With the hot coffee kick-starting her nervous system, she called reception and asked to be put through to Señor Garcia's room, only to be told that Señor Garcia had already gone out. He had, however, left a message asking that she meet him for lunch. He would be outside Pueblo Español at one o'clock; the chauffeur would drive her there.
This suited her down to the ground. She could relax with her orange juice and coffee, and would even have time to blow-dry her hair properly. She might feel like shit, but there was no excuse for looking like it. Not in front of Raoul, anyway.
***
The drive through the city was wonderful. She had deliberately left the hotel a little earlier than necessary so she could see something of the city before meeting Raoul. Having tracked down the chauffeur, a charming Spaniard in his early twenties, and explained what she wanted, he agreed to drive her past a few of the more famous sights.
Consequently, he had taken a slightly circuitous route in order to show her the magnificent National Museum and the Plaza España with its impressive monument dedicated to the achievement of the Spanish people.
The young driver was evidently very proud, not just of his nation, but of his city too. He was native to Barcelona, and even though he had travelled to other parts of the country, he thought Barcelona the finest city in all of Spain. Madrid, he assured her in his rather broken English, was "too much boring".
Raoul was waiting for her as arranged, and greeted her with a kiss on the cheek. He apologised for not having been around that morning, and promised to make amends. He had the whole afternoon free, and they could do whatever she pleased.
The Pueblo Español proved to be a fun place for lunch. It consisted of a wonderfully eclectic assortment of churches, mansions, dwellings and shops from the Spanish provinces, all brought together, arranged in squares and streets, to give the impression of a large and diverse village. In various parts of the village craftsmen could be seen at work. It had a pleasantly authentic feel to it and, bereft of vehicles, was so peaceful and quiet that it took little effort to imagine oneself in the heart of the Spanish countryside.
They had a light lunch - salad, tortilla, a bottle of Rioja - at one of the bougainvillea-decked, open-air restaurants, and Raoul chatted amiably about some friends he had re-established contact with that morning. Often, he explained, his business commitments left him little time for socialising, but he had made a point of allowing more time for such endeavours on this trip.
When he spoke this way, with such evident fondness for people, for life, for the finer things, Zoë found it easy to forgive him his Latin pride and offhandedness. At times like this he came across as a thoughtful, well-educated, sensitive man, with a great deal of passion for the things he cared about. She could begin to understand what Liz had said about him in the past, about how it was easy to fall under his spell.
After lunch they walked around the pueblo, and then Raoul suggested they walk up the nearby Mount Jupiter, for a view of the city. Enlivened by the excellent lunch, Zoë agreed, and in the gentle afternoon sunshine, they made their way up through the beautiful botanical gardens, walking at a slow but purposeful pace.
As they gained altitude, new vistas of Barcelona appeared, and before long Zoë began to appreciate the scale of the place. About halfway up the hill they sat down on a bench beneath some overhanging branches and rested. On the way up, Raoul had been talking animatedly about his friends, and in doing so had let slip some small clues about his life.
But try as she might, Zoë could reach no definite conclusions about what he actually did, and the curiosity was beginning to gnaw at her. She was sure he would have given her at least a clue by now.
By the time they sat down, his mood was especially good. They had not seen a soul since they had started their trek up the hill so, as they were completely alone, Zoë thought it an appropriate time to broach the subject of his mysterious "business".
'You're not in the film business at all, are you?'
Raoul raised his eyebrows, evidently surprised. He tried hard to suppress a wry smile, but did not succeed. 'Films? Elizabeth has a most vivid imagination. Still, do you not think I could pass for a movie producer?'
Yes, thought Zoë, you probably could... but you're not. She had been pondering Raoul's "business interests", had listened carefully to the things he had said, and even more carefully to what he had not said, what he had studiously avoided, and she had narrowed the field down to two possibilities.
'Come on Raoul, cut the crap,' she said teasingly. 'Which is it; porn or drugs?'
Raoul laughed. 'My dear! How could you imagine for one moment that I would be involved in something as tawdry as pornography...'
'I thought as much,' interrupted Zoë, suddenly concerned that there might well be a moral conflict of interests about to arise.
'I provide a most important service... do not look so disgusted; I am sure you are not a puritan.'
'What is it Raoul? Heroin?'
There was a moment's silence. She hadn't meant to ask so bluntly; after all, he was quite within his rights to tell her to mind her own business. But then, she was equally within her rights to get on the next plane out of there. She did not want to look at him then; she realised that while she did not wish to be lied to, she wasn't sure she wanted to hear the truth.
'No.' Raoul's voice was firm, unwavering. 'I would not touch this substance. It is a killer, is it not?'
A huge wave of relief swept through her. In the same moment she realised there was only one other product that Raoul could be dealing in that would yield the sort of money that he evidently had at his disposal.
'Cocaine? You're a coke smuggler? Jesus, I'm getting slow in my old age.'
Raoul smiled. 'I prefer to think of myself as a distributor of exclusive consumables. I discovered long ago the truth of the most important of all business rules; discover a demand and then fill it. Cocaine is a much sought after commodity.'
'I'll say.'
Raoul studied her expression for a while. Zoë's reaction had certainly not been wholly clear. 'You disapprove.'
She shook her head. 'Not at all. I mean, I'm pleased it's not smack... I hate that shit. But I can hardly disapprove of coke. I buy a gram now and then myself.'
'Personally I do not indulge, but I take no moral stand on the matter.'
Zoë laughed, then looking closer at Raoul's response, realised that he was not joking, that he was being quite serious. She shook her head in disbelief. 'What are you talking about? How the hell could you... you're supplying the stuff for Chrissake.'
Raoul remained calm. 'Because a man goes to war, it does not mean he necessarily approves of killing. Sometimes we do what we must.'
Zoë could hardly believe what she was hearing. She wasn't even going to question whether he was being serious, as she could see by his set expression that he saw nothing odd in what he had professed, no conflict between his attitude and his activities. It just so happened that he didn't disapprove of people snorting cocaine, but implicit in that declaration was the notion that, even if he had, even though he was supplying the drug, there would have been no conflict of interests.
There was something so arrogant in this attitude, so unappealing, that for a moment Zoë wished he had been a heroin dealer. At least she could then have castigated him for being an immoral shit and a murderer, and stormed off in disgust, her dignity intact and her conscience untroubled.
As it was, Raoul was not a heroin dealer, he smuggled cocaine. She knew there were many who would not understand her approval, or rather, her lack of disapproval. To many people, including several of her friends, hard drugs were all alike. They were all poison, and they all created huge problems for the people who were hooked, those around them and the societies in which they flourished.
But Zoë knew it wasn't like that. Cocaine was a rich man's drug, a prohibited indulgence for the smart set who had more money than sense. It wasn't a street drug, it wasn't an addictive soul-destroyer like heroi
n. It wasn't, to her mind, even as bad as alcohol, and certainly not as bad as cigarettes. Nicotine was far more addictive than coke. She had never craved cocaine, but you only had to look at her, and the hundreds of millions of other pathetic addicts to see that cigarette smokers could barely go an hour without a puff. And the incidence of heart disease and lung cancer... well, she didn't like to think about it, of course not. It just made her feel panicky.
That was the problem with cigarettes; even knowing that they're killing you doesn't help you to stop. Tell a cigarette smoker that smoking kills you and the first thing he or she does is light up another. Awful. No, she didn't disapprove of Raoul's business. But she was vehemently opposed to his attitude.
And she let him know it, all the way back to the hotel.
Chapter 13
Back at the hotel, Raoul took a siesta; he explained that he had been up since early morning and felt much in need of a rest. Zoë took the opportunity to do a little sightseeing. Raoul had told her the Barri Gòtic, Barcelona's ancient Gothic Quarter, was well worth a visit. The young woman at reception assured her the Cathedral - the heart of the Gothic Quarter - was within walking distance, so Zoë grabbed a tourist map and set off.
She soon found herself crossing the now familiar Plaza de Catalunya and heading for the cathedral square. The square was relatively quiet; the holiday season had yet to begin in earnest, so she found herself able to admire the magnificent buildings without the distractions of thousands of noisy, camera-clicking tourists.
The afternoon sun was shining brightly, a pleasing, deep yellow luminance which showed off the impressive 14th and 15th century buildings to their best effect. Zoë had learnt once that the term Gothic was a misnomer. The Goths, a barbarian tribe from the Dark Ages, had contributed little to the history of European Architecture; to describe something as Gothic was to denigrate it. Somehow, though, the term had come to be applied as a general appellation for the rather ostentatious and fussy styles that had prospered during the medieval period. It was not a style that Zoë would much have cared to have around her all the time; the idea of a Gothic house was horrendous, but in its correct setting, it could overwhelm with grandness and majesty.
This was certainly the case with the Barri Gòtic. Zoë wandered happily around the narrow alleyways for hours. Without the noise and bother of the traffic, which could not get through to much of the Quarter, it was easy to feel that she had been transported back through time.
Every so often she would find a place to sit and, trying to melt into the background, would watch the inhabitants of the city as they went about their everyday business.
All manner of people were parading through the narrow alleyways. Well-dressed, distinguished looking men strolling unhurriedly to business meetings, with that gorgeous combination of peacock-pride and Mediterranean casualness that Raoul, too, could affect with such devastating ease.
There were plenty of grey-haired grandmas in uniform black dress and headscarf, untroubled by style or even so much as hint of colour, trudging across the stone-flagged squares, clutching their woven baskets, each overflowing with groceries and goodies.
Scruffy, unkempt kids with dirty faces and enchanting smiles, skipped though the shadow-dark courtyards, playing their secret games, playing out their youthful fantasies.
And then there were the young women, including one of Barcelona's long-legged, big-breasted, dark-eyed denizens, swaying seductively as she wiggled her way through the Quarter. Quite subconsciously, Zoë found herself, like Raoul, transfixed, following every wriggle, twist, wobble and bounce. It was captivating, like watching a team of ballet dancers perform a beautifully choreographed manoeuvre, each part moving in rhythm and harmony, with graceful yet provocative articulation.
There was nothing overtly sexual in Zoë's appreciation, yet for a few seconds, as this voluptuous woman passed by, she could wholly understand Raoul's fascination. She could even feel a certain envy; as Raoul had said so eloquently, these women wore their sexuality for all to see, with great ease and comfort. For all Zoë's ill-defined and (even she would admit) rather fuzzy-headed feminist inclinations, that was still something of which she could feel deeply desirous.
The time passed slowly. Shadows shifted and the air began to cool. By four o'clock, knowing that she had experienced a rather special side of the city, Zoë, tired but satisfied, returned to the hotel for a short but much needed nap.
***
She slept for an hour or so before throwing herself into the shower. Having freshened up, she sat on the bed and rolled a joint. She was beginning to get into the spirit of Barcelona and was thoroughly enjoying the trip. But she wondered when her services, as such, would be called on. Raoul had mentioned nothing more about business dinners or meetings, and although he had gone off that morning, she had seen little activity. Cocaine smuggling, she concluded, must be a damn good way to make a living. Stay in the swankiest hotels in the most exotic cities, travel first-class everywhere, keep a chauffeur-driven car on call, drink the best champagne... Oh yes, she could certainly see the advantages of such a lifestyle.
She had just finished rolling the joint when there was a knock on the door. Zoë grabbed a towel and threw it over the dope and paraphernalia. She went to the door and opened it. It was Raoul.
'Oh... it's you.'
'Most observant. Am I disturbing you?'
'No, of course not. Come in.'
Raoul followed her into the room and sat down in the armchair near the bed.
'Did you enjoy your afternoon?'
'Uh-huh... I think I could easily spend a couple of months here and not tire of it. How about you?' Zoë returned to the bed and sat down, unsure whether to blatantly reveal the dope to Raoul.
'I slept well, thank you.'
Zoë pulled the towel away, grabbed the neatly rolled cylinder, and lit up. 'Is this okay?' she said, pointing to the smouldering joint. 'I mean, I presume you take no moral stand on marijuana?'
Raoul smiled and held out his hand. Zoë, somewhat surprised, offered it to him. Raoul drew deeply, holding in the smoke for several seconds before releasing it in a series of perfectly formed smoke rings.
'Disgraceful,' he said, still smiling. Zoë burst out laughing.
'You're not exactly straightforward, Raoul,' she said, retrieving the joint.
'What do you mean?'
Zoë stared at him for a moment. He was dressed in a white silk shirt and electric blue tie, grey trousers and a light grey sports jacket. He conspired to look simultaneously casual and elegant, which somehow reflected the very contradictions in his character that Zoë had sought to point out. He was, she had decided, both desirable and infuriating, charming and insufferable. However, she did not feel she knew him well enough yet to be able to say such things. 'Oh, nothing,' she murmured, backing away from any potential conflict. 'So, what's the plan for tonight?'
'I thought we might dine at the Café de Colombia; it is a rather elegant restaurant, and I thought it would make a pleasant contrast to last night.'
'Sure... sounds great. But when do I get to meet some of your... what do you call them... associates?'
'Tomorrow evening. It is the most important meeting... but I shall tell you more tomorrow.' Raoul stood up to leave. 'I shall await you in the lobby at eight. Perhaps you would care to try one of your new outfits.'
Zoë nodded enthusiastically. 'Elegant, you say?'
Raoul nodded. 'The gold earrings, I think. At eight, then.'
***
After he had left, Zoë finished the joint and then set about making herself look acceptable. She thought it might be interesting to try to blend in with the natives; Raoul could pass easily for a Catalan, but she knew she would have to work at it if she wanted to be taken for a local.
She decided to wear the long black skirt and the embroidered top, as this at least had a Spanish feel to it. Her hair was a problem though; few of the women she had seen that day wore their hair short. But at least she was dark. Her compl
exion would require rather more effort.
It took her the best part of thirty minutes to apply her make-up, but by the time she had finished, she looked - if not Catalan - then certainly more southern Europe than northern. She stared at herself in the full-length mirror and as she turned away, caught a glimpse of something else; there in the glass, the ghost of the dark-eyed beauty she had gazed at in the Gothic quarter earlier that day. Zoë had neither the extravagant curves nor the luxuriant tresses, but one did not have to use a great deal of imagination to see that, in her professed desire to assimilate, she was, in fact, attempting to emulate.
And for whose sake? she wondered. It was perhaps just as well there was no time to ponder this further.
***
Raoul was ready and waiting for her when she came down to the lobby.
'You look very fine; that jacket suits you.'
'Thank you,' said Zoë, who, after all her efforts was now curiously relieved that Raoul had not made any specific reference to her "exotic" appearance. 'You look pretty mean yourself.'
Raoul smiled. 'I am pleased. Well, then, let us go show off our good looks in the right places.' He led her to the car.
It was not a long journey, and before Zoë knew it they were stopping outside the Café de Columbia, with its grand, colonial decor.
Raoul was greeted warmly by the head waiter, and they were shown to a small table for two towards the centre of the restaurant. The place was very busy, and Zoë got the immediate impression that people were there as much to see and be seen as to eat. It was all very plush, and she felt perfectly at home amid the splendour and elegance, her feelings perhaps heightened a little by the drugs that were actively coursing around her system.
Raoul explained that they would drink local wines with their meal tonight, as there were some particularly interesting Catalan reds that he thought appropriate. Zoë thought this a great idea; she wanted to immerse herself in the place, and as she had gone to great efforts to look the part, she also wanted to feel it. If only she could speak the local dialect, she thought, then it would be perfect.
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