Not wanting her to see how emotional he was, Al-Saud wrapped her in his arms and buried his face in her hair. He laid her down on the cushions and kissed her with all the tenderness that had been absent when he took her standing up, against the bedroom wall.
“Matilde…Matilde.”
“What?”
“You always manage to surprise me. Just like when you gave me the dulce de leche.”
“You’re not going to tell me if you like my present?”
“Everything you give me is the best. This portrait is worth more to me than anything else in the world. I swear on my life.”
“I made it so you would never forget our story.”
“I could never forget it. Impossible. Plus, I’m always going to have you at my side to remind me.”
Matilde didn’t answer, and he felt an instant of profound fear. The sensation lodged in his throat; it hurt his neck and burned in the pit of his stomach. Between the cushions, with her blonde hair taking on a red glow from the fire, her cheeks rosy and her silver eyes incredibly dark, Matilde’s ethereal quality was more vivid than ever. Sometimes he was afraid that he would wake up and discover that she had returned to her world of fairies and angels.
“Eliah, I want you to know that I treasure every moment we spend together. Every moment. They’re worth a fortune to me.”
He nodded, incapable of speaking.
The next morning, after eight, Al-Saud surprised her by appearing with a breakfast tray in the bedroom. He had made her mate, a distinctive kind of South American leaf infusion.
“Mate! I can’t believe it! Thank you, Eliah! We ran out of it weeks ago. We were getting withdrawal symptoms. Where’d you get it?”
“The yerba mate I bought at a delicatessen on Rue Saint-Honoré, where my mother buys it. And the mate cup I stole from her.”
“You left her without a mate cup!”
“I brought the one from her house in Paris, but she’s in Jeddah now, in Saudi Arabia. She has another one there.”
Laurette had baked bread rolls, brioches and croissants. The tray boasted a wide array of jams and cheeses. After breakfast, Al-Saud put on loose, comfortable clothing and invited her to the gymnasium. Matilde wanted to try the equipment. She got tired easily, so she finally decided to exercise on the fixed bike, while Al-Saud, hanging from a bar by his legs, brought his head up to his knees to work his abdominal muscles. Because of the heat, he had taken off his tracksuit jacket and shirt, and Matilde watched the way his back muscles swelled and slackened. She got off the bike and planted herself in front of him so she could watch his torso in motion. Eliah stopped the exercise and stared at her, upside down. When he noticed Matilde’s stance, a shiver of anticipation and desire gave him an erection. All she had to do was run her lips over his abs and weave her fingers through the hair on his chest and he was lost. He pulled himself up on the bar and hopped down onto the tatami. He took her there, on the tatami, and when they were finished, remained on top of her, gasping in huge gulps of air, enjoying the sensation of their chests pressed together.
“Eliah,” he heard her whisper, “I want to ask you something. Yesterday, when I had you in my mouth, did I do it okay? It was my first time,” she explained, “and I don’t know how I did.”
“You did perfectly, my love. Just perfect.”
“I want you to tell me when I don’t do things well. I want you to teach me. I want to do it well for you, Eliah.”
“Matilde, I want you to know something. No woman has ever made me feel the way you make me feel. You get me hard just looking at me the way you did a minute ago.”
They showered together. Around eleven in the morning, when they were just heading out to visit Rouen, five cars pulled up on the snowy gravel driveway in front of the house. Al-Saud watched them from the living room window. “Merde!” he cursed. It was his siblings and partners, as well as Diana and Leila. The latter got out of Diana’s Smart Car, carrying a cake protected by a glass dome. The house filled with voices, laughter, greetings and noises that shattered the peace he had been yearning to share with Matilde. He saw her come down the stairs timidly with a trembling smile and rosy cheeks. In that white dress, with ruffles and lace edging, she really did look like a fairy. It was clear that the invasion didn’t bother her. Juana, who had arrived with Alamán, came over to wish him a happy birthday and whispered into his ear, “Change your expression, stud. I’m here on the condition that at six in the evening we get out of here and leave you two in peace. I still wouldn’t have come if I hadn’t known that the gathering would make Mat happy. Trust me.”
Yasmín kissed him on both cheeks.
“You thought you could get rid of us on your birthday, didn’t you? I’ve brought you a gift you’re going to like a lot.” Al-Saud’s face communicated disbelief and weariness. “Oh, well, if you don’t want to know the results of the tests I did for you last Monday,” she said, dangling the envelope under her brother’s nose, “I’ll tell Sándor to take me back to Paris.”
“Give them to me, Yasmín.”
“First I want a hug and a kiss from my favorite brother.”
“You always tell me that I’m your favorite,” Alamán complained, carrying his nephew Guillaume on his shoulders. “Happy birthday, brother,” he said, pressing his hand into Eliah’s.
“It was Yasmín’s idea,” Shariar accused her. “Don’t stare at us with that bulldog face.”
“Now that you’re here, let’s try to have this party peacefully,” Al-Saud said, and hugged his older brother.
Al-Saud bore the intrusion cheerfully once he saw how happy it made Matilde. Juana had been right: Matilde was happy and at ease, especially with his niece and three nephews, Shariar’s children. Somehow, in a way he couldn’t quite figure out, she had become an object of desire for all four of them, even little Dominique, who was plopped down in the hollow made by Matilde’s legs playing Rock, Paper, Scissors. Alamán, Juana, Leila and Shariar’s wife, Jacqueline, were also sitting on the floor around the fireplace; actually, Leila was behind Matilde, braiding and unbraiding her curls. Al-Saud kept his distance and looked at them from the sofa he shared with Diana, Yasmín and Takumi Kaito. His niece and nephews’ terrible Spanish—Francesca, eight, and Gaëtan, six—made him smile. The attempts of little Guillaume, three, to say the words rock, paper and scissors in Spanish made him chuckle softly.
“I wish Mama was here to see this,” Yasmín lamented. “She can never get a word of Spanish out of the little wretches. And Matilde, with no effort at all, has them babbling away like it’s nothing. How strange that Papa and Mama didn’t come for your birthday!”
“They wanted to,” Al-Saud declared, “but I told them that I had other plans. Plans that you ruined.”
“Your Matilde is having a pretty good time, no? That was my stupendous idea.” After a pause, she added, “I have to admit she’s very beautiful.”
Later they played I Spy With My Little Eye and Juana and Alamán formed a team with Francesca and Gaëtan, while Matilde helped Guillaume. Dominique had lost interest in the chain with the medal and a key—Eliah didn’t remember having seen the key that afternoon in Berthillon—and, cuddled comfortably on Matilde’s lap, watched everyone else with his pacifier in his mouth. Leila had gotten tired of the braids and was playing with Matilde’s right hand; she would kiss it every once in a while and, though she laughed when everyone else laughed, Al-Saud knew that she didn’t understand why people were laughing, because everyone else was speaking Spanish.
Matilde was the shining beacon around which everyone else congregated; even his partners and brother Shariar abandoned their conversation on international politics, attracted by the laughter coming from the area around the hearth.
“Can I put on some music?” Diana asked, and Eliah nodded.
The music brought back memories from the night before. He and Matilde, naked under the blankets, had shared a sublime moment and, after making love, they went upstairs and got into bed, where she st
ayed all night, waking up by his side. He wanted her to be with him always, and though the idea of bringing children into the world had never attracted him before, he would give her as many as she wanted, because he had no doubt that for Matilde, children were important.
Yasmín looped her arm through Eliah’s and spoke to him in a whisper. “I always imagined it would be Alamán who would fall head over heels in love. You always seemed so cold and reserved that it’s strange now to see the way you look at her. You haven’t taken your eyes off her for a second.”
In a few seconds “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You” would come on and Al-Saud awaited it expectantly. Matilde looked so absorbed in the game with his niece and nephews, so happy and relaxed. The echoes of his frenzied heartbeat rang in his throat when he saw her lift her head and seek him out with her eyes. It was an intimate, magical moment in which everyone else evaporated. He winked at her and smiled when he saw her cheeks turn red. My God, Matilde, I love you so much! If he had been asked to define what loving someone consisted of, he, a rational and analytical man, wouldn’t have known what to say. There was no explanation for the possessive, powerful feeling that Matilde awoke in him. The only certain thing he knew was that he would have killed to defend her and would have died to protect her.
Around seven in the evening, peace reigned over the house again. He could hear “Pulstar” by Vangelis playing quietly and the far-off voices of Laurette, Takumi and Matilde, who were making dinner. Al-Saud was talking on the phone with Gérard Moses in his study. After the argument in the George V, the conversation was progressing somewhat uncomfortably. In fact, Eliah had assumed that Gérard wouldn’t call him on his birthday.
“Where are you calling from?”
“From Belgium,” Moses lied—actually he was in La Valeta, the capital of Malta. “Eliah, brother, I want to ask your forgiveness for that fight…”
“It’s okay, Gérard. Forget it. It’s better if we don’t remember that episode.”
“Whatever you say. I regret having gotten you involved in the quarrel with my brother.”
“And I regret that things are like this between you.”
“Are you in Paris?” He changed the subject.
“No. I’m at my estate in Rouen.”
“Alone or in good company?”
“Alone,” he lied, and on the other end of the line Gérard Moses glowered. The lie hurt him; it was obvious that the girl meant more to him than he had suspected. He knew Eliah very well and was well aware of his jealous nature. If Al-Saud coveted her, he would hide her so he wouldn’t have to share her with the world, because he was selfish with the things he treasured.
Eliah grew sad as he realized that an abyss was starting to open between himself and his best friend. He had nothing to say to him—in the past things would have been different. He wanted to hang up. He didn’t understand why. They said good-bye stiffly. He put his feet on the desk and leaned back in his chair. He sat up briefly to pick up Matilde’s frame and settled back into his relaxed position. It was a close-up of her oval face, her enormous eyes a little farther from her nose than usual; she was wearing mascara, her eyelashes brushed against her upper eyelids, and her lips were painted her usual shiny pink. He kept his eyes fixed on the portrait and pretended not to have noticed that Matilde had slipped into the study and was trying to surprise him. She covered his eyes.
“Guess who?”
“The girl I want it to be,” he answered, and put the frame back on the desk, memorized.
“Who’s that?”
“A girl with freckles on her nose, blonde hair and the ass of a duck, or, even better, of a pig.” Matilde laughed. “Who, even though today’s my birthday, forgot all about me and concentrated on everyone else.”
“Don’t say that!” Eliah grabbed her forearm and made her topple down onto his legs. “There wasn’t a second when I stopped thinking about you, praying to the Virgin for your happiness now and forever.”
“Matilde…today I wanted you all to myself and I had to share you. That’s why I’m in a bad mood. But now you’re all mine again, and I want to make love.”
“Yes,” she panted, gripping the chair’s armrests when his hands started to excite her. “Take off my dress, Eliah.” He lowered the zipper and helped her to get out of it.
“Get up, so I can take my clothes off,” he instructed her.
Eliah got out of the chair and locked the study door. The music drifting in from the living room was muffled, as were the low voices and laughter of Laurette and Takumi, who were still in the kitchen making dinner. He stopped in front of Matilde and took off her bra. He got on his knees and rubbed his face slowly on one of her breasts until his lips found her nipple and sucked it.
“Matilde, I want to make love without a condom. My sister brought the results of the tests I did on Monday and they all came back negative. Look, I have them here.”
Matilde grabbed his wrist and mouthed, “I believe you.” She grabbed a breast and ran her nipple around Eliah’s lips. He stood up, and his dark eyes drank her in hungrily as he took off his boots, pants and boxers. He left his shirt on; his erect member stuck out of the front, dark and shining with sweat.
He pulled off her panties, and she lifted first one and then the other foot to help him. He delicately rubbed her hairless mound of Venus and her vulva until he thought Matilde was on the point of collapse from the way she moaned and shook. He loved seeing how she gave herself over to him, how her face lit up with pleasure, how she let her eyelids droop and her lips part slightly. He loved feeling her warm, wet sex contracting around him. He trapped her lips in a voracious kiss and absorbed her sighs and her breath while he grabbed her buttocks and rubbed her against his bulge.
“Take off your shirt, Eliah. I want us to be completely naked.”
He obeyed so quickly that it made her laugh. Al-Saud returned to the chair and dragged her onto him again.
“Put your legs here, under the armrests.”
Matilde straddled the chair, facing him, and immediately felt his hard penis against her vulva. Al-Saud pushed into her. The feeling of his naked flesh inside of Matilde was more than he had imagined, and he exploded, ejaculating quickly like an inexperienced kid. I hope that I made a baby with you, he wished.
Around seven thirty in the evening, Gérard Moses left the British Hotel, a discreet guesthouse on Battery Street in La Valeta, Malta, that had the advantage of only being three blocks from the Concathedral of Saint John, where he would meet with Anuar Al-Muzara. Although it was getting late, the church was still open for a concert of sacred music; Moses guessed it was a celebration of the birth of a saint or Templar knight. He entered the nave and admired the frescoes and the golden altar, which matched the grandeur of the organ’s chords.
Someone grabbed him by the arm, just above the elbow, and he allowed himself to be guided. They went into one of the side chapels. It was empty except for the presence of a tall, thin man dressed in a short-sleeved shirt and cheap-looking wool pants. He turned around when he heard footsteps. Anuar Al-Muzara never smiled, so Gérard didn’t expect any other displays of affection. They shook hands. Despite the risk of their meeting in a public place, Al-Muzara seemed calm. Moses wondered where he had come from and how he had gotten onto the island. At times he had thought of putting a microtransmitter on one of his pigeons to guide him to the terrorist’s hideout. That information could yield him a lot of money.
Gérard Moses’s biggest obsession, except for Eliah Al-Saud, was money. He lost sleep worrying that the global financial system would collapse and he would lose everything. His fortune made him feel safe, because the loneliness his illness confined him to could be overcome with money: paying people to care for him, to help him, to accompany him and to love him. He also needed it so that he wouldn’t have to cut off the flow of donations that he made to a Spanish laboratory committed to researching porphyria.
“One day,” Moses complained in French, “I won’t be able to decode your message an
d I’ll stand you up.”
“You know you’ll always be able to decode them. Of all of us, you’ve always been the most intelligent and by far the best educated.”
And the sickest, Gérard added to himself.
“Give me the key to your room in the British Hotel,” Al-Muzara demanded.
Gérard smiled approvingly. His friend already knew where he was staying.
“Why do you want it?”
“So that Barak”—he signaled one of his bodyguards—“can get my pigeons and bring back yours. I’ll need them to keep sending you messages. You brought them, didn’t you?”
“Of course. It was about time that we exchanged them. They’re in a cage, in the bathtub.”
Al-Muzara handed the key to Barak and spoke to him in Arabic.
“Did you have trouble getting the pigeons into Malta?” the terrorist wanted to know.
“No. I said that I was here for a competition and presented my papers. The health authorities aren’t too strict. I slipped a few bills into the boss’s hand to speed me through the process.”
“Good,” he said, then asked sharply, “What happened at the George V?”
“What happened is that you sent an incompetent man to do the job.”
“Your man, Jürkens, didn’t he tell you what happened?”
“He doesn’t know. He didn’t have access to the convention room. He snuck in afterward, when everything was in chaos, but he couldn’t see how the attack had gone wrong. He had to take care of the boy, as you well know.” Al-Muzara muttered his consent. “We missed a golden opportunity to kill two birds with one stone. I don’t know if we’ll ever get another chance like that.”