by Don Boyd
One of the younger policemen vomited. Carlos had now reached the girl’s body.
“For fuck’s sake!” he shouted. “She is still alive.”
He screamed at the group around him who had been numbed by this horrendous tableau.
“Take him down!”
Carlos was now shouting in Spanish and Catalan. The policemen awkwardly began to disassemble the crucifix.
“And don’t touch anything without gloves.”
It was clear that Paolo was dead.
Three anorak-clad porters rushed Tilly out on a gurney and Carlos followed into the back of their ambulance as a doctor administered intravenous medication. Tilly was mumbling. She seemed to be begging Carlos. Insisting.
“Hugo… Hugo… my brother… Milliken… please, call Hugo. I must see Hugo.”
And she finally bleated out an address in the Diagonal, and a phone number, as they sped away from the warehouse.
The ambulance crew and Carlos had a quandary: would she survive the journey to the hospital and to what extent was the ambulance equipped to save her life? Nobody knew, so they decided to split the motorcade. Tilly would go directly to the nearest hospital at the seafront while Carlos fetched her brother from the address Tilly had managed to bleat out. He tried Hugo’s phone number unsuccessfully.
More sirens…
Hugo wound himself reluctantly out of Emma’s sleepy embrace. Her dark, waist-length hair had entrapped his creamy-white, aquiline body. The persistent whine of an approaching police siren would not normally have bothered Hugo, but the blue light now flashing around the speckle of dawn which bathed his room had been enough to drag him out of bed. He gently kissed her pink lips.
“Come back, I want you inside me,” she sighed.
“Greedy! Some idiot is ringing the doorbell. Maybe it’s Eusebio. Coming in from the celebrations. He said that he was going to stay in the city last night.”
“No, he’s back. I heard him come in late.”
Wrapped in his silky, red and black dressing gown, Hugo stumbled through the wood-panelled corridors of his labyrinthine apartment and opened the heavy, oak door which led to the magical staircase of this beautiful Gaudi building. Emma slipped out of bed and went into the bathroom.
“Good morning! It’s five in the morning! Dawn!”
Shyly combing his blonde hair with his long fingers, he forced out the greeting with a languid, reluctant drawl which pinned him into the anachronistic ghetto of the English upper classes. In his perfectly inflected English, Carlos, a large, craggy-looking Catalan wearing an ill-fitting, dark blue uniform and white shirt, apologised politely for waking him so early and showed his Mossos D’Esquadros credentials.
“My name is Inspector Carlos Mendoza. Is your name Señor Milliken? We need you to come with us urgently. Do you have a sister called Tilly… or Domatilla…?”
Within a couple of minutes of Carlos’ very sparse but effective explanation, Hugo, Eusebio and Emma were pinned tightly into the open-topped Porsche, following at speed another strange police motorcade which made its way to Barcelona’s Hospitale de Mare. When they arrived at the white, post-modern buildings which look out over the Mediterranean, the ambulance which had carried Tilly was waiting outside the main gates. Its doors were open and the same three, anorak-clad porters hung around, smoking. Carlos looked into their faces. One of them shook his head as Carlos went over to talk to them. The decision to make the trip to the hospital had not saved Tilly’s life.
Another ambulance arrived as if to signal some sort of hope. Emma tugged at Hugo, who was still in his dressing gown. She looked like a Pre-Raphaelite mediaeval fantasy – almost naked in a diaphanous slip, vulnerable, ravished and about to confront a sensual and prophetic apparition. She clung to Eusebio. They were all bewildered. Numb. The doors opened and another gurney was wheeled out.
“Paolo?”
The body passed them on its way to the hospital morgue. Hugo lifted the makeshift shroud which was soaked in blood. Emma’s screams of recognition were terrifyingly unpoetic. In sharp contrast, her beloved brother’s pale face had the lifeless beauty of a Christ in a Botticello.
“No sense of urgency!” said Eusebio.
“No point!”
Hugo wept pathetically as they all fell into a prolonged embrace.
Chapter Eight
On her way down the Montjuic, Margot had heard the early morning police sirens, but these were familiar urban incursions, and like most of us she usually took no notice. A green and yellow ambulance, followed by a peculiar motorcade which included two scooters, one of them a policeman, whined its way around the column towards the empty boulevard which stretched away from the Barri Gotic towards the Barceloneta – a reclaimed peninsular of tenements and a beautiful beachfront promenade. For some reason, Margot watched this bizarre and isolated clump of vehicles speed past. Some desperate attempt to keep someone alive, no doubt. Too many cars for a premature delivery. And then, as usual, she crossed over to the centre aisle of the Colom.
Tuesday mornings in the studio were always kept aside for Tilly and Paolo. They were usually punctual. They loved to tease her about the strict routine of their two, fifty-minute, consecutive periods. Paolo called them the ‘shrinking hours’ – on one occasion he brought a stopwatch into his session which he kept checking every ten minutes. She left messages for both of them on their mobile ‘phones as she ambled along Las Ramblas towards Elvira’s café. The same message for each answering service.
“I love you both. I can’t wait to see you as usual today.”
Perhaps Tilly has persuaded Paolo to come with her after all.
Elvira was very busy. She welcomed Margot but rolled her eyes as she continued to serve the clutter of two very exotically-dressed families that had crowded into the bar that morning. Apparently, there was to be a civil wedding in the Plaça St. Jaume. The bride, a pretty curvaceous German in a pink tutu which looked like a reject from the costume department at the Liceu, was playing one of the fruit machines with her two younger sisters. Her tall groom, smoking nervously with his father at the bar, was a very elegant young Nigerian. They were dressed in white suits. Margot watched the families that hovered around them, trying to come to terms with each other. High-pitched laughter mixed with awkward silences.
She really wanted to tell Elvira about Xavier. In the absence of her supervisor, there was no-one else she could confide in. She tried to reach Tilly and Paolo but again there was no response. This was very unusual as they always returned her calls quickly. Feeling anxious about them, she decided to go to the studio earlier than usual. She air-kissed Elvira, wished the bride and groom good luck and hurried out. When she arrived there were no messages for her on the answering service, except one from Xavier reminding her of their date. She rang Robert and left a caustic thank you message: “You hurried off. Hot date?”
After taking a shower, she lay back in the chair usually used by her clients and dozed off, not waking until nearly lunchtime. She fixed her hair, sprayed a little perfume around her shoulders and rushed out into the bright sunlight now bathing the square below her studio. As she hurried along the harbour front towards the beach, she tried Tilly and Paolo’s mobile ‘phones again. This time, neither phone delivered the usual answering messages (they had recorded simple messages in English. Paolo for Tilly and Tilly for Paolo: “Please leave a message for us and we will get back to you!”). She rang Robert again. “Do you know where Tilly is? She didn’t pitch up this morning. Nor did Paolo.”
Xavier was already seated when Margot arrived. They had decided to meet in Cal Maño, one of the small old fish restaurants in the Barceloneta. At first she couldn’t find him – the tables were crammed into two tiny areas with the open kitchen adjacent to the back room. The old proprietor marshalled his clients haphazardly and there was no preferential hierarchy, but he recognised Margot and showed her immediately to a small table near the fruit machine in the front. She waited anxiously, watching the chaos with detached
amusement, and then decided to go to the tiny bathroom, which was no more than a broom cupboard. Xavier watched her negotiate the gaps between the tables and the sweaty chefs who were preparing their production line of cheap cuttlefish, red mullet, aubergines and bean soup which had made this restaurant so popular. But he made no move. When she had closed the door of the cubicle, he beckoned to the nearest waiter who nodded and immediately brought him a bottle of white wine, some bread, mineral water and two menus. This was obviously a familiar routine.
Margot finally emerged and saw Xavier, who seemed to be preoccupied with a newspaper. He stood up, helped her efficiently into the chair opposite him and poured her a glass of wine. They sat looking at each other and he finally broke the silence with a broad, welcoming smile. Margot uncrossed her legs and in doing so, found that his legs were wide apart on either side of hers. Her dress was riding high. She inched her chair closer to the table and her naked right knee lightly brushed his left thigh. As if to register this, Xavier kissed her ring finger. No wedding ring today. She looked down and up again to his eyes. It was Xavier who spoke first.
“I don’t normally drink at lunchtime! I don’t normally drink at all, but I do make the odd exception for very special occasions. I am so sorry. I was being rather presumptuous…”
“No, no. Perfect. Thank you. I have had a rather strange morning. I dozed off in my studio. Two of my clients failed to show. Very rare. ”
“I can’t imagine anyone letting you down deliberately. I would imagine that you are the kind of person who inspires compulsive behaviour. I am sure there are good reasons.”
“I am sure, but thank you.”
She drained her glass quickly and he poured her a second. She prolonged each sip of the dry white wine, allowing its crisp, chilled texture to linger on her palate. Her lips glistened, her skin was alive. She could feel her nipples hardening and the tip of her clitoris was tingling with anticipation. Her vagina was soaking wet and she smelt of sexual excitement. She was enjoying every new sensation, and surreptitiously moved her hand to within inches of Xavier’s arm which now rested across the table. Margot fished pathetically for a way to temper the sexual atmosphere with some clever conversation.
“This reminds me of my favourite Marguerite Duras story about a woman who can’t help returning to the scene of a crime which took place in a bar, a murder, with her small child, and she keeps knocking back glasses of red wine…”
He laughed: “Why did she do that?”
“I have absolutely no idea!”
Another pause. She took his hand and kissed his fingers as if to give him permission to do whatever he wanted to her.
“I have ordered.”
“Are you always so self-confident?”
“I am.”
She laughed. The waiter brought some grilled squid and fried tomatoes.
“I like to play elaborate games.”
“What sort of games?”
“Games which involve a modicum of danger combined with an enormous amount of sexual pleasure.”
“Danger? I’ve never played games like that before. Sexual pleasure, maybe…”
“Would you like to start?”
“You’ll have to teach me the rules as I go along.”
They began to play with each other, marking time.
“You’re an immensely beautiful young woman, Margot.”
“You say that to all your conquests.”
“No, I don’t. Are you a conquest?”
“Not yet…”
Silence. Someone laughed rather loudly in the kitchen.
“They smoke while they cook here and nobody seems to mind.”
“The food is delicious. Thank you.”
“I hope that you’ll allow me to initiate you into our first game this afternoon.”
“You are an immensely beautiful and very dangerous man, Xavier.”
“How can you resist that?”
“Impossible!”
They laughed while the waiter brought their soup. Xavier poured Margot more wine and sipped his glass of water. By now, Margot had become totally unaware of the environment – the clatter and chatter, the eclectic crowd, the smell from the kitchens and the general mayhem encouraged by the waiters within. She could see only his mouth and his eyes, and occasionally she looked down at his craggy hands. They were very expressive and he peppered his conversation with occasional, disarming bursts of laughter. He paid her compliments and asked many questions about her life and her relationships. Margot enjoyed his curiosity, and his intimate analysis. She told him about her relationship with Archie, and with Robert. He was gentle and attentive.
“I’m not used to talking about myself.”
“Don’t worry. It is very charming. I was listening carefully to your voice at the opera house. Your accent still has strong traces of its Californian origins. But the language is obviously beginning to be very mid-European.”
“My clients expect me to engage with them as if I was their friend as much as their confidante, but I never really allow many of them to have much of look-in, a glimpse of my own life. Certainly not in any intimate way, although I am sure they have their theories! I am necessarily very secretive in that sense. I’ve told you more about myself today than even friends like Robert really know about me.”
“Do you think that they tell you the truth about their lives?”
“Not always. But I probe. ‘What is truth said jesting Pilate and would not stay for an answer’. One of my Dad’s favourite quotations.”
“Alexander Pope?”
“No! Francis Bacon!”
Xavier laughed again. More silence. Looking slyly into her eyes, he discreetly moved both legs to circle hers and tightened them firmly around her right thigh while he squeezed her left arm with his fingers. Margot had been captured, kidnapped, seduced, overwhelmed. She drained the bottle of wine.
“There are a few important rules for this afternoon’s game and they are very simple. You can start the game when you choose to, you can indulge it for as long as you want, you can play hard, play fast, play slow – you set the pace and, most important of all, you can stop play whenever you choose.”
“Like a referee?”
“No! Good referees know all the rules!”
“Do you think that I might be good at this?”
“Absolutely no question about that.”
The waiter brought the bill and Xavier stood up to pay. He pulled back her chair and gave her a card. “This is my address in the Barri Gotic close to the Santa Maria del Pi. I will see you at my apartment in an hour.”
“Where are you going?”
“My secret!”
“But I am drunk. I will never find it.”
“Of course you will.”
“I have to be back in my office at five.”
“I live two minutes away.”
Margot smiled. “An introductory game?”
He ignored her. “See you in an hour and if you don’t turn up you will never see me again.”
He kissed her lightly on the lips and walked out towards the toilet. He looked around and laughed. All Margot’s senses were now as responsive as they had ever been. She felt as if she was going to explode. She looked around the restaurant. Margot often came across people she knew in her favourite places in Barcelona. She and Archie had a very wide circle of friends. And so she became self-conscious. Nervous. Furtive. The proprietor noticed this and offered her a digestif.
“Non! Non, graçias!”
She blushed and stumbled out to the street. It was a stunning afternoon. Margot remembered reading somewhere that the crisp air and light atmosphere of cold sunny days in the early spring were very powerful aphrodisiacs. She inhaled deeply and went back to her consulting room to prepare for Xavier’s rituals, whatever they were to be.
Almost by default she went to her answer ‘phone and casually prodded it into action. The first message was a ‘please return my call’ plea from Carlos Mendoza who explained th
at he was Elvira’s policeman husband. She paused the machine, kicked off her shoes and began to undress. Carlos had never called her before. They had never met. Part of her pact with Elvira was that they kept their husbands out of their friendship. She scribbled down his number with a frown and listened to the next missed call: a suggestive, lascivious message from Robert, making some sly comment about the sexual frisson which had so obviously existed between her and Xavier at the Liceu. And no, he didn’t know where Tilly and Paolo might be. “Why should I?” Surely no connection with the call from Carlos?
Now naked, she dismissed that idea, punched at the off button of the machine and walked quickly to her shower room and washed her hair, keen to prepare for her encounter with Xavier. While the warm water poured over her skin, she gently probed and massaged every erogenous zone on her lean, perfectly proportioned body. She sprayed her vagina with Chanel. Her nipples were still erect. Her breasts firm. Her lips soft. Her legs apart. She then slid into a simple, short, red summer dress. No make up. A leather belt and a long, black, soft velvet coat.
Normally, a walk along the streets across the Plaça Reial into the patchwork of ancient buildings behind the Santa Maria del Pi is a pleasure Margot associated with her passion for drinking the gooey chocolate served in a café hidden within a stone’s throw of the fruit and vegetable market off Las Ramblas. This afternoon she shook with a mysterious combination of carelessness, fear, lust and guilty conscience. Even her customary wave as she walked through the little hole in the wall leading into Elvira’s bar was a perfunctory gesture. Elvira was a devout Roman Catholic and would have been horrified to know that her amiga americana especial was about to commit adulterio with a man she hardly knew, within fifty yards of her neighbourhood church. But Margot had made her decision. She wanted Xavier and wanted to play his game, and damn the consequences. Peculiar and mystical influences seemed to be swirling around her life, which added to her determination to indulge herself, to extend, to take risks. She was already addicted. She craved her first ‘fix’.