Later for them.
When my eyes swing back around to Carla, she’s awake and looking at me. I made no noise walking on the carpeted floor. Evidently my simple presence was enough to awaken her. She remains curled up, in anticipation and in self-defense. She speaks without moving.
“Sorry.”
“About what?”
“For taking off your clothes. I didn’t—”
I break in, brusquely and dismissively filing the case away for good.
“It’s not a problem. Do you want some coffee?”
She studies me, carefully. Then she swivels to a sitting position, in a rather graceful manner.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
I shake my head slightly, and as I do, in spite of myself, I can feel my jaw muscles tightening. “No.”
I walk past her and head into the small galley kitchen. Her voice follows me.
“That thingy made a noise once or twice.”
I accept the information without comment. I presume that the thingy in question is my pager. It can wait too. Right now, I don’t feel like getting back in touch with the world. I’m still alive and I’m at home, with one of the few people on earth who knows about my condition. I feel strangely at ease. That’s a feeling that I should enjoy as a gift of chance. I doubt that heaven would go to that much trouble on my behalf.
While I’m preparing the espresso maker, her voice comes looking for me again.
“You know, I don’t even know what to call you.”
“Bravo.”
“That’s a strange name.”
“In fact, it’s not my name at all. But that’s what everyone calls me.”
“You must have a name of your own.”
“A name doesn’t mean a thing. Even Shakespeare said so. You can just call me Bravo like everybody else.”
“Exactly where did you get this nickname?”
Understand? That’s it, don’t squirm. Bravo!
I shrug my shoulders, as if she could see me.
“It’s just one of those things you get stuck with for no reason. I don’t even remember how it happened.”
I turn around to put the espresso pot on the burner and I see that she’s standing in the door watching me. Her footsteps, like mine, made no noise. But I didn’t perceive her presence behind me.
“Can I help you?”
“No, take it easy. Have a seat. There’s barely room for one person in here.”
I watch her as she goes over and sits in one of the four chairs around the small circular table by the window. I think back to her outburst that morning, when we met outside the Ascot. I wonder how much determination and how much emotion there was behind her words. The first quality makes a person act, the second makes them cut and run. You have to work out the proportion of one and the other. And there’s only one way to do it. I lean against the doorjamb and ask her.
“Are you still determined to do what you asked me this morning?”
“Yes.”
“It’s not a road you can’t come back from. But if you do, you’ll be bringing some unpleasant memories with you.”
She instinctively shakes her head.
“That’s something to worry about in the future. Anything would be better than the present.”
From the stove I hear the steaming gargle of the espresso pot. I swivel around and turn off the gas. I pick up the demitasses and the sugar bowl and set them down on the table. Then I step back into the galley kitchen and reappear with the pot of coffee. She watches as I pour the espresso into the little cups. An intense gaze, which would wind up who knows where if she allowed it to roam.
“Why do you do it?”
“For the same reason you’ve decided to work with me. For money.”
She takes a sip of coffee without adding sugar. Then she sets the demitasse back down on the table, running her hand underneath to make sure there are no drops clinging to the bottom.
“I don’t think it’s that simple. In my case, sure, because I intend to use what God gave me to get out of this shitty life.”
She pauses, and in the interval she allows herself a little extra time to size me up. Then she continues, as if she were thinking aloud.
“You don’t strike me as somebody who came from the poorer part of town, from the outskirts. I can spot people like you. You speak without an accent. You have nice manners, I’d even say elegant. You have books on your shelves that don’t strike me as the pulp porn that my brother reads.”
From the tension in her voice I can tell that she’s having a hard time not referring to what she found out about me when she slipped off my underwear.
“In other words, you don’t seem like what you are.”
“No. I am: one hundred percent.”
I finish my cup of coffee before going on.
“The men who use my services are usually afraid and in a hurry. They’re far too busy running a company, a bank, or a political party. These are lines of work that completely devour your free time. What they’re afraid of, on the other hand, is the idea of hearing someone say to their face the one syllable they’re least willing to hear: no.”
I go over to get my cigarettes from the top of the chest of drawers. I light one.
“I remove that fear and I give them that time. My girls are a reliable yes, satisfied and accommodating. A smiling island that has no name and won’t remember any.”
I emit a puff of smoke into the room, and it mingles with words that are equally unsubstantial.
“Sometimes these men have a wife they no longer love and who perhaps no longer loves them. They have children they see when they get a chance. They have families that are weak but armor-plated by plenty of money.”
At last I pull my greedy little rabbit out of the hat.
“But, as in all armor, there’s a chink in theirs. I identify that chink; I widen it until it becomes a fissure, and then a wide-open door.”
I sit down again. She catches me off guard with a sidetrack.
“In Spanish, bravo means courageous.”
“I know that.”
“And are you?”
I think back to a grave I dug but didn’t occupy. To the way I felt at that moment. I smile faintly, not at her, but at myself.
“It doesn’t take any particular courage to do what I do. Nothing really to be proud of. In the final analysis, the satisfaction I get is a very modest sense of power.”
We exchange a glance, and then we both look away at the same time, with the precision of a couple of experienced dancers. We sit in silence for a few seconds. Each of us has something different in our heads, both springing from the same subject.
Her voice brings us both back to practical considerations.
“Could I take a shower?”
“Of course. If you like, I think I have some casual clothes a friend of mine left in the apartment. She left them here one day when she got changed, just before an appointment. I had them cleaned and she never came by to pick them up. They ought to be just your size. They’re in the armoire at the end of the hall.”
She stands up and it’s a parade that seems to end too soon. I imagine her body under the cheap dress she’s wearing. I remember what Daytona said, when we were leaving the gambling den in Opera.
A fantastic body. A figure to knock your eyes out. A couple of tits straight out of science fiction and an ass that talks, eloquently …
She takes a couple of steps down the hallway. Then she turns around.
“Are you coming? I assume you’d want to check out the merchandise.”
I sit on the chair and look at her. Something moves inside me. Something that’s digging, looking for a way out that it can find only at the cost of my life. In my case, anger is the only outlet for desire. I want to hurt her, but I can’t do it. All I can do is give a slight jab, to remind her that she’s already been a whore, already worked for me.
“There’s no need. My friend gave me excellent references on your work.”
She gets the point and nods. Then she turns and disappears down the hall, leaving me alone. Unfortunately, what she aroused in me she doesn’t take with her. It sits there inside me, carving me inside and nourishing itself on my breath.
I light another cigarette.
Then I call the Eurocheck switchboard. They tell me to call the phone number 02 212121, without a name. I recognize it and know that it’s not a phone number at all. It’s just a signal, a sort of message. And in my mind, I’m replacing every one of those digits with a dollar sign.
I dial a number that I’ve memorized. In this case, no address books or sheets of paper or memos. Nothing that can be read. The mind is the best instance of something that can’t be read. With the face, it’s a little more challenging but you can get to it, in time.
The person at the other end of the line picks up almost instantly.
“Hello.”
“This is Bravo.”
My client’s voice is direct and flat, accustomed to giving orders.
“I need three girls.”
No chitchat. I know perfectly well that the man on the other end of the line looks down on me for the work I do. I believe that he must assume that, to the exact same extent, I look down on him for what he’s asking me to do for him. Neither of us cares. Each of us has something the other one needs. In his case, money. In my case, beautiful women who can keep a secret. I give and I get. Everything works smoothly if it’s a fair game.
“When?”
“Tomorrow, in the early afternoon. Let’s say around three o’clock. They’ll be picked up the same way as the other times. They’ll have to spend the night and be completely open to anything. Do you think that three million lire apiece will persuade them to be sufficiently compliant?”
I keep myself from whistling. Considering that I have the girls on a 70-30 split, that means there’s 2.7 million lire in some anonymous bank account that’s ready and eager to hop into my pockets.
“Oh, absolutely. Do you want the same girls?”
“Yes. They were perfect. If I remember correctly they were—”
I break in before he can speak.
“No names over the phone. Mine is sufficient.”
The voice concedes something that perhaps in another context would have prompted quite a different reaction.
“As you think best.”
“Very good. I’ll arrange to supply you with what you need.”
I hang up. I don’t need anything else. I know the address, even though it’s my policy to forget an address as soon as I’ve used it. I sit back down, to smoke and think back to my one non-meeting with Lorenzo Bonifaci.
I was sitting at a table with two girls, Jane and Hanneke. Two models, one American, the other Dutch. They had traveled to the Bel Paese wearing patched jeans, seeking their fortunes in the world of fashion. After various vicissitudes they found me. I don’t know if I could be considered a fortune, but I was something very close to it, in practical terms. They had family, back in the Netherlands and Tennessee, who were living much better now, thanks to that meeting. It might not have been Miracle in Milan, but it was certainly a piece of dumb luck.
All around us, inevitable signs of summer, were the characters and the tourists of the eastern stretch of the Italian Riviera, the faces that populate the Covo di Nord Est in Santa Margherita and the Carillon in Paraggi, where we were sitting.
The food was good, the wine was cold, and the girls were pretty and high-class. I was thinking to myself that at times fate offered me some very nice palliatives. A man had come over discreetly and was now standing by our table.
“Are you Mister Bravo?”
He spoke Italian with a slight British accent, which justified that mister.
“Yes. Can I help you?”
“If I’m not intruding, I wonder if I could speak with you.”
He smiled at the girls and then turned to me once again.
“Alone.”
That impeccable gentleman in a dark blue linen suit smelled of Eau Sauvage and money. The cologne was French. As for the other scent, any currency was eminently acceptable.
I presented a guileless face of pure innocence to my two friends.
“Girls, why don’t you go check your makeup while we’re waiting for dessert?”
Hanneke and Jane understood that they were to leave the table so that we could put them at the center of attention. They got up and headed off toward the bathroom. The man sat down in the chair left vacant by the American girl.
“My name is Gabriel Lincoln and I work closely with a person who isn’t here now, but who was when you and the girls came in.”
I looked at the man with the pale skin and the fine hair, waiting for the rest.
“This person was particularly impressed by the attractiveness of your two friends. Right now he’s on board his yacht, which is moored just across the way, and he’d be very pleased, after dinner, to invite you all over to enjoy a glass of champagne.”
“Could I know just who this person is?”
I’d spoken low and slow on the last three words, just to make it perfectly clear that I found mysteries to be annoying, not alluring. With a half smile, he launched the missile. Which completely demolished my little red wagon.
“Does the name Lorenzo Bonifaci mean anything to you?”
I’ll say it meant something to me. It meant steel and glossy magazines and banks and a few gazillion lire. But it also meant direct, behind-the-scenes power and, save for a few isolated episodes, a quiet life out of the spotlight, a name that never appeared in the gossip sheets. Just having been in the same place at the same time as him could be considered a privilege.
“Certainly. I need no further elucidations.”
“Then you’ll come?”
“Mr. Lincoln, I think we can both consider ourselves men of the world. Am I in any way out of line or offensive when I venture to say that my presence might be considered unnecessary?”
“Neither out of line nor offensive. Quite simply a display of savoir-faire which would be viewed in the most favorable of lights.”
“Well, just consider my two young friends to be on board the yacht as we speak, champagne glasses in hand.”
And their panties around their ankles …
For obvious reasons, I chose not to actually utter this last thought. He looked at me with some curiosity but then slid into a moment of awkwardness.
“I imagine, from the things I’ve heard about you, that there might be a financial consideration to discuss. I want to assure you—”
I held up my hand to stop him.
“No need for assurances. Please consider this visit aboard the yacht, especially when prefaced by such a courteous invitation, as my own personal gift to Dottore Bonifaci.”
Lincoln ducked his head to express his appreciation and pleasure.
“This gift, as you call it, will be most welcome. May I beg to hope that it will be accompanied by your two friends’ complete and absolute discretion? Concerning your own discretion, I have no cause for concern, I feel certain.”
“My friends aren’t stupid. They know they’d have everything to lose and nothing to gain.”
In the meantime, the girls had come back from the bathroom. Lincoln moved off, to give me a chance to bring them up to date on the latest developments of the evening. I explained the situation to them and assured them that I would take care of their fee in person after they had performed their services. I’d never given them the short end of the stick before, and they saw no reason not to trust me that time as well.
I waved Gabriel Lincoln over, and he joined us. I got to my feet and the girls followed my lead.
“Mr. Lincoln, may I introduce Hanneke and Jane? They would be delighted to accept your invitation.”
I held out my business card, with my phone numbers on it.
“You can reach me at any of these numbers, if the experience meets with approval.”
The man solemnly slipped it into his pocket.
I believe that he would have worn the same expression if it had been the business card of a Greek shipbuilder.
“One last thing.”
“Yes?”
“What brand of champagne will I be missing?”
“It’s usually Cristal.”
“A pity. I’ll try to get over it.”
With a smile of amusement, Gabriel Lincoln walked the girls to the front door. I was left sitting alone, surrounded by music, with a good feeling about the future.
To celebrate, I ordered a bottle of Cristal.
About a month later, I was contacted again by Lincoln, who gave me a number to call whenever I received a message, via pager, asking me to call 02 212121. To my enormous surprise, the voice I found myself dealing with was Bonifaci’s. He always remained nothing more than a voice on the phone to me. Those above a certain level use people like me for their own pleasure, but they are certainly not eager to see us socially. Which was fine with me, considering the very comfortable ratio of effort to profit.
My pager beeps.
The usual transaction with the switchboard. With the new development that this time the operator on duty is a woman. I immediately recognize the phone number I’m told to call. It’s a direct line to room 605 at the Hotel Gallia. I dial it with a sense of foreboding. When the phone is answered, I recognize the voice. It doesn’t sound happy.
“Hello?”
“This is Bravo.”
“I thought you were a man of your word.”
“In fact, I am.”
“Well, the same can’t be said of your little friend, if you still consider her one.”
“May I ask what happened?”
“I can tell you what didn’t happen. She didn’t show up.”
Shit.
“I apologize on her behalf.”
“Apology accepted, Signore Bravo. But relationship over.”
“Allow me to make up for it. I’ll send you—”
The voice breaks in, without any possibility of response.
“I warned you.”
Then the line goes dead. I can hardly blame him. No one can appreciate more keenly than I how frustrating an unsatisfied desire can be. I wonder what could have happened. Laura’s not the kind of girl to miss an appointment. Or at least, she never has been before. The one thing I know for certain is that this isn’t the result of any surprises on Tulip’s part, God rest his miserable soul.
A Pimp's Notes Page 9
