Virginity Despoiled

by Charles Brett

  Kjersti told her to answer while she used the bathroom.

  Davide said, "I'll have to be quick. I think I've made progress on Toomas and his colleague, possibly wife, Reelika."

  "What did you say?"

  "His wife. Is that surprising? Should I know anything more?"

  Ana sat back in shock. It would explain Reelika's poisonous attitude and Toomas's reluctance to take her home to meet his mythical Mamá. She giggled. Taking Ana home to bed in front of the wife? Unlikely. Toomas's reticence made sense.

  "Ana? Tomorrow or Monday I'll email some photos. Please confirm if these are Reelika and Toomas as soon as possible. Sorry, I must go."

  As Davide ended the connection Ana turned, finding Kjersti peering over her shoulder.

  "Who was that? He sounded nice; looked it too."

  Her screaming-red face and neck provided as clear an unintentional giveaway as Ana could fear. She stuttered in search of suitable words.

  "Like that is it? Poor Ana, a bad attack. Tell me over dinner."

  Kjersti grinned. Mild, yet with a malevolent tinge, it was the grin of someone who knew how to extract what she wanted; almost feral, yet softened by her eyes' good humour.

  Ana fought to be cross with Kjersti. She ended up blaming herself while anticipating Kjersti's grilling over dinner.

  Sunday: Tallinn

  Tallinn's winter clouds had descended. The light was dull grey without the slightest hint the sun existed. It wasn't the Arctic night, with its minimal natural light. This gloom depressed. It was a low, slate carpet filtering out what would have been full daylight. It drove Estonians into shopping malls, the only areas offering communal, if artificial, light and cheerfulness.

  Worry supplanted Oleg's previous happiness, fed by the news from Italy. He'd just finished his third call with Gian Luigi in less than a week. Initially he didn't consider there was anything to worry about. His last olive oil sale, to Gian Luigi, was at a far remove.

  Two deaths in Naples changed the calculus, according to Gian Luigi. Rather than the desultory investigation Gian Luigi had expected, a senior investigating officer from Milan had been assigned. An officer from Rome would have been a bureaucrat whose posturing, accompanied by much noise, would have obscured minimal action. An officer from Milan was serious, a threat.

  Oleg didn't understand. Why was Gian Luigi even explaining all this? The response had chilled Oleg.

  "So you can prepare."

  "Prepare for what? And why?"

  Gian Luigi sighed, as if Oleg was a fool. The olive oil he'd bought from Oleg in Basilicata had been combined into a larger consignment that Gian Luigi sold to a well-known refiner. The owners of that refining business had a reputation for taking indifferent olive oils, usually the dregs from decent olive oil production, and heating this, with accompanying chemicals, to deodorise it. This was common practice.

  The next step in the sham refining process involved adding genuine Extra Virgin Olive Oil to give taste. The amount added was never more than 5 per cent and in this refiner's case was only 2 or 3 per cent. He packaged the result into two- and five-litre plastic bottles and pasted on a flashy label that screamed Extra Virgin Olive Oil, even when it most certainly was not. The last step involved strong-arming distributors into selling to many thousands of small local supermarkets whose customers could not, or would not, afford real Extra Virgin Olive Oil. Gian Luigi's contempt shone through.

  "Four or five euros for a two-litre bottle was a bargain. The oil doesn't taste bad. It tastes of almost nothing, bland despite the drops of added Extra Virgin Olive Oil. For cooking nobody cares. They would do if anybody performed a chemical analysis. That's impractical and just as well. Nobody in their right mind would consume this stuff if they knew the actual ingredients. But as nobody does, everybody's happy."

  "So what's the problem?"

  "Do you know the difference between methanol and ethanol?"

  "Methanol is the alcohol we drink and ethanol is an industrial alcohol, no?"

  "No. You have it the wrong way round, a common mistake. Ethanol is what we drink in beer, wine and liquors. In sensible amounts it's a pleasure. Drink too much and we become drunk. If overdone, we feel ill, vomit or suffer alcohol poisoning – and usually recover. In contrast, methanol is not for human consumption, or inhalation or touch. Small doses, less than half a teaspoon, can cause blindness. As little as 100 millilitres kills. The key difference is methanol isn't natural, it's synthetic.

  "Gian Luigi. I still don't understand why you're telling me this."

  "Publicly the authorities aren't saying much, except a specific brand of Extra Virgin Olive Oil is under suspicion for contamination during production. In Italy nothing remains secret for long. The word is out that the contaminant was methanol. This has killed the market for Italian olive oil stone dead. Everybody's suspicious. No one will buy olive oil unless they know with precision where it came from, like from your uncle's or cousin's small grove in the mountains.

  "For you, Oleg, what matters is they've identified the refiner. He's currently being interrogated about the manufacture and where he acquired his ingredients. He'll name me, amongst others, because I sold him parts of the batch of oil he refined. In due course the authorities will come for me. I'll tell them where I bought my parts of the consignment, including from you. You see, they don't know where the methanol was added. Everybody in the chain is suspect until eliminated. I hope you retained samples of what you supplied."

  "Me? Why do I have to come into it?"

  "Because, in my haste to ensure no blame sticks to me, I'll shovel the shit wherever I can. You sold me a part of what became the poisoned oil."

  Gian Luigi paused, offering Oleg a moment to reflect, before he continued.

  "Sorry, my friend. It's business. I won't be buying from you again. You know how it is."

  With that semi-apology he rang off. Not even a farewell.

  Contemplation of a visit from the Italian, or Estonian police, deflated Oleg. His new imperative, starting tomorrow, was to realise all financial gains possible. This would be tough, and would be nowhere as advantageous as he had boasted to Andrei. Too bad. They were ahead though neither he nor Andrei were going to be as rich as planned.

  A different thought hit him. He rushed to his laptop, frantically pulling up the price of Extra Virgin Olive Oil. It was plummeting, the exact opposite of what the flies had achieved.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Autumn, the following week

  Monday: to Úbeda

  Driving her Cayenne was a pleasure yet to be removed from Lili though she acknowledged it would have to go when Olivos Ramos y Tremblay collapsed. Although she stood small beside it, when inside she could make it move. The road from Yuste to Toledo and south towards Úbeda was ideal for fast, rapid navigation. It wouldn't be long before she was home.

  Being at the wheel provided Lili time to reflect. Was she any wiser about the insurance implications after her weekend with Inma? Not really. The more they had parsed the circumstances the more bewildered they became. Assuming the infestation was man-initiated, which so far was unprovable, was it man-made? Man did not make the eggs. Were the olive oil producers at fault for not spotting the early stages of a natural process and subsequently preventing each generation from breeding and depositing new eggs?

  To believe in a man-made cause required an explanation of how it had occurred. Tossing olives out of a car couldn't cause the size of problem experienced around Úbeda and beyond. They lacked an understanding or explanation of any mechanism that might cause an infestation, which left Lili and Inma scratching their heads in frustration.

  The good news, according to Inma, was that the primary insurers would have to pay up. Bactrocera oleae was a named pest. Unless someone could demonstrate negligence on the part of the olive oil producers, the insurers couldn't wriggle out. Or so she argued.

  For the re-insurers, the position wasn't so clear. Ana was researching the legalities. All lay in the wording of th
e re-insurance contracts, which weren't the same as for the primary insurance policies. These were more tightly drawn.

  The net effect, for Lili, was minimal comfort and not even a crunch date. She knew little more about the means or timing of her demise, or that of Olivos Ramos y Tremblay than when she arrived. She would just have to hang in there, on tenterhooks, for weeks to come. That was Inma's opinion, unless someone could demonstrate a man-made cause and mechanism. It was so frustrating, even for Inma.

  Despite this, the break had recharged Lili's spirits. That sleep on Saturday morning, after Inma had refused to disturb her, meant it was late afternoon before she awoke. When it happened it was like exiting a bad dream to find the real world had improved while she was comatose. Even to herself, Lili felt a different person, losing the outright pessimism with which she'd arrived. The rest of her time with Inma became a holiday. It recharged her.

  Lili was delighted she could experience such renewal. The credit was Inma's. The finca was a delight, even in poor weather. Inma possessed more than good taste. She had the knack for making the finca efficient, elegant and comfortable. This was a rare combination as Lili knew from the challenges of trying the same in Úbeda, with Enrique grumbling away.

  Inma was also a considerate and personable host, as well as an excellent cook. They'd eaten well, better even than in Úbeda, though at one point Lili had speculated whether Inma was trying to get her drunk.

  There was also that present. After her prolonged afternoon snooze, she'd gone up to her bedroom to shower before dinner. On the bed was an innocuous bag. Inside were underclothes of a daring form and the right size.

  How did Inma know of Lili's secret sin? She was sure she'd never admitted it to Inma. From when she'd started to work and could afford her own little luxuries, Lili had spent good money on bras, knickers, slips, stockings, camisoles, chemises – you name it and all from expensive stores. It was her covert way to reward herself, to provide a sensuousness nobody else could enjoy. Nothing lasted long with her. She threw out items with wilful abandon before any were six months old. It was an extravagance, one she'd continued from Úbeda.

  Not in Úbeda, because there was nowhere to buy the quality she sought. In Córdoba, yes, there was one store. She'd stumbled on it her first evening there. Obliquely its fine silks had helped to convince her that a life in Andalucía was imaginable. Over the years she had spent a fortune and not regretted a cent, even if Enrique never noticed.

  She'd dressed in her presents before putting on the same Syrian refugee outfit as before. If she couldn't enjoy it at home, she relished the opportunity to revel in it here. The last time had been before Inma rushed off to Madrid. Lili didn't think Inma would object to a second outing. The pleasure in Inma's eyes when Lili returned to the salon provided confirmation.

  Over dinner, Inma stayed silent about the bag. Lili had felt almost uncomfortable knowing what she was wearing underneath. Why? She couldn't explain. It was as if Inma wanted to inspect her, as if she hoped Lili would undress in the salon and pirouette.

  No, that was stupid. That wasn't Inma. She would have taken offence. It wasn't what an Opus-trained lady would do. Even so, Lili had experienced temptation, an unaccustomed desire to arouse. Not Lili-like either.

  For a second, Inma had hinted at something like regret. Instead Lili had thanked her for the present and the conversation turned to where Inma obtained such delights. Inma described María's business and how she obtained her dividends, along with a confession about the accumulation of secret goodies. At this Lili had confessed her own weakness whereupon Inma had displayed real disappointment. If she had known beforehand they could both have gone to María's and modelled together.

  This second mention of María took the conversation down a new path. Lili sketched the María in Úbeda alongside Enrique. If she was caustic about Enrique's fancy for Ana, she was worse about his new infatuation with María. She heard the bitterness in her voice before remembering too late that Ana was Inma's business partner and cousin. For some moments she panicked. Had she planted a horse-sized hoof in everything?

  Inma didn't mind. For some inexplicable reason Lili knew she was not condemned. Nothing was said. It was just apparent, as if Inma was pleased that Enrique had lost interest in Ana. Why Inma should think like this remained a puzzle.

  No matter, Lili had had a good weekend. She must find a way to return the hospitality. She liked being with Inma, which was unusual. Lili hadn't had a close female friend since her college days. The one close friendship she'd valued had ended so badly she'd avoided women confidantes ever since.

  Tuesday: Tallinn

  Andrei rehashed his disappearance combinations for the umpteenth time. It was part anticipatory pleasure, part preparatory discipline. As he stepped through each phase, he decided he was being too Oleg-like. The key was not the number of airports but staying as little as possible 'in transit', catching the next connection as soon after one plane landed as was practical. That meant hand luggage only, which was not a problem. The bus to Riga was anonymous. The first flight to a major tourist hub, like Mallorca or Málaga, made sense and from there to Istanbul and Yerevan. That should suffice, before catching another anonymous bus to Tbilisi. From then on, with a different passport, he should be in the clear, a new person. Yes, simplified, all made sense.

  Looking around the Reval cafe in Pärnu Maantee, he was surprised. Oleg was late, by more than fifteen minutes. Andrei didn't mind. There was a surprising wealth of good-looking women to appraise. Some were students and the best-dressed conducted business. Most looked like mothers, gossiping after leaving their children at the Sakala Eragümnaasium over the road.

  This Reval cafe was a strange place, shaped like a narrow triangle with the front door at the apex and Pärnu Maantee running down one long side and Sakala down the other. Without trying to he drew the eye of a woman and sought not to stare. She winked with casual deliberation. Her suggestion was clear. He responded in kind, if not so decorously. With mutual recognition of purpose he grinned. She reciprocated. She stood, as if to straighten her clothes. Very nice, he admired.

  Oleg interrupted. "At it again? Skirt-chasing?"

  "Why not?"

  "Because we've bigger issues. Problems."

  "I don't understand. Last time all was smooth."

  "It isn't now."

  In sharp tones Oleg updated Andrei. He started with the Italian olive oil poisoning before linking this to the crash in the spot price of Extra Virgin Olive Oil, the precise opposite of their plans. He ended by explaining how he was trying to cash in as much as soon as possible.

  "What's the impact going to be on me?"

  "We'll receive under half of what I'd hoped, maybe less."

  Andrei paled. Oleg's unexpected news would do serious damage to his 'retirement' expectations. At this rate he would not be half as comfortable as Oleg had encouraged him to anticipate. A slow rage ignited.

  Oleg recognised the warning signs. In their KGB training days Andrei had been infamous for his explosive temper. He searched for a way to douse the growing flames.

  "We're ahead. We've clean instead of dirty money, which we didn't before. We'll have more, just not as much. Why are you seething?"

  Andrei permitted his anger to burn a little longer. Few, including Oleg, understood that he could summon, or douse, his fury at will, a trick learnt in childhood. It had uses in all sorts of situations, like now, to intimidate even the ever-clever Oleg.

  An unexpected voice intervened.

  "I think you dropped this?"

  Andrei was quick on the uptake. His eyes took in the winking lady standing behind Oleg, who did not bother to turn.

  "I did? Thank you."

  He took the folded sheet of paper, opened it to find tomorrow, at the same time with a mobile number. He stood to thank her again and confirm.

  When she left his anger dissolved. Oleg's relief that Andrei's fury had died was comical.

  "Who was that?"

  "Ha
ven't a clue. I might find out another day."

  "Skirt-chaser."

  "You're right, up to a point. We're ahead but not fabulously. Not as generously as you promised. Explain again what more I can expect and when."

  Confused by the rapidity of this switch in temper, Oleg obliged. He listed his planned actions. The most challenging would be the profitable sale of all last year's stockpiled Extra Virgin Olive Oil in a market flailed by the poisoning in Italy. He said nothing to Andrei about Gian Luigi and the possibility of investigation. He was sure Andrei would be unsympathetic to his plight, which he would regard as Oleg being too clever and greedy.

  "Our main hope remains intact, the insurance policies I took out against an olive oil crop failure in Spain."

  "I don't get it. You took out insurance policies?"

  "Yes. I insured against a failure of the high quality olive oil crop. Two seasons ago it was only a small policy. There was no reason to claim. The insurers were happy. They made money. Last year I renewed, to cover larger sums. Again there was no claim and again the insurers were happy."

  "And?"

  "This year I tripled the amount insured. Treated as a regular customer renewing, and given that I was selling more oil ..." Oleg bit his tongue having nearly said 'selling more oil to Italy'. "I was welcomed back. We know the Jaén harvest is failing. The flies have done their job. After I've filed the claims all we have to do is wait for the various suppliers, whose oil output I insured against, to admit they can't deliver Extra Virgin Olive Oil and the insurance companies will pay up. Having spent a small fortune on the policies, I expect millions, less some costs, back."

  Andrei suppressed his relief. That should mean, if split equally, another four or five million for himself. Sufficient, though he'd hoped for more.

  "When do you expect this?"

  "I can't tell. It's the inability to deliver olive oil that triggers the payment. This occurs when the penetration of eggs ruins enough olives so no Extra Virgin Olive Oil or even lesser olive oil is possible."