by Val
I was determined to find out exactly what that ‘slices of life’ meant.
Felipe replied in all seriousness, ‘Of course, of course. It sounds a bit strange, doesn’t it? But that’s right, I do sell slices of life. It’s something new. I create stories and sell a character for a specified length of time. It’s like a role play. People have lots of dreams. They’d like to be spies, pop stars, models, or hostages . . .’
‘Hostages?’ I said, surprised.
‘Yes. And I make those dreams a reality. I create a situation, characters. I have some very good actors on my books, a screenplay, and everything seems real. Just like life!’
‘That’s really interesting,’ I cried. ‘How does it work?’
‘I could explain, but it would take time. Why don’t you come round tomorrow evening and we can talk about it at our leisure?’
‘OK, I’ll come round about eight. I have to work until then. Is that all right for you?’ I was keen for him to say yes.
‘Of course, of course that’s fine. We’re rehearsing all tomorrow afternoon anyway. If we finish early, I’ll wait for you.’
We smiled and said goodbye, and I went back upstairs. I felt tired but once again my adrenalin had kicked in. Felipe had aroused my curiosity, and I could feel my whole body tingling with anticipation.
I tried to have a bit of a rest, then in mid-afternoon went to the office, in a mood to take on anyone.
Andres was waiting for me sitting on his throne, anxious to hear all the details of my Peruvian trip. I spent a few minutes chatting to my workmates, then knocked on my boss’s door. I was keen to see him, because in spite of everything I rather like him.
‘Come in, my girl!’
Every time I come back from a business trip, Andres gets up and kisses me on both cheeks. It’s a habit, and also the only time I get to glimpse a tenderness in him that he usually hides at all costs. All the rest of the time he is the coldest man I have ever met. This time, though, he didn’t embrace me, so I stood there with my cheek proffered like an idiot. And even though Andres was obviously pleased to see me, the atmosphere was tense.
‘Hello Andres,’ I said, deciding to sit down. ‘Here I am with some new contracts, but Prinsa say they are still thinking it over.’
‘You look tired, my girl. Did you have a good journey?’ Andres asked with genuine concern, leafing through the reports I had brought him.
‘More or less. All those hours in a plane, plus jet lag, are more than enough for anyone. But don’t worry, I’m fine. What do you make of my work?’
‘It looks fine, my girl. We can pursue Prinsa from here.’
‘So, when is my next trip?’ Even as I asked the question, I realized I’d hit the nail on the head.
Andres put down my reports and picked up his notepad with all the doodles on it. He started furiously drawing three-dimensional cubes, and then shaded in their sides with a pencil. He took his glasses off, and for some reason this familiar gesture made me realize he was about to give me bad news. His eyes were tired, and had enormous bags under them.
Everybody in the office knew already, but no one had said a word to me. I suddenly felt like a woman whose husband is being unfaithful to her, but is always the last to find out. I automatically reached up to smooth down my hair, but in fact I was feeling to see if my cuckold’s horns were showing. As if on cue, my head started to ache, and that morning’s sense of euphoria disintegrated into a kind of nausea that crept up from my stomach to my throat. I stared impatiently at Andres’ trembling lips, but nothing came out.
‘Come on, spit it out!’ I almost shouted at him.
Andres had to take a deep breath to tell me what I already suspected. We were sitting opposite each other. I was breathless and he was visibly embarrassed at what he had to tell me.
‘I’m really sorry my girl, but you’re fired.’
I already knew that the firm was in the throes of a restructuring process, but it had never occurred to me I could just simply be fired. I didn’t ask Andres to go into detail, because I was far too exhausted to start an argument. We agreed I would come back another day to sign the settlement papers, he kissed me on both cheeks, and I left his office in a daze. I went straight away to clear my desk, with Marta’s help. She went on and on in a whisper about how unfair the situation was, telling me I should sue the company for unfair dismissal. We all knew there were more heads on the block, but mine was the first, and that was what hurt most of all.
I walked home stumbling along like a drug addict, still unable to take in properly what had happened to me. I needed to write, because I felt I was still under the toxic influence of what Andres had said to me. I picked up my diary to try to write down what I felt and understand it, but it was impossible. What I needed above all was to be with Cristian, to rediscover the inspiration I was lacking.
I recalled that, the first time we made love, I felt the need to record in writing all the sounds our clothes had made as they fell to the floor, to describe the way his tongue moved over all my body, the way his hands caressed my breasts, how tenderly he stroked my stomach, the scent of his breath on my face, like a small, familiar breeze that blew in whenever our bodies were crazy for each other, the happiness we shared with our orgasms, then the peaceful moments afterwards as we lay there entwined, the toes of his feet banging into mine as we both tried to get some sleep, how he clung onto me so I could not wriggle away to the far side of the bed. I had tried to write all this down the first time he had come inside me. But the memory of it had faded. Confused images whirled round my mind. I was tired out, and my life was about to perform a U-turn.
Slices of Life
25th April 1997
I SPENT THE morning chain-smoking – my whole flat reeked of nicotine, and so did my hair, but I did not feel like taking a shower. I was simply filling in time until I met Felipe. I could have brought our meeting forward, but I wasn’t in the mood to give explanations. He was the one who had to talk. I wanted to know everything about his precious ‘slices of life’, but if I told him I had just lost my job, he might be tempted not to say a word.
An hour before I was due to meet him, I jumped into the shower. I let the water cascade all over my face, just like I do on rainy days as I jump over puddles. Now it was goodbye puddles on the way to work; goodbye Marta, goodbye Andres. I’ll miss you all.
I had to snap out of it. The first thing was to go and see Felipe. After that, I decided I would call Sonia and organize a hen party this weekend. And last but not least, I would try to find Cristian and spend the night with him.
After taking all these decisions, I felt more like my old self. I went down to Office A, and Felipe was obviously pleased to see me. He showed me in, then left me standing in the middle of the room.
‘I think the best thing to do would be to show you the place first, then explain. Come on, follow me.’
His office was on three floors, linked by a spiral staircase. On the ground floor where we were, there was a computer, a fax, and loads of shelves filled with box files. Felipe took me up to the first floor, which was where he received his clients. It was very tasteful: all the furniture was wickerwork, and on the walls were hung several exotic paintings and photographs of people tied up on chairs, and of cemeteries and zombies . . . I could see a poster advertising a film starring Michael Douglas: The Game.
‘I really like Michael Douglas,’ I exclaimed.
‘Did you like the film?’ Felipe asked, with a smile.
‘I didn’t get to see it,’ I had to confess.
‘You should. Eight years before it came out, I was already designing “slices of life”. But now, people think I must have copied the film to start my business, but in fact it’s the opposite,’ Felipe said, obviously put out. ‘The film shows exactly what I do. The Game is the story of a multi-millionaire who is bored because he has everything. For his birthday, his brother has no idea what to offer him. So he decides to hire a company for a role play, in which Michael Dougla
s will play the central character. He has no idea of this. But then the game becomes dangerous . . . I do exactly the same for my clients, though I never let it become dangerous, get it?’
I nodded. His story fascinated me. We went down to the basement, which was a huge, gloomy place with no windows, like a sort of bunker where unspeakable things might happen. The only furniture in the room was an enormous table with twenty chairs round it, and a plastic dummy dressed in a military uniform and wearing a gas mask. It was a truly scary place, with bare brick and cement walls. It looked like a hole in the floor that could collapse on top of us at any moment.
‘This is where I bring my actors to rehearse all the scenes. That’s why it’s so big. We need space . . . space,’ the echo of his voice repeated.
‘Of course, of course,’ I replied, realizing as I said it that I had adopted his own stock phrase.
Felipe did not notice, but went on with his explanations.
‘I invent all kinds of stories: spy thrillers, horror, love stories . . . with varying degrees of danger, suspense and fear. My clients choose what kind of story they want, then they become the main character in it for a certain length of time: twenty-four hours, forty-eight, or whatever. All my actors wear a label with the name of the company on it, so that if the situation becomes intolerable the client can somehow get back to reality. They can see the label and realize that it is only a game. If they want to call a halt, they have a password they can use whenever they like. And before they start, they have to visit our psychologist to determine their state of mind. I also recommend they see a doctor for a health check. Anyone with heart problems is barred. I don’t want to run any risks. We’re a serious leisure company. As you see, I’ve thought of everything.’
‘I understand,’ I replied, intrigued. ‘Tell me a bit more about the people who want this kind of service, the prices, the stories themselves . . .’
‘Of course, of course! My clients are all well off. The prices depend on how complicated the story is and how long it lasts, but in any case, it doesn’t come cheap. This is a cutting-edge leisure pursuit. And as for the stories, they’re of all kinds. I even have clients who ask me to make one up just for them.’
‘Aha?’
‘Of course, of course. My last client for example was a lawyer who wanted to be kidnapped for forty-eight hours by two women, and to be put into a hole in the ground. I invented the story especially for him. He loved it.’
‘In a hole? People really are off their heads. As if there weren’t enough kidnappings these days, you get a guy asking for it. I can’t believe it!’ I said, indignantly.
‘What I didn’t tell you was that the guy wanted two lesbians to make love in front of him down the hole he was being kidnapped in. I had to hire two prostitutes, because none of my actresses would do it.’
All of a sudden there was a strangely perverse, diabolic glint in his eye, which I found tremendously attractive. Felipe no longer looked like the fragile, shy fellow I had met the previous evening.
‘Oh, he wanted two lesbians did he?’ was all I could think of saying.
He stared at me for a few moments, then went on with his explanations as though nothing had happened.
‘We once organized a medieval weekend for four people in a castle where Count Dracula appeared each night. They nearly died of fright,’ Felipe said, bursting out laughing.
‘I must say, I’d really love to be involved in a story like that. It must be great. But it would be far too expensive for me,’ I said reluctantly.
‘Would you really like to?’
He was staring at me again, with that perverse smile on his lips. He looked as attractive as before.
‘Yes of course, of course. It must be really exciting!’
‘Don’t worry. You shall have your slice of life, and for you I’ll put it on for free. But just remember this: once the client has agreed, he or she never knows at what moment the story is going to start. Are you up for it?’
‘Yes,’ I said, not taking him particularly seriously.
What on earth was I doing? I didn’t know him at all, and here I was saying yes without the slightest idea of what I was getting myself into. Although I suspected it would be the typical kind of soap opera that has such an impact on people.
‘Fine, but remember: when you least expect it . . .’ Felipe said again, accompanying me to the door.
‘OK! Good night, Felipe,’ I said quickly, running back upstairs to my flat. Our conversation had really excited me, and I was amazed how a guy as apparently dull as him could suddenly become so attractive to me.
My body was on fire, and I needed the fire brigade. I called Cristian’s number, but there was no reply so I left a message explaining why I hadn’t been in touch for ten days. Twenty minutes later he called back, and we agreed to meet at his place.
As soon as I got there, we went straight to bed, without exchanging a word. Cristian took my head in his hands and started to lick my mouth, nose, eyes and neck. The sense of pleasure it gave me was like heartbeats pounding gently all over my face. Every so often he disappeared lower down my body, then brought back my own nectar for me to taste on my lips.
‘Do you like it?’ he asked, aroused to the limit.
‘I love it. What about you?’
‘Me too. It has a slightly sweet taste. It’s like summer rain.’
I fell back, sated with pleasure, and took his moist penis in my hand. I started moving up and down, while he began exploring my secret cavern with his finger. I was enjoying myself, and so was he: we both came at the same moment, exhausted from the exotic positions we had got into, as if the intensity of our lovemaking depended on them.
A few hours later – I still don’t know whether it was real or a dream – I suddenly found Cristian’s buttocks thrust into my face. I lay there without moving as a previously undiscovered hole opened in front of me, and a lascivious voice begged, ‘You penetrate me now.’
I was so surprised I couldn’t do a thing. Cristian turned round to face me and apologized.
‘Male hormones sometimes make swine out of those who aren’t really animals.’
I found myself remembering what Felipe had been telling me, and thinking this was some kind of bad joke.
6th June 1997
Bidugi is going round and round the flat, exploring her new home. Granny has died. She suffered a heart attack, and at her age there was no way to save her. I feel as though I have lost a part of myself, just when we were beginning to have a great relationship. And she never got the card I sent her from Peru. Life seems very unfair to me at the moment, and I could not think of what I had done to deserve such a hard time. Death is terrible not so much for those who go through it, but for those left behind.
10th July 1997
‘They’re all useless in your office!’ Hassan shouted over the phone, as if there was interference and he was calling from China. ‘A young lady who must have been on work experience insisted there was no Val working there.’
I had forgotten how authoritarian Hassan could be. He wants to have everything at once, like a spoilt child. That’s why he’s still in touch with me. Basically, I gave him all that he wants from a woman: sex, youth and no questions asked.
When I first met him, I immediately felt a lot of respect and tenderness for him, as well as sexual curiosity to experiment with a much older man. He was sitting on a sofa in the Hyatt hotel bar, while I was dining with a client in the restaurant. I was uncomfortable because I kept having to avoid the ogling of Luca, the Italian chef, who seemed to have taken a liking to me. Luca looked like a drug-addicted sailor who had just got out of jail. His arms were covered in tattoos with the names of all the women he had been with. Every night after he had finished work he would come up to my bedroom door and beg me to let him in, or send me poems written in a bastard French full of spelling mistakes, which he must have learnt from his Gallic cellmates. I could not stand him.
That night, Hassan was quick to understa
nd what was going on and came to my rescue by inviting me to have a drink with him. In those days he went around like a government minister, and wore extremely elegant Yves Saint Laurent suits. He had about half the hotel staff in his pocket. Every time a waiter came by they would bow to him or greet him as though he owned the entire country. I was on cloud nine with him beside me, and it was then I understood what the phrase ‘power is an aphrodisiac’ means. I wanted to try out something that drives a lot of women crazy: being with a rich and powerful man. His looks are nothing to write home about, but that to me is not the important thing. I fell for Hassan straight away, because he has a lantern jaw just like Klaus Kinski, and that little physical detail was enough to make him charismatic. This and his natural eloquence were enough to seduce me right from the start.
I was attracted by his calm assurance, disturbed only on those occasions when he was giving orders to his subordinates, who could do nothing but obey him. It wasn’t even any problem for us to go up to my room, in a country where it was forbidden for a man to accompany a woman upstairs if she was not married. In fact, our relationship had started one night when he had hidden in my bedroom with a huge bunch of roses to offer me. He had overcome all kinds of obstacles to be with me, and he was taking giant strides towards becoming subconsciously dependent on me.
‘Well, Hassan, I’m surprised that they didn’t explain what happened. I was sacked last April,’ I told him brusquely, annoyed at the way he had spoken and by the fact of being unemployed.
‘What did you do to make them throw you out so suddenly?’ he barked.
‘Nothing at all,’ I said, hurt and upset. ‘They were laying people off, and I happened to be the first in line. What are you suggesting? That I set it up to give myself problems, just when my life was more or less organized and peaceful?’
Hassan, who is always so proud of being a liberal, Western-educated Moslem, will not admit it, but being a woman is a problem in itself.
