by Vina Jackson
‘Yes,’ she agreed with obvious enthusiasm. ‘They’re all places I’ve never been to before.’ ‘We never did get much of a chance to speak, did we?’
‘I know.’
‘Listen,’ Dominik said, searching for some form of vocal gravitas. ‘I had a meeting with that guy I was put in touch with. In Paris. Someone who knows the shady side of the market for musical instruments. You were right. Viggo does have a reputation as a collector in the field and it appears he was definitely aware of the Bailly. Had been for some time. It was on his want list …’
‘Damn it,’ she swore. ‘I really didn’t want it to be him.’
‘It doesn’t necessarily mean he’s involved,’ Dominik tried to reassure her, ‘but it is a bit coincidental.’
‘I agree. God, I just don’t know what I should do. Confront him, maybe?’
‘I’m not sure. Is he still touring with you?’
‘No, he went back to London today. With Luba. He has some recording commitments there over the coming weeks. He said he would try and rejoin the tour once we hit Stockholm. Even hinted to Chris he might come onstage for a number there. Give us his seal of approval, so to speak.’
‘Is there anything I can do?’ Dominik asked.
‘Let me think.’
There was a pause. He could hear the sound of cars behind her. She must be running alongside a busy road.
‘You’re not all going to Barcelona at some stage, by any chance, are you?’
‘Not on this leg of the tour,’ Summer said. ‘Maybe at a later date, though. We’d come back to London in between. Why are you asking?’
‘I have to go there myself this week. Some sort of book promotion. I’d agreed to it some time back.’
‘That’ll be good.’
‘I’d sort of wondered whether our dates might have coincided …’
‘Hmm …’ He couldn’t read the expression in her voice. ‘Not this time.’
‘Listen, the other night—’
‘I know, Dominik … maybe we should talk about it all once I’m back in London. I’d like that.’
‘I understand.’
‘Another thing,’ she said.
‘Yes.’
‘The Russian dancer from New Orleans …’ Summer’s voice tailed off.
‘Luba. Yes, she knew who I was. I’d recognised her anyway.’
‘She’s with Viggo.’
‘I noticed. But … the two of you … and him?’
‘It’s complicated.’
‘Sounds that way. But it doesn’t matter. The main thing is that we are on speaking terms again.’
‘I would call it more than speaking terms now,’ Summer remarked, and there was the hint of a smile in her voice. But there was also a wariness he could detect. She had never been a telephone sort of person. She needed the immediacy of closeness to communicate fully, to express herself.
‘I’ll let you get on with your run,’ Dominik said. ‘Can I call you later in the week?’
‘Of course.’
Sant Jordi was the Catalonia equivalent of Valentine’s Day, even though it was named after St George. It was held annually on a Sunday and the centre of Barcelona was transformed into a huge street market north of Plaza Catalunya all the way to Diagonal, with lavish flower tents and bookstalls, with tables crumbling under the weight of hundreds of new and older volumes. A celebration of nature and reading, with crowds of writers moving from stall to stall to sign their books which were then sold to the public. The stalls were organised by both local bookstores and publishers. The tradition had been for women to buy books for their male companions and men to acquire flowers, preferably roses, for their paramours. So on a sunny day, half the city paraded up and down the Rambla Catalunya laden with books and flowers. A spectacle that brought a smile to Dominik’s face as he hopped from stall to stall, urged by his minders.
Had Summer been here, he speculated, what book might she have bought for him? Although to be fair, as the majority of the titles on offer were in Spanish, it would have made little difference, he realised. But the thought struck him: books are permanent, while flowers wilt and die, and what did that say about the balance of things between men and women?
He was at his final bookstall of the day, sitting idle by now although the local authors sitting at the same table were still busy autographing and chatting amiably with fans and buyers, when a long, thin pale arm handed over a well-travelled copy of an original English edition of his book.
Dominik looked up.
The peripatetic Luba.
As ever, dressed to kill, her long, thin body sheathed in a skin-tight, flame-red woollen Roland Mouret dress.
‘You?’ Dominik couldn’t disguise his surprise.
‘You wouldn’t begrudge a friend a signature, no?’
‘A friend or a stalker?’
Luba’s laughter was crystal clear.
‘Well, I gave you my number and you didn’t call. What is a young woman to do?’
He took hold of the book, opened it to the title page and signed it for her. So she had been telling the truth when she had told him she had read it. To a private dancer, he wrote.
A late afternoon breeze was sweeping up the Ramblas and Luba’s white-blond hair floated like a silk veil in the cradle of its invisible currents as she stood facing his table reading the inscription.
‘Nice,’ she remarked.
‘My pleasure.’
‘I see you’ve almost finished here,’ she said. ‘Why don’t we go have a drink, or a coffee, or maybe even tapas?’
The publicity assistant from his publishers indicated his duties were over and she didn’t mind him leaving. He thanked her and the people manning the stand and stood up.
‘So how did you know I was going to be in Barcelona? And don’t tell me you just happened to just be passing through, Luba.’
‘Elementary, my dear Dominik. I Googled you … And then your Spanish publisher had a list of writers who are attending Sant Jordi on their website. It was all rather easy.’ Her smile was disarming.
Dominik couldn’t quite picture someone as ethereal and sexual as Luba sitting by a computer, but it made sense. There was nowhere to hide these days.
‘So you came all the way to Barcelona just to get your book signed?’
‘No. I also came to work. Dance.’
‘Ah …’
‘A private hire.’
‘Like New Orleans?’ he asked.
‘Not quite,’ she said.
‘Does Viggo approve of your … freelance work?’
‘It’s none of his business,’ she said simply. ‘He does not own me.’
‘Good.’
They’d walked up the Passeig de Gràcia and found a small bar situated down a set of stone steps, lowceilinged, half underground, where the smells of coffee, tobacco and smoked ham lingered in the air and made the mouth water. Neither of them spoke fluent Spanish so they just pointed at the small circular plates laden with mouthfuls of delicacies and strewn across the top of the bar to indicate which they wanted. The eyes of every man in the bar were on Luba. She stood out here like a sore thumb, lithe and graceful, imperious, almost perfect, the red of her dress like a beacon in the dying light of the day.
‘They are sending a car for me at ten tonight,’ Luba said.
‘Your clients?’
‘Yes. I think they are Russian too. Rich ones. So many of those these days. Wasn’t like that when I was younger. It will be on a boat. My dancing.’
‘You have quite a reputation, I see. In demand internationally.’
‘Maybe,’ she said with a modest smile.
She bit into one of the tapas, a minuscule square of potato overflowing with sour cream and dotted with paprika.
‘It’s very nice,’ she remarked. ‘You must try some.’
Dominik gulped down a few green olives, stuffed with anchovies. The balance of tastes was subtle and addictive. As soon as he had finished one he wanted more. The coffees they h
ad been served were piping hot and sharp. He called the barman over for some mineral water.
‘I liked your book,’ Luba said. ‘Elena, the woman in it in Paris, she feels very real. But very self-destructive, I would say.’
‘And that’s why you wanted to see me,’ Dominik said. ‘It’s too late in the day to change her, you know. The book is done and dusted.’
‘Dusted?’
‘Just an expression. Finished, I mean. I’m now working on a new book. Different story, other characters.’
‘I’ve always thought that writers must be complicated men, that’s all. Makes me curious.’
‘Would that everyone did …’
‘And what is the new book about? Am I allowed to ask?’
‘It’s about musical instruments. In particular the story of a particular one, a violin, and the people who owned it – its story over a couple of centuries.’
‘Oh, that is a genius idea,’ Luba remarked, clapping her hands together. ‘I see where you got it, maybe?’
‘Summer, you mean?’
‘She plays violin. But I was also interested in meeting the man who asked his woman to dance back in New Orleans.’
‘I’m pleased to hear you find us entertaining.’
‘The lives of other people have always held much fascination for me,’ Luba continued.
‘So you’re not only a nude dancer but also a voyeur, in your own way.’
‘Why not? Anything to make life more varied, don’t you think?’
‘Tell me about your … friend, Viggo?’
‘What do you want to know?’
‘I’m told he collects things. Artwork, instruments too, no?’
Luba smiled enigmatically. ‘Ah, I see why you are also interested.’
‘Exactly. I’d like to know more. So?’
‘Ask me questions,’ she said. ‘I’ll do my best to answer.’
Luba agreed when Dominik expressed interest in seeing her dance again. He was to meet up with her in her hotel lobby shortly before ten that evening when the limo would be picking her up. She was staying in the Condal, away from the noisy hubbub of Barcelona’s centre, a plush but discreet hotel off the beaten track. The male receptionists – all clad in identical black outfits, would have fitted effortlessly onto a fashion show boardwalk – gave him a knowing glance when he indicated he would wait downstairs for their stunning blonde guest.
She emerged from the lift, a vision in white, her long silhouette a blur of ivory silk, endless legs prolonged by towering silvery heels, her mad mane of untamed blond curls hanging loose, her bare arms a porcelain vision of pallor. Her eyes were highlighted by smouldering kohl, and the difference between the fierce make-up surrounding them and the rest of her face, just an artful smear of pale red lipstick and blusher across her sharply defined high cheekbones, was like a study in contrasts.
The limousine was waiting for them outside, its impassive chauffeur in grey uniform and cap holding the door open for them.
Dominik had been warned by Luba to wear a suit. Fortunately he had packed one on the off chance before leaving London, although he had no tie and had spent most of the time since their meeting in the cafe hunting down a decent one at the Corte Inglés store on Plaza Catalunya.
As the large car left the kerb, its engine purring delicately, Dominik, isolated from the driver by a thick glass partition, asked Luba where they were being taken.
‘I never ask,’ she said and made no effort to elaborate.
The limo soon left the city and followed the highway leading south. They drove for half an hour, a full moon shimmering over the night sea on their left, rushing through a succession of tunnels cut into the hillsides along the way, and then the sight of small fishing villages or resorts dotting the coastline.
Throughout the short journey Luba had remained silent, calmly retreating into a meditative state, deep in concentration, as if already rehearsing her performance, getting into the zone.
Following a road sign indicating Sitges, the car drove off the main road and made its way into and through the small town, steering clear of the narrow alleys of the Gothic quarters and navigating through further hills dotted with large luxury hotels, then crossed the railway line and descended towards a brightly lit marina.
There was a security gate on the approach to the entrance to the restricted area. The driver entered a code on a panel on the dashboard and the gate rose.
The yacht, a monstrous construction of decks stacked over each other, embedded in a tangle of wood and steel like a matriochka, was moored at the very end of the large marina, isolated from the other boats, its lights dimmed, its opulent elegance cleverly understated.
A burly security guard checked Luba’s name against a list he held, and waved the couple up onto the lower deck where a crowd of well-dressed people milled around drinking and chatting. He could hear English, French, Spanish, Russian, probably, and a variety of other languages being spoken.
A middleaged woman wearing a dark evening gown noticed Luba’s arrival and signalled to her. Luba suggested Dominik now mingle with the crowd and enjoy himself as she walked away, accompanied by the woman, to a dressing room in preparation for her act.
Dominik headed for the bar, hoping against hope he would not stand out, wearing his inexpensive off-the-peg black suit, in this garden of unabashed wealth. The bald barman handed him a flute of champagne, which Dominik declined, requesting a Perrier or a San Pellegrino instead. Unsurprisingly, the barman had both mineral water varieties. And almost every other beverage under the sun.
He tried to mingle as best he could, although he knew no one there, flitting between groups, nodding, catching the tail end of conversations, often in languages he did not understand. None of the guests seemed to query his presence there, although he felt quite out of place. At least the yacht was moored and not navigating the high seas; Dominik had a propensity for seasickness and would have cut a poor figure had the boat sailed, he knew.
The same woman who had escorted Luba away earlier returned to the deck and began to corral the guests down towards a lower level of the ship. Dominik obediently followed the crowd. They were led to a luxurious salon in which a small stage had been erected, facing rows of fold-up camp chairs and, towards the back of the room, by the wide glass bays that looked out on the waters of the marina on one side and the open sea on the other, a collection of shiny leather divans. On these sat a set of expensively clad spectators, who he assumed were the owners of the boat, the hosts for tonight; Russian oligarchs and their molls from the Slavic look of their features. Male waiters in identical attire circulated between the seats handing out more glasses of champagne to the guests. Dominik found a chair in the furthest corner of the room.
Once everyone was sitting comfortably, the fleeting conversations died down and a visible rush of anticipation raced through the room. The already dim lights of the salon were turned even lower.
Two attendants standing by the stairs carried in a couple of heavy light-boxes which they attached to tripods and switched on. The improvised stage was bathed in harsh light and Dominik, through the buzz of a pair of loudspeakers, recognised the voice, the tape she seemingly always used as part of her number. ‘My Name is Luba …’ and then the gentle strains of the Debussy music as Luba, in her white cotton robe, indolently made her way to the stage and stood, still like a statue, her perfect shape mercilessly counterpointed in the savage glare of the studio-issue spotlights.
He’d already seen her perform that time in New Orleans, but once again could not help but marvel at the grace and solemnity of her movements, slower than slow, teasing, elegant, sensual, every inch of her skin eventually bared and nuder than nude while her face remained so totally impassive, as if lost in thoughts, inhabiting another world altogether, far away from the yacht and the Sitges Aguadolc marina.
Her breasts stood high and firm, undisturbed by the swaying rhythm of her body. As she turned, her smooth mound now in full view of the whole, silent, au
dience, he saw the small blueinked tattoo of the gun just a nail’s length away from her opening. Intriguing, provocative, like a final way of expressing her allure, dotting the i’s of her left-of-field persona. He realised he should have asked her about the significance, the reason for the tattoo, when he’d had the opportunity. He could feel the men – and women – in the audience holding their breath as Luba continued to contort herself, sinuous, adhering reptile-like to the shimmering, impressionistic flow of the music, every refuge of her intimacy mercilessly displayed, flaunted even.
The final notes of the music dripped note by note through the speakers and Luba slowly reverted to her position as a living statue. But, this time, the lights remained on and a new piece of music began. A tango.
A hot, lascivious, drawn-out melody, piercing the quietness that had settled on the room in the wake of Luba’s dance.
A man stepped onto the dance floor, confronting Luba. He was naked too, and young, probably in his early to mid-twenties. His skin was a burnished gold, almost the colour of a new penny. In another environment it might have looked too much, as if he had spent days lounging on a sunbed, but here the glow gave him a look like a South Seas god, athletic, with strong legs and defined abdominal muscles, his chest rippling with each in and outward breath. His hair was slicked back, highlighting the fierceness and masculine line of his jaw.
His cock, its softness lost amongst the hardness of the rest of his body, began to grow the longer he stood in Luba’s presence, taking in the richness of her nudity as he waited for the next movement in her dance.
Luba opened her eyes. Theatrically fluttered her lashes as if his apparition had been a surprise and not an integral part of the evening’s act. With a sharp turn, the male dancer took hold of her hand and pulled her against him, their naked bodies making contact. With his other hand, he took her chin, his fingers lingering with intent across the soft skin of her neck, and the newly formed statue stood there for an instant, eye to eye, skin to skin, until the tango’s principal melody unfurled and they began dancing together, legs interlaced, bodies coiled together.