‘All right. The winning card, the losing card. The quickness of the hand deceives the eye. The winning card, the losing card.’
I put down the cards. She looked at them for several seconds. She knew there was a trick to it, but her eyes told her the queen was the card on her right. That was the one she pointed to in the end. It was the ten of spades. I did the trick again, with variations, and she still didn’t guess right. After getting it wrong a couple of times, she asked to turn over the other two cards as well, to make sure that I hadn’t conjured away the queen of hearts.
‘It’s incredible. I’ve never seen anything like it. I thought it was something you only see in films. Fuck this, you’re doing it just a few centimetres from my face.’
It was at this point that Francesco suggested we could have a bit of fun with this skill of mine. As he talked, I realised he’d had this idea in mind from the start.
We would move to another beach, a few kilometres away because someone might already have noticed us here – and the three of us would make a little money. I was about to say something, but Angelica beat me to it. It was an amusing idea, she said. I looked at Francesco and he smiled back at me. He didn’t really care about whatever small change we could con out of a few suckers on a beach. He wanted to celebrate this new initiation of mine. Mine and Angelica’s. There was something dark about this new game of his. It was as if he was pushing us into each other’s arms, but hoped to be present when we made love. He wanted to make us do something he had decided on and he wanted to enjoy watching what happened.
I paused for a few moments, then shrugged and nodded. If the two of you really want to.
Francesco told us his plan. We would drive along the coast for a few kilometres and park near another beach. I would go ahead, find a place where there were people passing, and start to play with the cards. They would watch me from a distance. After about fifteen or twenty minutes, Francesco would come up to me and bet, or rather, pretend to bet. He would lose several times, getting conspicuously angry and drawing attention to himself. Then Angelica would arrive. By this time, there would already be a bit of an audience. I would invite her to play the game. She would bet, and win, then lose, then win again. By this point, one of the onlookers was bound to ask if he could bet, too.
Angelica gave me a brief course in street hustler’s Spanish.
Carta que gana. Carta que pierde. Donde está la reina? Lo siento, ha perdido. Enhorabuena, ha ganado.
It all went as Francesco had predicted, of course. Following Angelica’s directions, we came to a resort beach, full of Dutch, German and English tourists. I bought a couple of cold beers from a stand, and went and set up my pitch at the start of the sandy path that led to the beach, in the shade of a pine. I folded my towel in two, placed it on the ground, sat down, had a few swigs of beer, lit a cigarette and started playing with the three cards, apparently unaware of the passers-by. A few people slowed down to see what I was doing. I looked up and smiled at everyone without saying a word, and they went away.
After about ten minutes, Francesco arrived. He stopped to watch me, staring at me open-mouthed like a fish. The part came naturally to me. I looked up once, then twice, then a third time. He was still there. So I stopped playing and asked him, in English, if he wanted to bet. I explained to him how the game worked, moving my hands a lot as I spoke. By now, a few people were stopping to watch. When I’d finished my explanation, he put a thousand-peseta note down in front of me, on the sand. I took an identical note out of my rucksack and placed it over his. I made sure the audience was following all this.
‘Carta que gana, carta que pierde.’ Then, moving more quickly than I needed to, I placed the cards on the ground. I hadn’t used any trickery. Anyone paying reasonable attention could have said where the queen was.
Francesco looked at me like an idiot convinced that he’s clever, and pointed at the wrong card. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the look on the face of one of the onlookers. A tall, solidly-built, pear-shaped man with thick red hair and a freckled face. He didn’t understand how anyone could make a mistake about something so simple, and damn it, he’d like to bet, too.
I turned over the card Francesco had pointed to, showed it to him and the people watching, smiled, shrugged my shoulders, almost as if apologising for winning, and took the money. He indicated, partly in words, partly in gestures, that he wanted to play again. We repeated the same sequence. This time, I put the queen down in a different position, though I still wasn’t playing any tricks. Once again anyone who had followed my moves with a reasonable amount of attention would have been able to point to the queen. But Francesco was wrong again. The big pear-shaped guy was getting restless. He wanted to play. He was our man.
In the meantime Angelica had arrived. By now seven or eight people had gathered to watch. A thin, slightly cross-eyed man of about thirty asked in Spanish if he could place a bet. I said yes, and as I did so felt a rush of adrenalin. This was starting to get serious. He bet, and this time I played the trick. He pointed to the wrong card and lost. He played again and lost again, three, four, maybe five times.
Now Angelica stepped forward. As far as I could tell, she spoke almost perfect Spanish. She bet. The first time, she won. Then she lost. Then won again. Then lost. And lost again. I hadn’t played any tricks and the big guy was trembling. When Angelica said she had had enough, Francesco made as if to step forward again and the big guy literally pushed him aside. It was his turn. No, I thought, smiling to myself inwardly, it was my turn.
Things went as they were meant to. He lost. He lost. He won. He lost. He lost. And so on.
After I don’t know how many games, I looked at my watch and told everyone, partly in English, partly in gestures, and partly in an imaginary Spanish which consisted of putting an ‘s’ on the end of every word, that it was late and I had to go.
The big guy went crazy. He turned threatening. He was losing, he said, and had a right to carry on playing. I looked around, pretending to be surprised and slightly worried. Then I took all the money I’d won and put it on the sand. I looked at the big guy. Did he want to play for the whole amount? One last hand, double or nothing?
For a moment, he stood there looking perplexed, as if something like a suspicion – or a thought – had crossed his mind. Francesco butted in and said he was willing to try his luck again. That was enough to make the other guy stop thinking, if that was what he had been doing. This game was his. ‘Fuck it,’ he said, in English.
He counted out the money and put it down next to mine, on the sand. I watched him with a look on my face that was a mixture of embarrassment and anxiety.
I held up the cards, two in my right hand and one in my left. Once more I recited the formula and put the cards down. Then I picked them up again, all with my right hand this time, and put them down again. In the jargon of card sharks, this variation on the three card trick is called the coup de grâce. Usually it’s done at the end. Which was what this was.
The card on the left was the queen. Among the onlookers silence had fallen. The big guy hesitated for a moment. There was no doubt his senses were telling him the queen was in the middle. But he hesitated. I could feel my heart beating. I watched his eyes as they moved from side to side. At last he reached out and put his hand on the card he had chosen.
The one in the middle.
I slid my finger under the card and turned it over. It was the ten of diamonds.
The onlookers broke into a babble of incomprehensible comments in various languages.
I was reaching out my hand to take the money – mine and his – when the red-haired guy fell to his knees in the cool sand, grabbed the other two cards and turned them over, one after the other. Just as Angelica had done, on the other beach. He held the queen of hearts in his hand for a few moments, looking like someone who’s rushed at a door to push it open and fallen flat on his face because it was already open. Then he threw the card angrily on the sand, got up again with difficulty a
nd walked off, swearing in a language that sounded like English, though I couldn’t understand a single word.
I didn’t say anything. I gathered the money, the cards, the empty beer bottles, and walked away. The crowd of onlookers dispersed, still talking about what they had just seen.
We didn’t stay in Altea with Angelica’s friends after all, but drove off again as the sun was setting. It was already night by the time we got back to Valencia. Angelica asked us if we wanted to come up to her place for a drink or a joint. I was about to say that I’d see them to the door and then go back to the hotel, but Francesco got in first.
‘Sure, we’d like that. That’s OK with you, isn’t it, Giorgio?’
Of course it was OK with me. So we went up.
Angelica’s place was a kind of bedsit, with a little balcony looking out onto an inner courtyard and a bathroom without a door, just a dirty curtain to block the view. It was hot and smells drifted in from the courtyard. I was reminded me of those apartments in the Libertà neighbourhood, near where I lived, that gave directly onto the street. I would walk past them as a child, and from behind the curtains hear voices, noises, shouts, and smell cooking smells mixed with bleach and other things. And sometimes I would imagine that if you walked through those curtains you’d find yourself in another dimension or a parallel world.
We drank rum and smoked a few joints that Angelica had already rolled. We talked in a disconnected kind of way, the way people do at times like these. After a while, Angelica took a drag, maybe the last one, on her joint and said she wanted to pass me her smoke. I looked at her through half-closed lids, smiling stupidly. She didn’t wait for my answer, stuck her mouth against mine and blew the smoke inside. I coughed. They both laughed, while I tried to put on a dignified expression. Then she stopped laughing and kissed me. Her mouth was hard and aggressive, like a thick rubber gasket. Her tongue was the same: strong and elastic.
After that, the scene breaks up into fragments. She kisses me again, and her hands move down to unbutton my trousers. Her mouth isn’t on mine any more, but somewhere else. I’m undressed, and so is she, and she’s on top of me, moving slowly. She does this thing where she contracts her groin muscles, and the sensation goes right to my brain, much more than the dope and the alcohol did. She’s good, I think, very good. Just like Francesco said. Oh yes, Francesco. Where is he? I turn my head very slowly – though it’s the fastest I can go – and see him. He’s sitting on the floor, to my left, maybe a metre away, maybe less. He’s watching us and smiling vaguely. Or maybe he’s looking at something else. Angelica’s still moving and I think she’s touching herself as she fucks me. Then everything gets mixed up again.
Before falling asleep, or whatever that sinking feeling is, I see Angelica and Francesco. They’re together, moving in slow motion. Very close. But I’m far away.
Getting further and further away.
25
I WAS WOKEN by the light, the heat, my blocked nose, and the pain in my back and neck. I’d slept on the floor. My throat was burning, and my tongue was stuck to the roof of my mouth. I had a sense of constriction, of nausea.
I hoisted myself up on my arms. Francesco and Angelica were on the bed, on the other side of the room. They were fast asleep, and I sat there for a few minutes, looking at them. Francesco was lying on his back, with his arms at his sides, looking as calm and composed as usual. He was breathing silently though his nose.
Angelica was lying huddled on her side, with one hand between her head and the pillow, facing Francesco. She reminded me of a child. Then I recalled what had happened during the night and I had to look away.
I didn’t know what to do. I felt so out of place there, with the two of them sleeping, in that hot little room filled with smells I didn’t want to smell. But I couldn’t go. The very idea of spending another morning wandering around aimlessly in that sweltering heat, on my own, filled me with dismay.
As I sat there, thinking, Francesco opened his eyes. He didn’t move. He opened his eyes and looked at me without saying anything. For a few moments I thought it was a kind of sleepwalking or something like that. He sat up on the edge of the bed.
‘Good morning,’ he said.
‘Hi,’ I replied.
‘Did you make coffee?’
I looked at him. It was such a banal question, it seemed ridiculous.
‘It’s over there,’ he said, with a touch of impatience. ‘In that little cabinet between the kitchen and the washbasin.’
What was? I was about to say something, when I realised he was still talking about the coffee. He’d already spent a night here, I remembered. So I went to the cabinet – a horrible pale green object, with a few faded floral stencils on it – and took out the coffee and the coffee maker.
We drank from small chipped cups. I took one to Angelica, who had woken up at the sound of our voices and the other noises we were making. She took the cup drowsily. She looked astonished, as if she wasn’t used to that kind of gesture.
I felt ashamed that I was still there, after what I vaguely remembered had happened the night before. I’d have liked to be far away. I’d have liked to disappear.
Angelica got up, completely naked, and went to the bathroom. Through the curtain that functioned as a door we could hear her having a pee. I felt as if the walls of that already small room were closing in on me.
We stayed long enough to smoke a last cigarette. When Francesco said we had to go, the relief I felt was out of all proportion.
‘I’m going back to sleep,’ Angelica said.
‘We’ll come and see you at the bar, tonight or tomorrow at the latest,’ Francesco replied. ‘We have to see a friend.’
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Angelica nodded listlessly and raised her hand for a moment. I had the impression she didn’t give a damn what we were going to do, or not do. She looked tired, as if she’d already been through this farewell ritual many times – too many times. With the light filtering through the curtains and the already oppressive heat, the room was heavy with a sense of defeat.
‘Bye,’ I said from the door, in a low voice. She didn’t reply. As the door closed, I saw her lie down on the bed. Then the door was shut and she was gone.
We never saw her again.
‘Nicola should be back today,’ Francesco said as we walked downstairs. ‘He may even be back already.’
We went out into the harsh sunlight. We found a phone booth and Francesco called him.
‘Nicola!’
Yes, we were in Valencia. Three days now. Where the hell had he been? Yes, OK, as per the agreement. We could drop by that evening. No, why should there be any trouble? A friend, and a partner. No need to worry. OK, he’d go alone, but there was nothing to worry about. Had he ever given him any trouble? OK, OK, see you later.
He was talking about me. Why did he need to reassure Nicola about me?
‘Let’s go to the hotel. We’ll have a rest and then I’ll explain.’
What was there to explain? And what agreement was he talking about? I wondered as we flinched from the overwhelming heat, hugging the walls to salvage a few scraps of shade.
We bought rolls and croissants from a baker’s shop, and cheese, ham and beer from a delicatessen, to eat in the hotel, where at least the air was cool.
And there, in the noisy, insalubrious coolness of that absurd hotel, surrounded by breadcrumbs and empty beer cans, Francesco explained to me what it was we’d come to Spain to do.
26
‘COCAINE?’
Have you gone mad? I was going to add, but it sounded trite. An inadequate response to the enormity of what he’d just told me. So I just said the one word, and let it hang in the air.
‘Yes. Top quality, at a very good price. We can get a kilo for forty million lire. If we sell it in Bari, just as it is, without even dividing it into doses, it’ll bring in more than double that. I have someone who’ll take the lot and give us ninety, maybe a hundred million.’
‘And where
are you going to get forty million lire?’
‘I have it.’
‘What do you mean, you have it? You brought forty million with you in cash, just in case we’d need a lot of spending money? Or are you planning to pay for a kilo of cocaine by cheque?’
‘I have the cash.’
I looked at him for a few moments. He had the cash. In other words, he’d brought forty million lire – at least forty million lire – with him from Bari, across the whole of Italy, the whole of France, all the way to the east coast of Spain. In other words, he’d set off with the specific intention of coming here to Spain and buying a kilo of cocaine. That might have been the only reason he’d left home.
‘You’d already decided before we left Bari that you were coming here to buy drugs.’
He was silent for about twenty seconds. Then he rubbed his nose with his thumb and index finger and answered the way he often did: with a question.
‘What’s your problem? I mean, come on, tell me, what’s your problem?’
‘What do you mean, what’s my problem? One fine afternoon in summer you say, Let’s take a holiday, we’ll leave tomorrow, just like that, no particular destination in mind. I agree, and we take this fucking trip, and when we’re here I discover the whole thing was planned.’ I broke off, because I was finding it hard to say the words that had formed in my head. I swallowed. ‘I discover the whole thing was planned as part of a drug deal. Fuck it.’
‘You’re right. It was wrong of me not to tell you, but I was sure you’d have said no and I wouldn’t have come without you.’
‘Can you swear to that?’
‘Look, I was wrong not to be honest with you. But what’s your problem now? I mean, are you opposed to buying drugs on moral grounds, or are you thinking of the risks?’
‘Both, obviously. Do you realise what we’re talking about here? We’re talking about buying and selling drugs. We’re talking about doing something which, if we’re caught, can land us in prison for so long, I don’t even want to think about it.’
The Past is a Foreign Country Page 15