Insatiable

by Val

  ‘Get me out of here! If I calm down, will someone come? Somebody reply, I can’t take any more!’

  I felt as though I were running out of air. I began to feel claustrophobic and sick. I must have been drugged, because I felt very dizzy. I wanted to scratch my nose, but I couldn’t even lift my little finger. I tried moving my eyes, but I was like a blind old horse.

  I heard a noise. Footsteps, voices. I felt so bad I no longer knew whether it was my imagination or if somebody really was approaching me.

  ‘I’m here!’

  I listened intently. It seemed as though they had heard me. But what was happening? I heard a tremendous crash, and felt myself being buffeted on all sides. An earthquake? I decided I knew what it must be. I was buried under the ruins of a building that had collapsed in an earthquake.

  ‘Help!’

  They must know there were survivors. They must have a rescue team with dogs, because in Peru an earthquake is a normal occurrence.

  I tried to calm my fears. But all at once I felt more terrified than ever: what if I have been left paralysed? I could scarcely feel my body. I started to pray:

  ‘Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy Kingdom come, thy Will be done, on earth as it is in heaven, give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses . . .’

  Light! At last I could see it. My prayer has been answered. The light was hurting my eyes, but finally I could see someone. Someone?

  It was Roberto, my fat little pachyderm.

  ‘Roberto! I’m over here! Help me, please! I’m so happy to see you! What’s the matter? Why are you looking at me like that?’

  Roberto was coming towards me in a menacing way that I was trying to decipher. He seized my head and lowered it to his open trouser flies. I did not even have time to sigh.

  ‘Take that, take that, you shitty inflatable doll!’ he shouted, sticking his syphilitic penis into my rubber mouth.

  22nd April 1997

  I woke up with a temperature and still feeling terrified in my bed at the Pardo Hotel. I had one question: did I have the Stockholm Syndrome for my sex-shop kidnapper?

  The nightmare stayed with me most of the morning, and the fever as well. I had to concentrate, because there were lots of things I had to deal with today. Amongst them were: to find a flight back to Spain and to buy a postcard of Machu Picchu for Granny, as I had promised.

  At Iberia they did the impossible: they found me a seat for the evening flight the next day. So I had twenty-four hours left in Peru. In the city centre I found an old street vendor who was selling all kinds of books and postcards. He was very friendly, and I really liked the way he left his maize-paper cigarette drooping from his lip without every taking a drag from it. It was about to burn his mouth, but he did not seem in the least bit concerned. When I asked him about Machu Picchu, he brought out tons of images of the famous mountain: in colour, black and white, with views from every angle and inscriptions in every language. I felt sure I would find exactly what I was looking for. It seemed as if he had been collecting them since the day he was born, because some of the postcards were yellowing and smelt like books that have spent years untouched in some imposing library. I chose a colour postcard, paid him double the asking price because I felt so sorry for the poor man, and besides, what he was charging in soles was next to nothing – and, pleased with what I had bought, I extracted myself from the man’s thanks and deep bows (as complicated as a Japanese diplomat’s), and returned to my hotel.

  Dear Granny,

  I’m sending you the small postcard as promised, but I have to confess I didn’t see Machu Picchu. I didn’t have the time. I’ve had my most important meeting, so now I’m heading back to Spain tomorrow evening. I’ll call you as soon as I get home. Huge kisses. Your little girl.

  I left the postcard at reception, insisting they send it as soon as possible. Eva told me not to worry. She said it would arrive safely, but could not guarantee how long it would take.

  After that I rang Rafa, who was doing the morning aerobics programme from the beach that he helps film for Peruvian TV. We agreed to meet at the Mojito bar at midday. He left really early this morning, with an innocent kiss on the lips and a question as to how I was feeling. I had a few hours to work out how I was going to tell him I was leaving the next day.

  I took my temperature again: 37.7. It had gone down a little, but I still didn’t feel well, so I lay down for a while.

  What on earth was I going to say to Rafa? How was he going to take it? Would he reproach me for not telling him sooner, and finding he was left with a kiss on both cheeks and no possibility of seeing me again? I spent the whole morning thinking it over, then when it was almost lunchtime I got up and put on some more make-up, to hide the dark lines under my eyes. I looked terrible, of course. I chose a jacket and ran out of the hotel.

  The Mojito was full of beautiful people and the Lima jet set. It’s the in place to have lunch and a drink. The restaurant is on two floors. Down below there are apple green tables and chairs, then there’s a wooden staircase, just like the ones you see in Westerns, from the top of which a lascivious dancer in a cancan skirt, wearing impossible plumes on her head, scowls at all the cowboys leaning on the bar. The second floor of the Mojito only opens in the evening for customers. I looked around for Rafa, and found him drinking a Corona beer, Mexican style. He was chewing at the slice of lemon, and absentmindedly staring at the marks his teeth had left in the skin.

  ‘You don’t look too good, boss!’ he said, standing up and bringing over a chair for me.

  ‘I think the trip to Trujillo wasn’t a good idea,’ I said, avoiding his eyes.

  I signalled to a waiter.

  ‘Are you sure there’s nothing else?’

  I could tell he suspected something. He was very nervous, and kept picking at the label on the beer bottle, tearing at strips until it was all off.

  ‘The menu and another Corona, please,’ I asked the waiter.

  I lit a cigarette, and found myself trembling. Rafa noticed, but didn’t say anything.

  We ordered some cheese enchiladas, burritos – no hot sauce for me – and a bottle of the house red wine. Not exactly a Peruvian meal!

  ‘I don’t know if you should drink a lot of alcohol.’

  Rafa had turned serious.

  ‘I’ll only drink a little. I think I’m not feeling well because yesterday was so exhausting. I’m feeling upset and worried because of those posters we saw about cholera in Trujillo. I feel nauseous, but I’m still hungry: that’s a good sign, isn’t it?’

  I could not convince him. We ate lunch in almost complete silence, with Rafa occasionally shooting me meaningful glances, and telling me in a desultory way about that morning’s work, the photos he had taken of me, and cursing the waiter for bringing us the food so slowly.

  After the meal, I told Rafa I wanted to go back to the hotel. I wanted to be alone, and if my temperature did not go down, I was determined to call a doctor. He nodded in agreement, and as I was about to climb into a taxi, dropped a small yellow packet into my bag.

  ‘Promise me you’ll follow the instructions written on it.’

  This took me by surprise, but I didn’t feel well enough to react and ask what he meant. I nodded in my turn, and shut the cab door. When we pulled up at a traffic light, I glanced back and saw Rafa standing there looking sad. He was waving goodbye. I did not know why, but I felt sure I would never see him again. He knew it as well.

  23rd April 1997

  The doctor came to see me yesterday and diagnosed gastroenteritis. He also advised that when I got back to Spain I should visit the hospital to check I didn’t have salmonella. I slept all afternoon, then tried to phone Rafa on his mobile, but it was out of service the whole time. I got up several times during the night, either to go to the toilet or because I was sweating and delirious. I remembered my encounter with Roberto and the nightmare I had had the previous night. The atmosphere in my bedroom became very stifling aga
in, and I felt I was being buried. The whole room had a smell of rotten eggs, which I eventually realized was the effect of all my belching and retching.

  This morning, though, I felt a lot better. My fever had gone as quickly as it had arrived, and I was looking forward to having breakfast and packing. I tried Rafa’s number once more, but without success. Either he was angry with me, or he knew I was leaving and wanted to spare himself any dramatic goodbye scenes. I don’t hold it against him. I spent the whole day working on reports about the clients I had visited, so that I didn’t have to think too much.

  A taxi was waiting for me at the hotel door, and I said goodbye to Eva, whom I had got on with right from the start. I’ll miss her. I could not hide my feelings, and felt like crying. In the taxi I let myself go, and as the taxi-driver peered at me anxiously in his rear-view mirror, I wept and tried to dry my nose on a bit of toilet paper I found in my bag. Whenever I run out of Kleenex, I always make sure I have some toilet paper with me so I can dry any unexpected tears, or wipe my forehead and nostrils if they are greasy.

  As I was looking for my ticket and passport at the Iberia check-in desk, I came across the small rectangular package Rafa had given me. It was very strange – it had a red seal with the initials R.M. I recognized Rafa’s handwriting. The instruction was: ‘Only to be opened on the flight.’ I felt the package to try to work out what was inside. It was very hard. I decided to open it on the plane as instructed, though I was dying to find out what it was. I had promised.

  There was quite a lot of turbulence on the flight, much more than on the way to Peru. It always happens just when the stewardesses are serving the meal. It’s as though it were on purpose. I clung onto my glass of juice, which was sliding from left to right and then back again, like in a spiritualist session.

  All of a sudden the red seat-belt light went on, and my heart started beating furiously. I dislike travelling by plane more and more. I needed to calm down with a cigarette, but I knew this would only infuriate the stewardesses and the other passengers, and that I would only be able to manage a couple of puffs. What I wouldn’t give for them anyway! It was at that moment that I remembered Rafa’s little package, so I took it out of my bag as carefully as someone holding a diamond worth a million dollars.

  When I opened it, I discovered a tiny, beautiful box with a piece of paper folded inside it. It had a very short but unforgettable message on it:

  Dear boss,

  The treasure of love comes in small packages.

  RAFA

  Rafa, why was that all you wrote? I can’t get enough of your words; is that all you had to say to me? I read the lines over and over again, and realized what a profound message the little box contained. The tears I started to cry were completely different from the ones I had shed in the taxi on the way to the airport. This time I was sobbing and sighing in a warm rush that was like a raging torrent. I could not remember ever having cried over a man like that in my life before. But was I really crying for him, or for those moments of happiness that are always unique and can never be repeated?

  My U-Turn

  24th April 1997

  NOBODY WAS WAITING for me at the airport. It was very early in the morning. My nose was completely stuffed up after having cried for seven of the twelve hours of the flight, and my eyes were as puffy as if two bees had stung me on both eyelids. I tried to console myself by thinking that I had at least left Rafa in good hands: he was sure to get together with the stewardess we met on the flight to Trujillo. Just thinking that brought a smile to my face.

  The very first thing I did was light a cigarette. While I was waiting for a taxi at the terminal exit, I put my SIM card back in my mobile. My voicemail was bound to be full of messages, but I could listen to them all once I got home.

  I had agreed to see Andres that afternoon, to tell him all I had done in Peru. First I would go home, lie down for a while, and then in mid-afternoon head for the office.

  On the way into Madrid from the airport, I rediscovered the civilization I had left behind only a few days before. I was fascinated by all the activity in the city. At a traffic light, I watched a man standing in front of the Gucci window, staring at the price of a pair of really high-heeled shoes. He was talking to himself, and had a nervous tic which meant his bottom lip kept shooting up and covering the top one. In a tearoom I spotted an executive pointing insistently at the largest cake on display, which was filled with custard. He was licking the left side of his lips in anticipation. I felt good. Everything here was much faster, and I could feel myself falling into the rhythm.

  I’ve never got from the airport to my apartment so quickly: the city was still half asleep. Already, though, even before the city became a hubbub of noise, there was a thick, grey-looking cloud of pollution hanging over it, and the humidity was set to reach the highest levels. The wail of an ambulance reminded me I was back in Spain, and that I had left all the rest behind me. Sirens are different in every country, and are one way of realizing how foreign you are. And today I felt fine, but still in a strange country.

  My mailbox was full of letters. Two of them caught my attention: a handwritten one, and a card with a blue sticker informing me that as I had not been at home, the package had been left at Office A. I must go and get it some time.

  I opened the other letter and instinctively looked down at the signature. It was from Cristian. What was he doing writing me letters? I didn’t feel like reading it there and then. Besides, he had not been there when I needed him, so I was still rather annoyed with him.

  But I was pleased to be home. I said hello to all my bits of furniture. To me, they have a life of their own. I don’t have a lot, but they all have great sentimental value. Above all, one painting, which is a reproduction of a woman’s face by Modigliani. Everyone who has been in my place has asked if it was me.

  ‘Me?’ I said once, reacting with distaste.

  ‘Yes, you look just like that woman with her smooth auburn hair, thin pink lips which might or might not be smiling, the large, strong nose and those eyes of yours which follow you round every corner of the flat.’

  The girl in the painting isn’t beautiful, but she is mysterious.

  ‘She’s like the Gioconda!’ Sonia said the first time she saw it.

  I collapsed onto my sofa, leaving my suitcase next to it, and rifled through all the other stuff that had arrived: telephone and electricity bills, publicity from a new beauty centre that makes china fingernails . . . I picked up Cristian’s letter again.

  Hi there Val,

  I called you several times on your mobile, but it’s switched off. So I’ve no idea where to find you. That’s why I decided to write you this letter. Please reply, even if it’s only to send me packing. I’d really like to see you again.

  CRISTIAN

  Let him suffer a bit! I crumpled up the letter and decided to throw it straight into the waste-paper bin. I had no intention of returning to Spain and immediately giving myself headaches over him. Instinctively, and to get over the bitter taste Cristian’s letter left in my mouth, I headed downstairs to Felipe’s office and rang the doorbell. He opened at once.

  ‘Hi! I’m your neighbour on the first floor. Do you remember me?’ I asked, with a broad smile.

  I still had no idea what a godsend this meeting with Felipe would turn out to be. We met just as my life was about to change dramatically – exactly as he does with his clients.

  Felipe is a strange-looking guy. He’s short, with small feet and bow legs that make an O when he walks. He has long fingernails like a classical guitarist, thick, curly hair, and a small goatee that he grew deliberately to make himself look interesting. He always wears black or white, and white flip-flops. The first impression is of a very unremarkable guy, with his pale face and timid expression. He’s incapable of coming out with a sentence without saying, ‘Of course, of course,’ and constantly stumbles over his words. His eyes are small and very dark, making him look like a tiny fox. In short, he’s incredibly u
gly.

  ‘Of course, of course! There was a parcel for you, and since you weren’t around, I signed for it. Hang on, I’ll go and get it. Come in, come in, don’t just stand there in the entrance,’ he said shyly.

  He went over to a desk and took out the parcel.

  ‘I don’t know how to thank you. If you hadn’t been here to collect it, they would have sent it back, and I’d have had to wait ages for it,’ I said while I was reading what was written on it.

  ‘We neighbours have to help each other. Besides, I already knew who you were. We’ve passed each other on the stairs a few times. You’re French, aren’t you?’

  I was surprised he hadn’t yet said a single ‘of course, of course’.

  ‘Yes, I’m French. But I’ve lived in Spain for a few years,’ I told him, pleased I had received the gym equipment I had ordered on the Internet one night when I couldn’t sleep a wink. Then I asked him, ‘What about you? Pure-blooded Catalan, I suppose.’

  ‘Yes, of course, of course. You can tell by the accent, can’t you?’ he said, looking down.

  Curious, I stared down at the same spot on the floor, but could see nothing.

  ‘And what do you do here?’ he asked, moving his foot as if he were stubbing out a cigarette.

  ‘I work for an advertising agency,’ I replied, looking him in the face and waiting for some reaction.

  He did not react in the slightest.

  ‘An advertising agency. Of course, of course. That must be fascinating, I should think?’

  He had thrust both hands into his trouser pockets. He seemed rather awkward, and still kept staring at the floor.

  ‘Yes, it is sometimes. But I think what you do is much more interesting.’

  At this, Felipe looked up suddenly.

  ‘Ten days ago, when I was about to leave on my trip, I met a whole group of people outside your office. One of the girls told me they were actors, and that you sold slices of life. Is that true?’