Zoë tried sitting up again, taking it more slowly this time. Little snatches of memories kept coming back to her. What a remarkable evening it had been. After they had collected the money and stuffed it back into the briefcase they had made love again. And it had been wonderful; she had to admit that at least. For a macho sexist prick, he was an extremely accomplished and thoughtful lover. She could understand, in these terms alone, why Liz had stuck with him and put up with all his absurd behaviour. It wasn't just the money and the glamour; he really could make her feel wonderful.
***
Having showered swiftly and dressed, she descended to the restaurant where she saw Raoul sitting alone by the window and walked over to join him. He rose to greet her, and she kissed him on the cheek. He was dressed casually in an open neck shirt, sleeves rolled up, and a pair of pale cream slacks. He was also looking a little ruffled, rather softer around the edges, less formal. Zoë rather liked it.
'How are you?' she said as she sat down.
'I feel very well, thank you.' Raoul sat down and reached across the table and took her hand. He was smiling broadly, and Zoë was a little nonplussed by this. 'I hope you did not mind waking up alone, only I could see you stirring and thought you might like a little privacy.'
Zoë laughed. 'That's very... thoughtful, thank you Raoul, but quite unnecessary.'
Raoul nodded. 'So be it. And you? You are well?'
'Oh God yes... wonderful. That was... that was quite a night.' She squeezed Raoul's hand. Even now she wasn't quite sure that everything around her was real, true; it was all so extraordinary.
The waiter arrived with freshly squeezed orange juice and pots of steaming coffee.
'I took the liberty of ordering breakfast; I thought you might be hungry.'
'Ravenous,' said Zoë, squeezing his hand a little tighter. She saw something - a flash of lust perhaps - in Raoul's eyes.
'You are a most exciting woman to be with... you don't mind me saying this?' Zoë, surprised at the admission, shook her head. 'You are not like Elizabeth... you seem less... inhibited, somehow.'
'She calls me "the wild one".'
'Indeed. And what makes you so wild?'
Zoë smiled enigmatically. 'Don't you know? Can't you see?'
Raoul studied her for a few moments. 'Yes, I think so. You have... what is the name of this terrible old film about Van Gogh... lust for life. Is that right? Is that the expression?'
Zoë grinned. 'It'll do.'
'And you are spirited. I like this.'
'You're not bad yourself.'
Raoul seemed to enjoy this compliment, lapping it up like a hungry cat. Zoë was amused by how vain he was, how eager to be complimented.
'After breakfast,' he said, 'I would like to take you somewhere special. We do not have any meetings until this evening. Would you like that?'
Zoë just had time to nod assent when breakfast arrived. She wasn't quite sure what to make of this new, softer Raoul. It was still early, and she never trusted her senses first thing in the morning. Perhaps after breakfast he would revert to being a pompous sexist pig, and then she would feel on safer ground.
***
They drove out past the university and the Plaza de Tetjan and found a place to park near Carrer de Provença. From there it was just a short walk to the Sagrada Familia.
Zoë had heard of the architect Gaudi and knew he was associated with Barcelona. She had also seen pictures of the famous unfinished cathedral that was supposed to be his masterpiece, but nothing prepared her for the extraordinary vision that greeted her.
It was gargantuan, unearthly – a multi-spired gothic fantasy of twisted stone, skeletal and alien.
Raoul had said very little in the car, but now, as they walked around the bizarre edifice, Raoul was all exposition and hyperbole. They spent fifteen minutes in front of the ornate Pasion facade with its gargoyles and outlandish creatures. Raoul pointed out every detail, describing its symbolic importance, relating its effect when juxtaposed against other features, praising their contributions to the whole.
He spoke with a sort of hushed solemnity, not at all like his usual, warm, effusive speech. While it had not bothered her previously, it now seemed hugely incongruous that this jumped-up drug-dealer was in rapture over a building dedicated to the glory of God. Especially a building which, to Zoë's eyes, was one monstrous error; a trip-induced nightmare of a building, which was none the better for looking like a building site. For Godsake, the building was started in 1882 and it still wasn't finished.
'It is the greatest building in the world,' said Raoul, standing back to further admire the front of the vast temple. 'He was a visionary, you know. He wished to build in solid materials the visions that came to him in his dreams.'
Zoë frowned. 'And I guess that’s what you get for eating cheese before bedtime.'
Raoul looked at Zoë and frowned. 'Please, do not mock. Any man who attempts to bring an other-worldly beauty to this earth deserves more than that.'
Zoë tried to look suitably chastened by this remark, but found it difficult. The building cried out to have jokes made about it.
'Sorry,' she said, lamely. 'Perhaps it will look better when it's finished. Why isn't it finished, Raoul?'
Raoul gave a heavy, rather melodramatic sigh. 'Gaudi kept no plans, no blueprints. The grand design reposed in his mind alone, and when he died, his vision died with him. We can only guess at what he would have wanted.'
'He didn't leave any plans? Nothing?'
Raoul swallowed loudly; he seemed to be getting a little choked over this business. 'He did not know that he was not long for this world. His death was a tragic accident.'
Zoë was now as fascinated with Raoul's response to Gaudi's demise as to the cause. 'What happened?'
Raoul continued to stare at the facade, his eyes wet with the hint of tears. Zoë's own eyes widened in fascination; she had never seen anything like this.
'One facade was nearing completion,' said Raoul in hushed tones. 'In order to take in the entire majesty of his creation, he stepped out backwards in the road and was run over by a... a street tram.'
Zoë smiled. 'A tram you say?' A snigger escaped; she bit down on her lower lip.
'It was ahead of schedule.'
That was it. Another snigger forced its way out. She clamped her hand over her mouth, but it was no use. It was impossible to take this seriously, especially with Raoul standing over her, his eyes full of tears, a model of pomposity and rage.
'You think the untimely death of a genius is amusing?'
Zoë was now doubled over, trying not to laugh out loud. Tears were rolling down her cheeks. 'He was run over by a bus?'
'Not a bus! A tram! He was run over by a tram! What is so funny?'
But Raoul did not wait for an explanation. The sight of Zoë, hysterical with laughter, was too much for him. He turned his back on her and stormed off towards the car.
***
'Oh for Godsake, what's the matter with you? Speak to me! Raoul!'
But Raoul said nothing. He shifted into top gear, and put his foot down. He continued to stare straight ahead, ignoring Zoë and her pleas. He had remained totally silent for over ten minutes now despite Zoë haranguing him for an explanation, and she was now bored and annoyed by his behaviour.
'Raoul! Stop behaving like a child and tell me what's wrong.'
Raoul took a deep breath, and then snorted through his nose. 'I am not used to being ridiculed in this way.'
Zoë was relieved to get a response; at least now they could talk about it. 'Oh come on, I was just having some fun.'
Raoul continued to speak in a precise, clipped manner; there was no doubting that he was angry. 'You were mocking me and my respect for Antoni Gaudi. I do not usually put up with such behaviour.'
Zoë couldn't believe it; he was talking to her as if she were a naughty child who had misbehaved in front of the adults. She was outraged. 'What are you going to do? Have me shot at dawn?'
&n
bsp; 'You see. You are doing it still...'
'Christ Raoul, you're so touchy. Lighten up will you? For a grown man you can certainly act like a little kid...'
Raoul's hand hit the steering wheel with such force and anger that Zoë leapt from her seat.
'Enough!' he bellowed, looking at her for the first time since getting into the car. 'I will not be spoken to like this!' His eyes were hard and steely; there was no caring, no love in those eyes, just anger and distress. For a moment Zoë was quite frightened, but she could not remain silent.
'Oh no? You can dish it out, but you sure as hell can't take it.'
Raoul eyed her quizzically. 'I do not understand what you mean.'
Zoë looked away. 'Oh yes you do,' she said, barely loud enough for him to have heard her. 'You bloody well do.'
***
When they arrived back at the hotel Zoë went to her room complaining of a headache. Raoul reminded her that they had a business dinner that evening and that she should be ready by eight. She promised to be on time.
Back in her room, Zoë fell into a depression. What had started out as a wonderful day had degenerated into something awful, miserable, and she didn't understand why. What had she done that was so dreadful?
Men! Liz was right; men never grow up, they remain little boys all their lives. So she had made fun of one of his idols; so he had been insulted. So what? What did it matter? In Sizzlers people insulted her, mocked her, made fun of her a hundred times a week. It didn't matter; it didn't mean anything.
Zoë lay down on the bed. Now she really did have a headache. She decided to sleep it off.
***
That evening followed a similar pattern to the previous one. They drove to a smart restaurant - this time it was the Eldorado on the outskirts of town - where they were entertained by a much younger man and his lovely consort.
Thankfully, both spoke excellent English, and Zoë was again at her most charming best. She was wearing the chrome yellow dress with matching bright yellow shoes, and had drawn a number of stares of admiration as she and Raoul had entered the restaurant. She felt confident and at ease, and had all but forgotten the reason she was dining out in a smart Catalan restaurant with a bunch of wealthy strangers when Raoul made his excuses and made for the washrooms. A moment later, their host, Miguel, also made his apologies and left the table. This left the two women staring at each other across the table.
Zoë knew the two men needed a few moments to discuss “business”, and that when they returned, the coffee having been served, they would drink it swiftly, make their goodbyes and then, as they were leaving, switch briefcases. Zoë imagined there existed just a special limited number of black briefcases in Barcelona that were always in flux, forever changing hands. One day a briefcase would have money in it, the next day drugs, the following day diamonds, the day after that... who knows. Dealers would, over the years, come and go, as would the money and the contraband, but the cases would remain.
Zoë tried to make small talk with her opposite number, asking her about things to see and do in Barcelona, but it was hard going and she was relieved when Raoul returned to pick up the conversation.
***
Back at the hotel they had a few more drinks in the bar and tried not to mention the events of earlier that day. The evening had been pleasant and they had both loosened up considerably, so it seemed only natural for Zoë to invite him back to her room for the night. He was, as ever, the perfect gentleman, responding politely that it would be his pleasure. Zoë was just drunk enough to inform him that if it was only his pleasure she had in mind, she wouldn't be inviting him back in the first place.
They made love with rather less passion than the previous night, but it was none the worse for that, although Zoë felt less comfortable about him leaving at one in the morning to sleep in his own bed. But she said nothing. She knew they had an early morning appointment. Besides, she had yet to wake up with Raoul, so it was not as if anything had changed.
***
The wake-up call came at six the next morning. Raoul had told her that it wasn't strictly necessary for her to come on this particular jaunt, but that he would be happy to have her company. Zoë was no great fan of early mornings, but she was there to do a job and didn't want to be thought lazy. Nor did she want to miss anything.
At seven, bleary-eyed and dozy, she dragged herself into the elevator. Raoul had said she could be as casual as she liked, but that she should bring a warm sweater or jacket as they were to spend most of the morning out of doors. She had been intrigued, but when she met Raoul in the lobby, she was disappointed to see that he was carrying a small brightly-coloured backpack instead of his customary black briefcase.
'What've you got there, sandwiches and a thermos?' she asked. The backpack's day-glo colours looked incongruous against the subtle shade of Raoul's cashmere sweater. He merely smiled and led her to the car.
Raoul drove them to the harbour, just so she could see it in the early morning light. It was peaceful; on every other occasion that Zoë had been there it had been a jumble of noise and confusion. That morning, it could have been a different city. He drove along the waterfront then up through the Botanical Gardens to Montjuich Castle, the seventeenth century fortress that overlooked the city. It was now a dull military museum, but they had not come to look at rusting artefacts. The castle was the rendezvous for the latest in what was beginning to seem a never-ending series of transactions. Zoë was beginning to wonder how Raoul had smuggled so much cocaine into the country unnoticed; he seemed to have a limitless supply. Not that she would have dreamt of asking. Curious as she was, some questions, she felt, were best left unasked.
They stood on the battlements, shivering a little in the cool, clear air. Raoul had the backpack on the ground beside his leg. They both leant against the wall and gazed out over the city. Zoë, who was still half asleep, lit a cigarette and tried to keep her eyes open. They did not speak. After a few minutes, a young man wearing a shiny turquoise nylon shellsuit and trainers came running up the hill towards the castle.
A moment later he appeared on the battlements. He was carrying a backpack similar to the one at Raoul's feet. He ran straight up to them, stopped, shrugged off the backpack onto the wall, and in Spanish asked Raoul for a light.
Raoul lifted his own backpack onto the wall and opened it, revealing three large plastic bags filled with white powder... and a cigarette lighter. The running man opened his backpack, reached in and took out a pack of cigarettes. He left the bag open. Zoë could see it was full of money. Raoul took out the lighter, lit the runner's cigarette, picked up the runner's backpack, and grabbing Zoë by the arm, walked back to the car. Zoë looked back: the runner was still standing there smoking, the other backpack now slung over one shoulder. It was all quite bizarre, like an elaborate piece of theatre or mime, with all the moves worked out in advance.
That afternoon, Zoë sat on the floor of her hotel room, smoked a joint, and played with handfuls of hundred dollar bills, making cubist pictures of dogs, cats and chimps in green and white, while Raoul sat on the bed and watched, amused.
At one point, having destroyed one particular fifty thousand dollar picture to make another of equal value, she suddenly realised just what she was doing.
'I have never seen so much money in my life,' she said, overlapping the bills, one on another, to form a long, snake like curve. 'I guess this is just small change to you, eh?'
Raoul stood up. He rather deliberately avoided answering her question, and changed the subject instead.
'Zoë, we've both worked hard these past few days, being polite, entertaining these strangers. I think we should have an evening to ourselves. No more dressing up. Just casual. Just us.'
Zoë thought this sounded like a great idea. 'Sure,' she said, bundling up the money and stuffing it into the backpack. 'What do you want to do?'
***
Raoul was driving very slowly through the city. It was early evening, and the air, which had
soaked up the heat of the day, was now releasing it into the night. It was especially humid too, so even though the car roof was down, they both felt the atmosphere wrapped around them like a damp shroud.
Raoul was looking especially laid back in a short-sleeved shirt and light cotton drill trousers, while Zoë, aware that it would be a warm night, was wearing shorts and a halter top.
They had smoked three or four joints before heading out, which may have been why Raoul was cruising around so slowly. Not that Zoë minded; on the contrary, the easy pace neatly matched the rhythm of the Latin samba, smooth and smoochy, that was slipping out of the car's loudspeakers.
Zoë lit another joint and drew in the sweet, pungent smoke. She tapped her foot to the samba, gazed out on to the city, passed the joint to Raoul, breathed in the night. She didn't know where they were going to, or if Raoul had any plan, any intention. She was happy just to cruise like this.
A few minutes later they headed into one of the seedier parts of town, down near the harbour. Zoë noticed a couple of women in short skirts and halter-tops hanging out on one of the street corners, and a few moments later, two more, walking up and down slowly. Just as she realised that they had entered the red-light district, Raoul started to speak.
'Beautiful, eh?' he murmured. Zoë looked at him; he was quite stoned, and had slowed the car to a crawl now so that he could gaze out at the prostitutes. He started to talk, but there was no real structure to what he said; he was rambling, barely stopping to take a breath. Zoë listened, fascinated.
'See that one, there... this one, here, with the heavy breasts and skinny waist? Look, look, see how she holds herself, leaning against the wall to further accentuate the curves of her body, and here, this one with the tight ass, look, in the jeans, you don't see many in jeans, they are usually too fat, but she is skinny... she must be young, look at those long, long legs, that tight little ass, she's probably no more than fourteen, can you imagine, that young, smooth skin, untainted by the passage of years and the mauling of rough hands, but no character yet, not like this one here with the sagging buttocks, see, she will have known some men in her time, think of the stories she could tell? Is she not beautiful...'
Purely Decorative Page 12
