Purely Decorative

by Angelina Cabo

  This accusation made Raoul start. He turned towards her, a look of astonishment on his face. The hint of a smile creased his lips, and when he spoke, it was with all the clarity, gravity and warmth of tone that had captivated her on that first evening.

  'But you are wrong, my dear. Do I look at you as if you were a piece of meat? I do not. I admire you, your grace, your beauty, the manner in which you hold your head. I drink in the vision of you, and everything that is lovely about you. I gaze upon you with great reverence. I do not merely appraise you like I would a piece of steak as you suggest. Neither do I behave this way with these women here. What is the point of beauty if one cannot look upon it? What greater compliment is there to beauty than to be drawn into it, to become engrossed in it, to lose one's ego in it? It is a beautiful thing in itself, such appreciation. Far from what you suggest, I do these women a service with my attention. I salute them for their beauty. I honour them with my submission to their loveliness...'

  'Oh, do me a favour, Raoul,' said Zoë, with more than a touch of exasperation. 'You've already played that particular card. Instead of dressing up your sexist habits with fancy words, why don't you just admit it? You're a voyeur.' Zoë knew she was being a little more blunt than was perhaps polite, but to some extent her reaction was reflex. She had intended to humiliate him, to show him up for his bad manners, to educate him in the ways of late twentieth century sexual politics. Instead, he had turned the whole business into a lecture on aesthetics. Her response had just come tumbling out.

  'And this is your considered opinion, is it?' Raoul nodded, the sarcasm buzzing around him in the air like a noisy fly.

  'Yes,' said Zoë, spitting the word out with considerable venom. How was it that he could get her goat with such ease? She turned her head away, hoping that would be the end of it, only to find Raoul's hand gripping her chin and turning her head to face him. Because of the way she was sitting she could not strike his hand away without losing balance and falling over. So, for a moment or two she sat there, eyes blazing in fury, caught in Raoul's demeaning grip, which was so tight that she could not move her lower jaw to speak. Raoul seemed to be revelling in this moment, and he even had the audacity to laugh, albeit gently, before delivering his coup de grace.

  'You are very beautiful,' he said, bringing his face close to hers so his gaze flickered back and forth across her face. 'But you have a lot to learn.'

  If Zoë had had a knife she felt sure she would have stuck it straight in his guts, right there and then. As it was, all she could do was suffer that smirk of his. When he finally relaxed his grip, Zoë struck out with her right hand and caught Raoul a glancing blow on his chest. The force toppled him off balance for a moment, but could not have done any harm because she could still hear his laughter as she ran off down the beach and dived into the sea to cool her mounting rage.

  ***

  They lunched late on paella and rough red wine. Raoul tried to make light conversation, but Zoë was still smarting from their altercation, something which Raoul resolutely failed to understand.

  They spent another hour on the beach, and then in the late afternoon headed back to Barcelona. With the early evening sun, Zoë started to loosen up. She realised that her cold-shoulder response was harming no one but herself. She knew that it was not her place to criticise Raoul, but somehow he brought out the fighter in her. Zoë had known some typical male chauvinists in her time: in fact, the crowd at Sizzlers was hardly the most politically correct bunch you could hope to meet, and she didn't waste her time lecturing them. So what was it about him that made her want to shake him, to show him that his attitudes were... were... were what? Wrong? Misguided? Dangerous? Not to him, that was evident.

  Zoë made another promise to herself, not to allow Raoul to get to her. She would let his attitudes wash over her, take no notice of his Latin macho ways.

  And she was doing very well until they reached the hotel. As they walked into the lobby, Raoul took her by the arm, and informed her that, as they were dining out with some business acquaintances that evening, he required her to look "exceptional". Nothing wrong with that; she knew that was why she was there. It was only when he added "and please, not too much red on your lips; it makes you look cheap" that she started to protest, and had to be ushered swiftly into the elevators.

  ***

  By the time Zoë had rested, freshened up and changed, she had exchanged her fury for nerves. Tonight would be her first proper engagement, and she didn't want to screw up. Zoë liked to do things properly; no half measures, no skimping. If she had a job to do, she wanted to be professional about it. She may have loathed his attitudes towards women, but she did not want to let Raoul down; a great deal might well depend on her behaving properly.

  Naturally, such thoughts made her a little nervous, a sense that was only compounded when she considered the nature of Raoul's business. Tonight she would no doubt be dining with some of the most powerful criminals in Europe, men who by the very nature of their business might well be dangerous, ruthless hoods. Paradoxically, she did not see Raoul in these terms. And although she was used to mixing with low-lifes who operated on the fringes of London's criminal world, she felt a little out of her depth hobnobbing with Mafiosi, or whatever the Spanish equivalent were.

  As she waited for Raoul in the lobby she examined her reflection in one of the wall mirrors; by her own admission she looked both sexy and elegant in the black lurex cocktail dress and long black gloves. She was even wearing the gold earrings that Raoul had especially liked, and he did not fail to notice this when he greeted her a few moments later. He too was looking very smart in a dark grey suit, white silk shirt and a plain red tie; startling, but fetching nonetheless. He was also carrying a black leather briefcase with gold locks but otherwise nothing to identify it from a hundred other briefcases.

  He led her through the front doors to where the young chauffeur was waiting with the limousine. Once ensconced in the back seat, Raoul placed the briefcase beside him on the seat and turned to Zoë.

  'You must relax; there is nothing to be nervous about. We are merely going to have a pleasant dinner with two local businessmen; they will be accompanied by their wives or lovers. We will eat, drink, make small talk. You may talk freely; they will not ask any embarrassing or personal questions. You are with me, and we are their guests tonight.'

  Zoë nodded. 'That's it? Just dinner?'

  Raoul patted his briefcase discreetly. 'There will be a short transaction later,' he said, and smiled.

  ***

  The Café d'Iradier was a most elegant restaurant. Zoë was rather taken with the colonial-style decor and general splendour, so much so that she was still busy looking around her when Raoul started to introduce her to their hosts. They had been led to a large table in the furthest corner, which allowed for a little privacy.

  There, already seated, were two couples. As they approached the table, the two men rose. Even before any introductions had been made, Zoë could tell that these two men were brothers. The older, more distinguished of the two was José Casas, a rather stout, grey-haired man whom Zoë would have put at about fifty, although his complexion suggested younger than that.

  His younger brother, trimmer, slightly taller and rather more handsome was introduced as Juan. Both men kissed Zoë's hand before introducing their respective partners, both voluptuous brunettes. These women were wearing figure-hugging dresses that left nothing to the imagination, but they wore their clothes with ease, sexuality radiating around them like an invisible but potent cloud.

  Zoë greeted the women with a handshake; Raoul, unsurprisingly, shook hands with Juan and José, but leant across to kiss the two women warmly. Zoë checked all the accessories; diamonds and precious metals flashed like small explosives beneath the chandeliers. Between the four of them they were wearing enough gold to sink a battleship. Zoë thought excessive displays of wealth vulgar, but somehow even the men, with their gold rings and Rolex watches, managed to carry it off with a cert
ain panache.

  Zoë was seated between the two brothers, opposite Raoul. José possessed the stronger command of English and consequently spent most of the evening entertaining Zoë. For all his conspicuous wealth, Zoë soon realised that she had been too quick to pigeonhole this man, who, it transpired, was both charming and amusing.

  ***

  The food was delicious, with a sufficiently comprehensive selection on the menu that Zoë's vegetarianism went unnoticed, not that her hosts would have been the least concerned. They all seemed worldly, easy people, not the least like the dark, gun-toting hoods that Zoë, in her wilder flights of fancy, had imagined.

  'And this is your first visit to Barcelona?' asked José as the waiters cleared away the main course dishes.

  'Yes, but not my last,' said Zoë, enthusiastically. 'You have a wonderful city.'

  'I'm pleased you think so.' replied José, fishing a gold, monogrammed cigarette case from his jacket pocket, flipping it open and offering one to Zoë. 'It has much to commend it. It is unusual for a Mediterranean city, the people here work hard; they are punctual, and like to go to bed early so as to get up early to go to work.' He took a heavy gold lighter from his other pocket and lit Zoë's cigarette. 'This is not so in the rest of Spain; that is why there is so much wealth visible these days. It may sound unlikely, but there is such a thing as the Catalan work ethic.'

  'Really?' said Zoë. She puffed on the cigarette; the tobacco was strong, heavily scented. 'I haven't been here long enough to notice. It seemed pretty lively around the Plaza Real last night.'

  José lit his own cigarette. 'Ah yes... there are merrymakers in every city. But it is a relatively small percentage. People do not frown on this... but most would rather be making money than spending it.'

  Zoë suddenly noticed that José's cigarettes were monogrammed, a small squiggle of interlacing letters halfway down the cigarette paper. Personalised cigarettes! Now she had seen it all.

  'I'm surprised,' she said, now intrigued by the conversation, hoping, believing, there was more to this conversation than just small talk. 'Why is Barcelona so different from the rest of the country?'

  Her host tapped his cigarette deliberately on the edge of the cut-glass ashtray, pondering this question a moment. 'Barcelona is not really a part of Spain. Catalonia has its own history and traditions.' He paused again, perhaps for emphasis, Zoë wasn't sure. 'Also, we are more tolerant here than elsewhere. There is a less strict morality. I think we are jealous of these things. I'm sure you understand.'

  And then he smiled at Zoë, a knowing smile which, Zoë realised, was more than an acknowledgement that she understood this specifically: that as cities go, Barcelona was a bit like a flashy whore, working all hours but a bit loose morally. She knew this, had recognised it within hours of her arrival. No, José's smile was more personal than that. It was part of this game that they were both playing, this lovely charade of polite table talk.

  The smile was an invitation; an invitation to acknowledge who he was, what he did. And, by implication, what Zoë was too; a member of that dark underworld, a gangster, an outlaw. A drug dealer.

  Zoë, curiously excited by this intimate reference to what was really going on, suddenly smiled broadly. Out of the corner of her eye she could see a briefcase by José's leg. Deals, machinations, exchanges. That was what all this was about. Huge amounts of money and drugs, and she was a part of it tonight.

  José caught this too, could see her excitement. 'Are you a... moral person, Señorita Burns?' he said, stressing the word beyond its breaking point.

  Zoë smiled even more broadly. 'Oh yes... very,' she replied, unable to keep the giggle out of her voice. José nodded, and as he did so, they both broke into peals of laughter.

  Raoul, who all this while had been delightfully engrossed with the two shapely brunettes, was distracted for a moment. He looked across at Zoë, and seeing her and his business associate so evidently enjoying themselves, smiled at her approvingly. Zoë swelled with pride; she was doing everything right.

  ***

  Dessert was followed by coffee and liqueurs, all served with great care. Zoë had so enjoyed the meal, the company, the ambience, that when she saw Raoul point at his watch and indicate that it was time to go, she felt quite disappointed.

  On the street outside, waiting for the chauffeurs to bring the limos, Zoë spent a few moments talking to José's wife or paramour - she wasn't sure which - before she felt a hand on her arm, and turned to see Raoul standing there smiling.

  'We must go,' he said, rather quietly, and indicated the limousine which had drawn up to the kerb. The chauffeur opened the back door, and Zoë had just enough time to say goodnight to her hosts before she was shuffled into the vehicle, which drew off into the night.

  Still buzzing with excitement, but a little confused at the abruptness of their departure, she turned to Raoul, who was looking through the rear window.

  'Everything okay?'

  Raoul turned to her and smiled. 'Yes of course. I'm sorry I had to pull you away from there so quickly, only it is not safe to stand around on the streets, even outside Café d'Iradier.'

  'Oh, I see.' Zoë didn't, in fact, see anything, but she was happy to accept Raoul's explanation. 'So, where to now?'

  'Back to our hotel. Did you have a pleasant evening?'

  Now she was even more confused. 'Yes, but... what about the transaction?'

  Raoul laughed lightly. 'My dear, it has been taken care of.' Zoë looked at the seat beside Raoul where he was patting the briefcase, and for the first time noticed that it was not the same as the one he had brought. It was the one she had seen beside José's leg. Her disappointment could not have been greater, and her face fell.

  'What is the problem?'

  'Oh, nothing... I just...' She broke off. She knew what she wanted to say, but she felt it sounded foolish and immature.

  'Please Zoë; tell me.'

  'It's just that... I wanted to see it. I wanted to see it happen. I thought there'd be clandestine meetings in seedy back rooms with heavies with automatic pistols and flick knives. I wanted to see thousands of dollar bills stacked up in piles, just like in the movies. I guess that's silly isn't it?'

  Raoul said nothing; he just smiled.

  ***

  'My God! How much is there?'

  Zoë was staring into the open briefcase. Her jaw had dropped almost to the floor. Raoul was watching her, greatly amused.

  When they had reached the hotel, he had herded her into his room, switched on the light and the overhead fan, double-locked the door behind them, dashed to the curtains, which he drew swiftly, and then set the briefcase on the bed and flipped the latches.

  Zoë would never have believed it. The case was filled to the brim with wads of hundred dollar bills, fluttering excitedly in the breeze from the fan.

  'How much?' she asked again.

  'Two hundred and fifty thousand,' he said casually.

  Zoë started to laugh. 'It is just like the movies!' She looked at Raoul, stretched her hand out towards the case. 'May I?'

  He nodded, and Zoë grabbed a pile of notes and flicked through them. It was incredible. Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars! No wonder he hadn't wanted to hang about on the streets. She reached forward and grabbed a second pile, and for a moment just stood there by the bed, with the two handfuls of hundred dollar bills, the mischievousness within her brewing more strongly with each passing second, something Raoul noted a little anxiously.

  'Zoë, what are you...'

  The notes were falling around them, swept around by the currents of air from the fan above. Zoë was laughing loudly, partly at her actions, partly at Raoul's expression of amazement.

  Without a pause she grabbed another two handfuls and threw them up in the air, and then another two, until they were engulfed in a windfall of hundred dollar bills. She was so excited by the sight of the falling money, that she felt there was only one response.

  Without a moments delay, Zoë began
pulling off her clothes. Raoul, until now a mere bystander, became so swiftly aroused by this action, that he grabbed the rest of the money, threw it into the air, and stripped off his clothes before dragging Zoë down on to the bed.

  There, among the piles of green bills, many of which were still fluttering in the air around them, he entered her forcefully and began thrusting back and forth with the energy and purpose of a man half his age. Hundred dollar bills were everywhere, covering the floor, the bed, the tables, stuck to her breasts, her bottom, her thighs, scrunched up between their damp, naked bodies, tearing beneath her back as they rocked back and forth. And as they edged towards their climax, with the fan whipping the air around in a frenzy, the money continued to fall from above like autumn leaves.

  Chapter 15

  Zoë woke to find herself still in Raoul's bed, although there was no sign of Raoul. She sat up and looked around her; her head was still spinning a little from the effects of the previous evening's indulgence. It wasn't a pleasant feeling. She lay her head back on the pillow and stared at the ceiling.

  She had drunk rather a lot of wine at the restaurant, and following their rather passionate interlude, they had consumed a further bottle of champagne while retrieving all the money. Not that Raoul seemed overly concerned if a few thousand of it were missing; it would make a nice tip for the chambermaids, he had said, and even as Zoë laughed she knew he meant every word. That was what she found so strange about Raoul; he took the whole business of making money very seriously, but not the money itself. It seemed to mean nothing to him.

  Zoë knew that, to the very wealthy, a quarter of a million dollars was just chicken feed, but if that were the case for Raoul, why did he bother taking all those incredible risks in the first place? The money would make no difference to his lifestyle, whereas a tenth of it could totally turn her life around.

  Zoë was half tempted to grab a handful of notes and stuff them into her old bag, knowing that Raoul would not miss them. But she couldn't; it was stealing, and while she may not have been the most moral person in the world, she could not and would not steal.