions had been explicit. She was to get in as unobtrusively as possible to avoid attracting attention and sit in the back seat. She paused for a moment beside the car and glanced quickly about. She made as if to search in her handbag, trying to give herself a chance to look into the car, wondering if someone was already there. The tinted windows and the dull morning light did not help. It was impossible to distinguish anything. She leant over hesitating, opened the rear door and with a sudden movement whisked resolutely inside, sat down and jerked the door shut. Now she noticed the shadow in the driver’s seat in front of her. He wore a winter cap pulled down over his ears. His face was reflected in the rear-view mirror, but between his outsized sunglasses and the poor light, she couldn’t distinguish much of him.
“Good morning, Mme Moret,” he said in English, but with a very strong accent making it almost incomprehensible.
“Some kind of Russian, or at least Slavic”, Sévérine decided. “Good morning,” she said, distrustful, but with one of her usual display-smiles, she tried to get some idea of the driver’s face in the same mirror. In spite of the hat she was able to discern a dark round head, a triangular beard and brown moustache. The big Ray-Bans with silver frames completely covered the upper part of his fac
e. Sévérine drew back and her artificial smile disappeared. She was sure that the glasses were meant as a mask and did not like this at all. There was no other reason for sunglasses on such a dark day inside a darkened car.
“What have you to report?” asked the fellow, cutting right to the chase, adjusting his mirror annoyingly.
“I’m sure that we will soon have news. Someone has discovered and read the document, someone who I expect to easily play the decoy exactly as we want. He’s a damn-fool Irishman, head of accounting, who’ll probably report the matter to the Service. After that, it’s a piece of cake. We’ll pass the document to one of our known journalists and from there – it runs by itself! And if the reporter finds himself on the spot or under pressure, we can easily point at the Irishman and get rid of him once and for all. One way or another he gets on my nerves with all his so-called honesty and objective performance of his duties, with his irritating hangdog look…” she bit the rest of her sentence back. She meant to be sparing of information.
“And what is the name of this Irishman?”
“Keith MacFarland. He’s just the person for us. A prime example of ‘virtue’ and ‘honesty’. When he’s dealing with payments and balance sheets of the Service, he follows the management rules to the letter. I’m sure that his nature won’t allow him to sit about waiting. He’s taken the bait and he’ll make it easy for us without realising what we want of him,” she added, her voice dark and revengeful. And then we’ll see how this fine snob of an Irishman disentangles himself...” Again, her tongue was running too fast and freely. By no means did she want the BMW driver to understand that she disliked the Irishman personally. In fact, when he was first appointed deputy director general, she had tried with her best smiles and blandishments to add him to her little clique, by placing him in a strategic post to keep an eye on everyone and everything. Not only had he not responded, but had made it very clear that he did not like her and would not participate in her game. The unknown driver seemed to be paying little attention or care how she spoke of the Irishman. To him, they were all simple details of the plan.
The Next Stop Page 14
