“What are you doing today?”
“I have to go to El Pueblo del Viento. There’s a meeting for the development of a new shopping center and they’re wondering whether I have intentions of investing any money.”
“Do you have any?”
“Intentions or money?”
Instead of eating her last bite of toast, she throws it at me.
“Estúpido.”
I spread my arms out wide, like someone faced with the undeniable.
“The problem isn’t ideas, it’s money.”
She reaches out and embraces me. She presses her forehead against mine.
“My poor penniless darling. I hear there’s a rich gentleman from Switzerland in a hotel in Pampatar who’s very generous with the pretty girls. If you like, I can get you some money there.”
Those words take me back in time. To when I used to say them and the roles were reversed. A small cloud passes over the May sky, and I do everything I can to make sure Pilar doesn’t see it. Unsuccessfully.
“I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”
She looks at me, nonplussed. Then she bursts out laughing.
“You’re jealous. Madre de Dios, you’re jealous. Hermoso y celoso.”
She stands up and comes over to sit on my lap. She hugs me. The moisture of her bathrobe, the moisture of her hair, the moisture of her lips.
“Te quiero.”
“Yo te quiero también.”
It’s the second time we’ve said it to each other in the past few hours. And that’s something I didn’t mind even a little bit. Pilar fell into my life as an unexpected gift. She was a tourist with plenty of money who flew from Spain to Playa El Agua, either because she was looking for something or because she was running away from something. We met and she decided to extend her stay on the island. At first, it was supposed to be for another month. That turned into an extra two months. Then she moved into my house. Finally, the idea of a departure date was simply dismissed entirely. I told her only what I felt like telling her about me. She did the same. I explained to her what I was, what I wasn’t, and what I’d never be. She did the same thing. Since then, we’ve had a mutually comfortable relationship that’s lasted for more than five years. Like anything involving human beings, there’s no saying how long it will last. We may not be a family. But we’re the closest thing to it that we’ve been able to assemble.
Our moment of union is over but not forgotten.
I lift Pilar out of my lap and march her back to her chair. There’s a damp patch on my trousers where she was sitting. I brush a few bread crumbs off my shirt.
“I have to go. What are you going to do today?”
Pilar points inside the house.
“Howard invited me to go surfing with him, in the afternoon. We thought we’d go down to El Yaque too. As soon as he wakes up.”
Howard is the boy who followed us home. After the hard work he did last night, I have my doubts as to whether he’ll wake up anytime in the next couple of hours. From Pilar’s expression, I see that she feels the same way.
“That’s fine. In the afternoon, after the meeting, I’ll stop by the resort village. There are some things I have to work out with the manager. We’re planning to renovate a few of the bungalows.”
I forestall any possible reaction on her part.
“Let me reassure you, there are no money problems. So you won’t really have to call your wealthy Swiss gentleman.”
She laughs again.
I turn to go. Her voice reaches me as I’m about to head down the steps that lead from the terrace to the ground floor, past the pool, and to the garage in back of the house.
“I need the Patrol. Take the Mercedes.”
Without turning around, I give her the thumbs-up sign.
I walk around the pool toward the garage; the water is bright, reflecting the blue of the sky and absorbing its color. The garden is filled with trees and short palms; flowers are blooming everywhere, thanks to the expert care of Cristóbal.
A Mercedes sedan is parked next to a Nissan Patrol. The keys are in the ignition. I climb in and start the engine. I drive along the lane that leads out of my property. I turn onto Avenida 31 de Julio and continue until I reach the highway that runs across the island and takes me to Porlamar. At a fork in the road I lean right and take the road that runs around the airport and continues down to Playa El Yaque.
Every time I drive around this island, I’m forced to congratulate myself once again for the decision to live here. When I first got here, after an initial period of adjustment and giddy astonishment at the sheer beauty of the place, I took a good hard look around. I could sense a potential for tourism in the air that would certainly turn into a boom before long. That’s exactly what happened and what continues to happen. Here was a chance to live in a secluded place without having to feel like an exile or a fugitive. A chance to work while leading a relaxed life at the same time. I bought three hotels and I invested in a number of businesses: restaurants, shops, and agencies providing services of all kinds to tourists.
I’m not doing all that badly.
I turn on the radio. From the more or less paved asphalt road, a trail of dust kicks up behind the car and the cloud almost seems to be swaying to the rhythm of the music. When I get to the beach, I park in the courtyard, in a space reserved for staff of El Pueblo del Viento, one of the resorts that I own.
It’s a series of bungalows built in wood and masonry, carefully designed to appear primitive and still offer all the modern comforts. They’re arrayed around a clubhouse that contains the reception desk, the restaurant, and a number of services that I was the first to offer tourists on the island, such as massages and beauty treatments for the body.
The resort village takes its name from the fact that it’s just a short walk from a windy beach that is a paradise for windsurfers on Isla Margarita. In fact my clientele is for the most part made up of fanatical windsurfers who can’t believe they’ve found a place where they can walk out of their room, pick up their board, and minutes later be skimming over the waves in a steady wind. Of course, all that comes with a price tag. But then, everything comes with a price tag, in the world of men.
The people I’m scheduled to meet today agreed to hold our little war council in one of the conference rooms at the resort village. It was a gesture of respect, as well as a way of making it as convenient as possible for me to join them. After all, I am one of the most sought-after investors in this latest venture. In the presence of money, trousers have a way of sliding down around ankles, all over the world. The line about money and ideas isn’t exactly the way I recounted it to Pilar.
There’s plenty of ass, it’s the money we lack. That’s the original version.
Godie dixit.
I head for the clubhouse and walk in through the front door. I’m immediately in a large five-sided space, illuminated on three sides by large plate-glass windows. On the left is the bar and the lounge. On the right is the restaurant, which extends out onto a terrace overlooking the beach.
Across from the front door is the reception desk.
A group of new arrivals is standing in the lobby, waiting to be directed to their various rooms. Next to them sit the colorful patches of their suitcases, which will be carried to their rooms by the staff. I walk over and notice the manager, a man of average height with a beard and an aggravated bald spot, busy talking to a family of three.
Standing perpendicular to me, so I see him in profile, is a tall man with a receding hairline, an athletic build, and a square jaw. He has no need to wave an American flag for his nationality to be unmistakable. Next to him, with their backs to me, are a little boy about seven and a tall, slender woman with honey blond hair. She’s wearing a pair of jeans and a light denim shirt.
It strikes me from their posture that there’s some tension in the air. As the manager talks, he dry-washes his hands, a typical nervous tic of his in difficult moments. When he sees me coming, a look of relief spr
eads across his face and he gives me a sign. The three guests turn all at once, in response to his glance.
The woman is Carla.
My heart stops for a second. I manage to keep from lurching to a halt myself. I keep walking toward them, hoping that my face is just as smooth and untroubled as the face of the woman I’m seeing again after all these years.
“Buenos días, Guillermo. ¿Qué pasa?”
“There must have been a misunderstanding of some kind. The McKays tell me that they made a reservation but I see no sign of it in our records. Unfortunately, the resort village is completely booked and I have no way of giving them a place to stay.”
The manager spoke in English, so that everyone could understand. My theory about their place of origin has proved correct.
The little boy grabs his father’s waist.
“Oh, Daddy, this place is so pretty. Look at all the surfers. Can we stay here?”
Carla pulls the boy away from his father and pulls him close to her.
“Wait and see, Malcolm. I’m sure everything’s going to be fine.”
I extend my hand. The man returns a firm and vigorous grip. Since English is the official language of this conversation, I go along.
“Mr. McKay, my name is Nicola Sangiorgi. I’m the proprietor of this establishment. Let’s see what we can do today to make your son happy.”
Carla jerked imperceptibly in shock. I was the only one who noticed it, because I was the only one who knew to look for a reaction when she heard my real name.
I walk away, leaving them to wait expectantly. I check the reservation ledger and see that Guillermo Castillos, the manager, told the truth.
The resort village is fully booked.
I see on the list of arrivals for today a French couple, regular clients so faithful that they could be considered friends.
I point to their names.
“Please inform the Tourniers that there’s been a mistake and that we won’t be able to have them as our guests here. To make up for this regrettable mishap, they’ll be transferred to La Fortaleza and there will be no charge for their stay.”
La Fortaleza is the name of another hotel I own. It’s in Juan Griego and it’s unquestionably my finest property. The French couple will have nothing to complain about.
“But the Tourniers…”
“The Tourniers don’t care about windsurfing. They’ll be delighted to spend their holiday free of charge in accomodations that are perhaps even finer than these. Do as I say and you’ll see, everything will turn out perfectly.”
“As you like, Señor Sangiorgi.”
His expression is so unmistakable that I can practically hear the words he’s thinking.
Do whatever the fuck you want. You’re the boss and as long as you’re happy …
And I am happy, and so he’d better be happy too.
The manager goes back to his work. I go over to the family of three who are waiting to learn the outcome. I assure them that it’s just as they’d hoped.
“Everything’s taken care of. As soon as you’ve registered, the porter will help you with your luggage. Have an enjoyable stay at El Pueblo del Viento, Mr. and Mrs. McKay.”
The child throws his arms in the air in a sign of victory.
“Yay!”
The man smiles at me. A smile that evokes baseball games, barbecues with friends, family camping trips, a well-paid job.
A lawyer, I’d guess. Or a doctor.
“Let me thank you. And let me introduce myself properly. My name is Paul McKay. You’ve already met my son, Malcolm.”
He points to the woman standing beside him.
“And this is my wife, Luisa. She’s Italian, as are you, I’d imagine.”
I shake the hand that Carla extends. In my mind, Luisa is the name of a stranger.
“A pleasure to meet you, Signora. I must say that our country is honored to be represented by someone like you.”
Carla responds only with a nod and a tight smile.
I take a step back.
“Now, if you’ll forgive me, I have a few things to see to.”
I walk away and head for the reception desk.
I ask myself how I feel.
Who can say?
I certainly can’t, not now that I’ve just had one more confirmation of the fact that it really is a small world. At a moment when chaos and chance have just paid a call to remind me that they never sleep and that the same rules as ever still apply. You can try to decide what you want to do with your life, but often it’s life itself that decides what it wants to do with you.
I step up to the reception desk. I ask one of the girls at the desk to hand me the phone. I call my secretary. She answers on the first ring.
“Rosita Seguro.”
“Rosita, do me a favor, please. Immediately inform Helizondo, Manzana, Cortes, and Llosa that I’ve run into a scheduling problem. Ask them whether it would be possible to postpone today’s meeting and find out the date that would be most convenient for them.”
“As you say, Señor Sangiorgi.”
I hand the receiver back to the young woman and I turn to go to the office that I had built across from the kitchens. As soon as I’m safely inside, with the door closed, I go over to pour myself a glass of water.
I swallow it all in a single gulp. I remember my father taking a long drink of water, many years ago. I still don’t understand that man, but I do understand the need for a glass of water at certain times in your life. I sit down behind my desk and sink back into the comfort of the leather swivel chair.
I canceled my meeting because I’m certain that I wouldn’t have the necessary focus to talk about business. I wouldn’t be able to look at the faces of those men, utter words and listen to the words of others, be with them in the conference room. I couldn’t do it, just minutes after the past had come to find me and I found myself looking into Carla’s eyes.
If it was you, I’d do it for free …
It’s been years and yet it’s all so vivid in my memory that I feel as if it’s all still happening to me. Daytona’s comb-over, the cool morning air outside of the Ascot Club, Tulip’s flashlight somersaulting through the air in the darkness, Tano Casale’s voice, Lucio’s dark glasses, Carmine’s face …
There’s not a detail, a word, or a color missing.
Especially the red spatters of blood.
In the silence of my thoughts, I hear a knock at the door.
“Yes?”
The door opens partway and the face of a boy on my staff pokes through.
“Señor Sangiorgi, there’s a woman who wishes to speak with you.”
I sigh. I didn’t think it would be so soon.
Something somewhere is beating in a forbidden way. However much time may pass, my heart will never be a reliable accomplice.
“Show her in.”
I stand up and wait until Carla has come into the office. I point to the chair in front of the desk. As soon as she’s seated, I sit down myself.
I look at her. Ten years have only refined and softened her beauty. In her I sense that restless gentle hush of the hour just before sunset, when the sun shines warmer and brighter to make us forgive the darkness that will fall once it leaves. Her hair color and style still match the line that Alex first set, many years ago.
Her eyes are the same as they always were. And, I imagine, as they always will be.
I wish I were a different person with a different life, I wish I’d met you in a different way. It could have been so nice …
But it wasn’t.
“Ciao, Bravo.”
I can’t help but smile.
“No one’s called me that in years.”
“I always thought that nickname suited you so well.”
I say nothing. She continues.
“But instead, after all these years, here you are with a name that can’t be easy to carry.”
“It’s my name. There was a time when I thought one name was as good as another.” I a
llow myself a pause. “I was wrong.”
I pull out a pack of cigarettes. I offer her one. To my surprise, she refuses.
She flashes a smile at the sight of my baffled face.
“Time passes, and resisting bad habits becomes easier.”
I light my cigarette alone, thinking to myself that that’s not always true.
“Your husband seems like a very nice person.”
“He is.”
“And your son is a lovely child. Smart, I’d say.”
She smiles. The smile extends to her eyes this time.
“Oh, he’s smart all right, maybe too smart.”
“How are you?”
There’s no real curiosity in my question, only a hint of regret.
“You summed it up nicely. I have a husband, a son. They help to keep me from thinking.”
I lean my elbows on the desk. I know what she means. Sometimes, thinking can be really unpleasant work.
I change my tone of voice.
“What can I do for you?”
She searches for the words.
She finds them.
“When I left, there was no time to talk. But I did tell you a story.”
Her memories aren’t enough for her. That happens sometimes, when they aren’t nice ones.
“Now you owe me a story too.”
I wonder if she really has been thinking about it all these years. The answer is that I would have thought about it myself, if I were in her shoes.
“A story, you say?”
I minimize with the look on my face, and for an instant I turn my head away.
“It’s a simple story to tell. I can sum it up in a few words.”
She looks at me. And waits for the words.
“I was young, handsome, and wealthy. I had all the girls I could ever wish for. In the city of Palermo I had become a minor celebrity. During my last year in law school, I fell in love with the wrong girl. A girl that Turi Martesano’s nephew had already decided was the girl for him. Turi Martesano was a big gun in the Mafia. They warned me that I was running a big risk. But I thought I was untouchable, that I was protected by the shield of my father’s political power.”
I can’t help but smile at the thought of how naïve I was, and how helpless.