Obsession (Year of Fire)

by Florencia Bonelli

  “Monsieur Jürkens?” he was able to say before a noise echoed in his head and everything went black.

  Waking up, after a moment of pain and confusion, he studied his surroundings. They reminded him of the base, because there were no windows. He was inside a cube, with walls covered with aluminum sheets that refracted the light shining right into his face. He tried to shield himself with his hands and realized that they were shackled to the back of his chair. It was then that he realized he was naked.

  “Good evening, Mr. Masséna.”

  “What am I doing here? Who are you? Where are my clothes?”

  “Settle down, Masséna,” said another voice. “We’ll ask the questions.”

  An arm entered the illuminated area and brought a glass to his lips. Masséna hesitated.

  “Drink it. It’s just water.”

  “What were you doing in the Rent-a-Car parking lot this afternoon?”

  “Why should I answer your questions? This is completely wrong! I demand that you let me out of here!”

  “We’ll let you go if you cooperate.”

  “What were you doing?” his interrogator insisted, impatiently. “Don’t make us use other methods to make you talk. I promise you that you won’t enjoy it, Masséna.”

  Nothing scared Claude as much as the prospect of physical suffering. After witnessing his mother’s death at a very early age, sickness terrified him. He was a hypochondriac and lived surrounded by medicines. He wilted at the idea that these characters could inflict pain on him at will.

  “What do you want from me?”

  “Why were you looking for Mr. Jürkens?”

  “I wanted to talk to him.”

  “About what?”

  “A personal matter.”

  The same hand that had given him the water sent his head rocking backward with a slap. Through a one-way mirror, Diuna Kimcha and Mila Cabin flinched slightly as they watched the blood spurt from Masséna’s lip. The kidon agent had started to do the work that he had been trained for, although he didn’t need to use force again; the man talked without any further encouragement. When Masséna had finished explaining his relationship with this Jürkens, he was left panting, trying to make out the figures through the blinding light. A few long minutes passed before they said anything else to him.

  “Why are you circumcised, Masséna?”

  “Quoi?”

  “Why don’t you have foreskin on your penis? How could I be any clearer?”

  “Because I’m Jewish.”

  Before they covered his head in a black bag to smuggle him out of the Israeli embassy, he had agreed to become a sayan.

  Neither of them was in any condition to get up at eight thirty in the morning. Matilde had cried until she fell asleep at around four a.m., and Juana, after drinking a few daiquiris and dancing until she dropped, had ended up in Shiloah Moses’s bed at the George V. The hotel limousine had brought her to Rue Toullier at six thirty in the morning.

  “Don’t bust my balls, Ezequiel! It’s Saturday and I just went to bed.”

  “Let’s go, baby doll.” He urged her, tickling her neck. “I came to take you shopping.”

  “Shopping?” She pulled the sheet off her face. “Really?”

  “Tonight is the party Jean-Paul organized for you. The continually postponed party. And I want to show off my best friends. I’m planning on buying you dresses, shoes and bijouterie. And Jean-Paul has given you a day at the Christian Dior spa so that you’ll look like goddesses tonight.” Ezequiel looked at Matilde, who was drinking coffee in the living room. “What’s up, Mat? What’s that face about?”

  “Sleepy face,” she lied.

  He invited them to breakfast in the famous Café Les Deux Magots, at Place Saint-Germain-des-Prés and, within an hour, they were in the Porsche 911 Turbo. Ezequiel had decided, since they were already short on time—they had an appointment at the spa at twelve thirty—to go to the House of Chanel on Rue Cambon, where he would buy each of them a dress, shoes, a purse and bijouterie, everything except for lingerie, for which they walked a few blocks down Rue Saint-Honoré to the designer Chantal Thomass’s store, where Matilde refused to continue spending money.

  “Excuse me, Matilde Martínez,” Juana said, “but you can’t wear a Chanel dress with one of your Amish cotton ensembles. Let me be clear: it would be blasphemy.”

  “When he took me to Galeries Lafayette, Eze bought me two very pretty sets. I’ll wear one of those.”

  “No way,” Ezequiel objected. “Those sets are very…very Matilde.”

  “Nobody’s going to see it.”

  Finally, they bought her a set in black tulle plumetis with matching garters and tights. Matilde studied herself in the mirror in the changing room, feeling strange and beautiful, and wished that Eliah was in this cozy, carpeted cubicle to see her.

  The two of them spent the rest of the day at the Dior Institut in the Hotel Plaza Athénée. Submerged in the Jacuzzi, they chatted until their skin had gone wrinkly. Juana told her all about her adventure with the Israeli millionaire, who turned out to be a better lover than she had expected.

  “He has the most beautiful cock I’ve ever had the chance to fuck,” she admitted. “And it’s hand crafted,” she said, alluding to the lack of foreskin on her lover’s penis.

  Shiloah had confessed that she was the first woman he had made love with—those were his exact words, Juana clarified—since the death of his wife. The girl hid her enthusiasm behind a mask of sarcasm and jokes, throwing surreptitious glances at her cell phone all the while. Finally it rang.

  “It’s the stud.” Matilde shook her head and her hand. “You’re not going to answer?”

  “We had a fight last night,” she whispered, and gave her the details. “I’m not going to let him control my life,” she concluded.

  “Look, Matita, the only thing you’re not going to let him do is stop fucking you.”

  Jean-Paul Trégart’s chauffeur came to pick them up at the Plaza Athénée at around eight thirty and drove them to the apartment on Avenue Charles Floquet.

  “Oh, my gosh!” Jean-Paul exclaimed in English in the vestibule. “Ezequiel, you never mentioned that your soul mates are models. Welcome!” He leaned down to kiss their hands. “I’ve wanted to meet you for so long! You’re so beautiful! Stunning! Come in, please, come in. My house is your house.”

  “Thank you for the lovely day in the spa, Jean-Paul,” Matilde said.

  “Darling, it was a pleasure.” He squinted as he sized her up. “Matilde, with that skin and that face, L’Oréal would pay a fortune to have you. I’ve rarely seen hair of this quality,” he murmured, more to himself, as he examined it between his fingers.

  “No business tonight,” Ezequiel warned, and rescued his friends.

  From the muffled voices filtering out to them, it was clear that the party had already begun. Ezequiel opened a double door and an enormous room spread out before them. Light from a three-tiered Murano chandelier bounced lightly off women in lavish dresses, gold-leafed boiseries and the hardwood floors. The stunning overall effect almost blinded Matilde. The smells of people and cigarettes mixed with perfume and the movement almost choked her. Some people were dancing, others were laughing, others eating and everyone was drinking. Matilde was sorry she had come. To make matters worse, Jean-Paul made them turn down the music, and in a loud voice in English introduced them as the guests of honor, Ezequiel’s great childhood friends whom he had wanted to meet for a very long time. They were both doctors, he joked, so they could all drink and eat to excess because help was close at hand. The group laughed, and the initial discomfort faded away. Matilde, clinging on to Ezequiel’s arm, looked around without taking anything in. Juana clutched onto her hand and spoke to her out of the left corner of her mouth.

  “Mat, my dear friend, I want you to stay very calm. Don’t move or turn around when I tell you what I’m about to tell you. The stud is here with your sister Celia. Don’t look, damn it! He’s already seen us
, of course, after Jean-Paul’s introduction. Stay calm, my love, calm. Let’s walk with Eze.”

  “What do you mean he’s with Celia?”

  “I don’t know, the two of them are over there, near the buffet. They’re chatting. She, of course, is smiling with that vixen face of hers and feeling him up as much as she can.”

  “I’m leaving.” As she spun around, she bumped into a man. “Excusez-moi,” she stammered, ready to hurry across the room when the stranger took her by the arm, forcing her to stop.

  Al-Saud hadn’t taken his eyes off Matilde. After getting over the shock of seeing her enter the room, he stared at her as if she were a creature from another world. The effect of her beauty stunned him and caused him actual physical confusion, as though he was an inexperienced teenager with raging hormones. His mouth was dry, his tongue felt furry and his pulse had started to gallop in his neck. He drained his glass of pineapple juice in one gulp and looked at her again. She seemed transformed and yet still had her angelic aura.

  While Al-Saud was appreciating the overall outfit, the women were studying her with surgical precision. They wondered if the sleeveless black satin knee-length boat-neck dress was by Chanel, if it was actually the one they had seen in the window on Rue Cambon, elegant but sensual in the way it showed off her tiny waist and accentuated her breasts. They loved the tasteful silk gloves over her forearms. Some objected to the black stockings; they would have preferred a champagne hue. They all approved of the shoes and the chamois clutch that matched the dress.

  Al-Saud did notice three details: her hair, her mouth and her eyes. Her curls had disappeared, and her hair fell straight and long around her. It was so long; he couldn’t remember ever having seen hair that long. The natural blonde color glittered against the black of the dress and filled her with light, but if you were paying attention, Eliah thought, you would see that the light was born in her eyes, accentuated by makeup so subtle that her beloved innocence remained entirely intact. The red lipstick, on the other hand, spoke of an erotic woman. That she had dolled herself up like this for someone other than him brought out the worst of his nature: rage, jealousy and aggression. She had that power: she could get the best out of him, but also the worst.

  It was obvious that Juana was warning her of his presence. And of Céline’s. Matilde’s reaction struck him to the core; she was leaving. Some imbecile intercepted her. He had been staring at her for a while. When he saw that the man was touching her, Al-Saud left Céline and headed blindly toward her. He ended up behind her and heard Ezequiel introducing them in English.

  “Mat, this is René Sampler, the friend who lent me the car to pick you up from the airport.”

  Finally, the riddle of Sampler was solved, though that didn’t satisfy Al-Saud in the least. Before Sampler could touch her again and kiss her on the cheeks, he intervened.

  “Excuse me,” he said in French. “The young lady and I need to speak.”

  He took her by the arm, just below the armpit, and dragged her out toward the hall.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Jean-Paul organized this party in honor of Juana and I. What are you doing here?”

  “Your sister asked me to take her.”

  “Oh, my sister. I didn’t know you were friends.”

  “Yes, for many years, since she arrived in Paris and Sofía asked my brothers and I to make friends with her.”

  “Yes, of course. Celia has so much trouble making friends…especially with men.”

  She shot him a sarcastic look, spun around and walked away. Al-Saud stood where he was, amazed; he hadn’t known she was capable of such an aggressive look, or that swaying of her hips.

  Matilde was shaking. The brief exchange with Eliah had drained her strength. She wondered how she had managed to summon the strength to talk to him like that. Maybe jealousy had toughened her resolve. She couldn’t stand the idea that he and Celia had arrived at the party together, that Celia had taken her seat in the English sports car, that she might have asked him to put on Jean-Michel Jarre’s music. Had she touched him? Had they kissed? They were old friends. Celia didn’t have friends. She had only collected lovers since she was a teenager.

  She shut herself in the bathroom and looked in the mirror. She wanted to flee the party. Suddenly she felt bad for Ezequiel and Jean-Paul. Once she had calmed down, she opened the door and walked back out, but her resolve crumpled immediately at the sight of Roy arguing with Juana. When he saw her, Blahetter strode toward her and hugged her. When he tried to kiss her on the lips, she turned away.

  “Let go of me. Right now. Enough. And you,” she said, addressing Ezequiel reproachfully, “I’ll never forgive this betrayal.”

  “Don’t blame him,” Roy interrupted. “I asked him to keep my presence a secret.”

  “Ezequiel, could you call me a taxi, please? I’m leaving right now.”

  “Leaving? Over my dead body. This is your party. Jean-Paul put a lot of effort into organizing it. He wants to impress you.” Ezequiel wrapped her in his arms and spoke into her ear. “He knows that, apart from him, you’re the most important person to me in the world, and he wants you to like him.” After a silence, he confessed, “Mat, I love you more than anyone. Don’t go, please. Forgive me. My brother begged me not to tell you that he was in Paris. He wanted to surprise you tonight. He’s my brother, please understand. He’s so desperate to win you back.”

  Matilde didn’t reply; she had a lump in her throat that stopped the words from coming out. She was alive thanks to Ezequiel and Juana, but mostly Ezequiel. She clung to him until her body stopped shaking.

  “Fine, I’ll stay, but keep Roy away from me,” she said loudly.

  “I’ll stay away from you,” he offered, offended, “only if you agree to talk to me first. It’ll just be a few minutes, that’s it, and it’s important.” Matilde looked at him furiously. “Just a few minutes, please.”

  She agreed, and Ezequiel accompanied them to a small room. Blahetter closed the door to drown out the hubbub of the party.

  “Did you get the painting?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you read my note?” Matilde didn’t answer. “My love, please…”

  “Roy, you said this was important.”

  “Our marriage isn’t important?” Matilde turned toward the door. “Fine! I won’t talk about our marriage. Give me your Médaille Miraculeuse,” he ordered, taking a tiny key out of the pocket of his pants.

  “What?”

  “Give me your Médaille Miraculeuse, Matilde. I’ll give it back in a second.”

  Matilde had concealed it under the neck of her dress. She had to take off her gloves to open the clasp of the chain. She handed it to him. Blahetter put the key inside. He tried to put it back on her neck, but Matilde snatched it out of his hand and shoved it in her black chamois clutch.

  “Now I want you to listen to me carefully.” He was surprising her with his gravity and maturity. “This key opens a locker in the Gare du Nord. Have you ever been to the Gare du Nord?” Matilde shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. Ezequiel knows where it is. The number of the locker is on the key. In that locker you’ll find a letter I wrote to you, which you should only open if something happens to me.”

  “Roy, for the love of God! You’re scaring me.”

  “Nothing’s going to happen to me. I’m trying to be cautious. There are instructions in that letter. Follow them precisely. Is that clear?”

  “Roy, what kind of trouble are you in?”

  Blahetter moved toward her and stopped when he was inches away. He admired her with a smile. She was so beautiful. He didn’t want to frighten her and confess that it hadn’t been his prodigious intelligence but a coincidence that saved him from falling into Professor Orville Wright’s trap once more. One afternoon, when he was taking a walk to clear his head on the banks of the Seine, near Quai de Béthune, on Île Saint-Louis, he saw Wright come out of a mansion and get into a car. His chauffeur opened the back door, and
, though it was twilight, he was able to study his face. The man had a distinctive German look, with short-cropped blond hair and a prominent jaw. Wright’s presence in Paris had put him on alert. For that reason, when he set up a meeting with Professor Jürkens, he chose the L’Espadon restaurant at the Ritz Hotel, where Ezequiel and Jean-Paul had taken him the night before. The classical, overblown decoration of the place gave him the opportunity to conceal himself. There was Professor Orville Wright’s chauffeur, pretending to be Dr. Jürkens, a nuclear physicist interested in his revolutionary uranium centrifuge. Blahetter threw a few francs on the table and slipped out of the hotel. The relief he felt at having uncovered the ambush in time wasn’t enough to make up his disappointment at the lost opportunity. He was back to square one. Now he had to depend on Aldo’s contacts.

  Since the afternoon when he had confirmed his suspicions and his dreams had fallen apart once more, Blahetter had been upset, convinced that he was being followed, that his enemies were just biding their time until the right moment. His worries drove him to draw up a plan. He hid his invention. Then he wrote Matilde a letter and asked one of Jean-Paul’s maids, the cleverest one, to deposit it in a locker at the Gare du Nord. In the event of his death, he wanted Matilde to enjoy the fruits of his brilliant idea.

  “Everything’s fine, my love.” She let him run the back of his index finger down her cheek and delight in the softness of her skin. “Nothing bad is going to happen to me. And some day we’ll be happy. I promise you.”

  Al-Saud’s agony had taken on colossal dimensions and he didn’t even try to calm himself down. All he wanted was to get Matilde out of there. Seeing her in the arms of Roy Blahetter, her husband, had been a tough blow. Seeing her disappear off with him into the intimacy of that room threatened to give lie to the cold-blooded reputation of Horses of Fire. He was howling inside, blinded by jealousy and impotence. Why had she shut herself up in that room with the person who had hurt her? He didn’t understand what was stopping him from bursting into the room, beating the son of a bitch to a pulp and taking Matilde away with him. He was sweating under his jacket and shirt. The environment suffocated him. The attentions of an increasingly drunk Céline were becoming grotesque.