Purely Decorative

by Angelina Cabo

  He was completely enraptured by them, by these two-bit hookers; even as he spoke, he was sinking further into his seat, licking his lips lasciviously as he pointed out one whore after another. Zoë could hardly believe what she was seeing. Still, she made no attempt to interrupt him, but just re-lit the joint, took a puff, then handed it back. Raoul continued with his strange, stream-of-consciousness monologue.

  '... they are all beautiful, even this one with the black eye and the bruised lip, see, she has been roughed up, there are some sick people in this town, you know, they do terrible things, and you know why? Because they can, because if you want something here, and you have the money, someone will supply it for you, there is nothing money can't buy. A man wishes to have sex with two child virgins, it can be arranged, he wants to watch a woman fellate a donkey, and take photographs, it happens, this is sad, but such things are not the province of these beautiful girls, with their bright red lips and bad teeth, their roughened hands and hairy thighs, their heavy breasts and sagging asses and wrinkled up pussies, no, these are simple working women, going about their every night business... see, the one with the red ribbon in her hair, she is a little different, no? See how clean her dress is, how glossy her hair, she is new, untouched, she will not have been here long, she still has her own smell, unlike these others, saturated with the odours of a thousand men's semen...'

  He was talking very slowly now, his eyes wide open, fixated on the women as they drove past. Two of the women approached the car, propositioning him, and then her, in Spanish, but Zoë didn't understand. She couldn't help but be a little frightened; she wasn't sure why Raoul was here, what he had in mind. Were they there to pick up a whore? A couple of whores? And where did she fit into all this?

  Raoul didn't stop the car; he just crawled on past, and continued with his singular, perverse monologue.

  '... and there are so many, if you had nothing else to do with your days, you could never have sex with every whore in this city even once... see this one in the short black skirt and stockings, see those thighs, like a pair of nutcrackers, no? She could grip a man, crush him like so, no real effort, how strong these women, how dignified, see how she carries herself as she walks along, this one here...'

  There was no end to it. Zoë was now staring intently at Raoul, but he did not return her gaze, captivated by the whores. And as he mumbled on, even though Zoë was as doped-up as he was, she suddenly realised that here was a man who not just admired beauty as he had claimed on the beach at Sitges, but a man possessed by women, a man who no longer had control over his own feelings and senses, totally enslaved by his passions and desires.

  Even though the air was still thick and humid with the summer night air, as this thought struck home, Zoë felt a cold shiver run up her spine which chilled her to the bone.

  Chapter 16

  'How rich are you?'

  Following Raoul's kerb crawl, they had spent the night almost comatose, knocked out by the dope and the half-dozen Cognacs that they consumed in the hotel bar on their return. They had slept, quite independently, until mid-afternoon, met for a late afternoon breakfast, and then spent a casual, lazy evening together at a nearby tapas bar. Back at the hotel, Zoë had invited him back to her room where they smoked a joint, and it was while he was rolling a second one that Zoë posed her question.

  'What sort of question is that?' he asked, genuinely surprised.

  'A straightforward one. I want to know how much money you have.'

  'It is your business? You work for the Venezuelan Inland Revenue Service perhaps?'

  Zoë smiled. 'Oh don't be so coy,' she said, lifting the sheet up so she could gaze down the length of their naked bodies. 'How can you be embarrassed about revealing the size of your bank balance to someone who has seen the size of that?'

  Raoul pulled the sheet back down in a pretence of modesty.

  'An interesting point,' he said. 'But I still cannot tell you, because I do not know the amount.' Zoë eyed him askance. 'That is the truth,' he continued, aware that Zoë acted as if she did not believe a word of it. She continued to stare at him, her expression suggesting that this answer was not nearly good enough and that she would probably pester him until he gave her a reasonable answer. Raoul raised his eyebrows and took a breath. 'It is many millions of dollars I suppose,' he said at last.

  'And what do you spend your "many millions of dollars" on, other than these trips. Do you collect antiques or something?'

  Raoul shook his head. 'No, antiques do not interest me. Things in general are of little interest. Except for my home. I have spent much money on my house in Caracas; it is very beautiful, set in many acres on a hill overlooking the city. And I have a second home on Curaçao. I like nice cars and fine Cognac, and I believe in being comfortable when I travel. Aside from these things...' His voice trailed off, and he lifted his hands, palms uppermost, as if to suggest there was nothing more than that.

  Zoë allowed the prosaic facts to percolate around in her thoughts for a few moments. There was something not quite right about Raoul's confession, but she wasn't sure what it was.

  'So you don't actually have to deal any more? You could survive on what you have?'

  'Certainly. But I would not choose to.'

  'Why not? Isn't that everyone's dream, to retire early on a massive pension?'

  Raoul started to shift around a little. It was evident that he was not comfortable with the conversation.

  'Perhaps,' he said guardedly. 'But this is not my dream. I enjoy my work too much.'

  This last comment rang hollow. Zoë could see that Raoul enjoyed the eating, the drinking, the cruising around, certainly, but he was not excited by it. He was blasé about Barcelona in particular, at times he seemed even bored. It was all too easy, too comfortable. And then something suddenly occurred to her.

  'And you have nothing else to do. That's it, really, isn't it?'

  She could feel the air chill between them. She had not meant to upset him, merely to try to understand him, his motivation, so, if anything, she could feel closer to him. But her attempt backfired. Raoul slipped his arm out from under her.

  'You are too forward, Zoë,' he said in that reprimanding manner he had. 'You know nothing of me and yet you presume to understand me.' He got out of bed, walked over to where his clothes lay, sprawled across a chair, grabbed his trousers and started to dress.

  'Hey, what's going on?'

  'Nothing,' he snapped. 'I just think I should have some time to myself, get some rest in my own bed; it has been a tiring few days.'

  Zoë was shocked. She had had no intention of sending him away, and if she had known that this would be the effect of her questions she wouldn't have dreamt of prying. It just didn't occur to her; they had been so close, so intimate... it just didn't make sense.

  She shifted to the edge of the bed and held out her hand towards him, but Raoul took no notice, slipping on his shirt instead. He picked up his shoes and socks and headed for the door.

  'Raoul,' she called out, still reaching out towards him.

  Raoul paused at the door. 'No, really, I must get some sleep,' he said, his tone softening slightly. 'I'll see you tomorrow. There are no plans, and it is our last full day here. Perhaps we can go for a drive into the mountains.'

  'But Raoul...'

  The door closed silently behind him.

  ***

  Zoë slept poorly that night, her dreams beset by confusions and complications; nothing that she could identify specifically, no two-headed monsters or axe-murderers or anything like that, just a general feeling of malaise. Even after she had been awake for some time, she pretended not to know what was behind her bewilderment.

  But the truth was that, even if she couldn't be sure of the specifics, she knew the general root cause of her problems: Raoul. And although she would have had to be under threat of death to admit it out loud, the fact was, for all his unsuitability, macho posturing, insufferable voyeurism and general bad manners, she was falling in
love with him.

  It was absurd, of course. He was a joke, a retro-male from some distant, unliberated past, where women were still men's chattels, to do as they were bid and not answer back. At the same time, there was something irresistible about him; not the money, not the glamour, but the person. He was a mass of confusions and contradictions, like a puzzle waiting to be solved. He could infuriate her and fascinate her, attract her and repel her, amuse, surprise and arouse her all at the same time. If she could only be honest with herself, she would have to admit that he was probably the most interesting man she had ever met. Insufferable, but interesting nonetheless. And she knew, even as she finally gave way to sleep, that that was a potentially lethal combination.

  ***

  The Benedictine monastery of Montserrat nestled high among the limestone crags and towers of the mountain, thousands of feet above the sea. They had headed west out of Barcelona and driven for thirty odd miles along a series of switchbacks that clung perilously to the mountainside. The road, less treacherous than it appeared, afforded great vistas as they climbed, but despite the grandeur of the landscape, Zoë remained strangely unmoved by it all.

  On the way up, Raoul explained all about the importance of Montserrat to the Catalans. Groups of young people from the city and outlying areas made overnight hikes at least once in their lives to watch the sunrise from the mountain top, and pray to "La Moreneta", the black virgin, patron saint of Catalonia, in the sanctuary of Mare de Deu de Montserrat, next to the monastery. So important was this place to the cultural and spiritual life of Catalonia that, according to Raoul, during the forty year Franco regime, when the Catalan language was officially forbidden, weddings and baptisms in Catalan were still held at Montserrat.

  Zoë nodded now and then as Raoul explained all about the area to her, but she wasn't really paying attention. When she had met Raoul for breakfast in the hotel dining room that morning, he had seemed subdued and unwilling to open up. They had made polite small talk over coffee and croissants.

  When Raoul had suggested visiting a religious retreat, Zoë had been baffled. It felt wrong, all wrong. A monastery? That wasn't how she had wanted the trip to end. There should be loud celebrations; champagne and fireworks. Not cosy drives to church.

  And now, as the car laboured slightly up the twisting chicanes, even the spectacular views failed to excite her. Her mind was preoccupied with other matters. This was their last day. They had argued and not made up, and there was still some confusion between them. She didn't know what was going to happen when it came time to say goodbye, or rather, she knew exactly what was going to happen. They would say goodbye and that would be it and she would never see him again.

  Why would it be any other way? When all was said and done, she was a young, penniless English girl who scraped a living working in bars, and he was a Venezuelan jet-setting cocaine dealer who earned more money in one day than she would earn in a lifetime.

  And of course, the differences didn't stop there. Culturally, socially, personally, they were at opposite ends of whatever spectrum you cared to choose. His general attitude towards drugs distressed her, his relationship to money depressed her, his behaviour with women appalled her.

  In fact, there was nothing about the way he lived his life that she could say she approved of. Besides, what was she to him anyway? Purely decorative. Just a pleasant diversion, a bit of fun. It was all hopeless.

  Once they reached the top, Raoul parked the car and led Zoë into the ornate basilica, packed with paintings and sculptures by Catalonia's most prominent artists. Zoë found it a trifle gaudy; she was no lover of ecclesiastical architecture at the best of times, and her experience at the Sagrada Familia had put her off cathedrals for life.

  However, despite that, there was something rather impressive about the interior of the chapel, it's grandeur and atmosphere. She could also see the effect it was having on Raoul. Only then did it occur to her there was perhaps more to this place than she had guessed at, that, rather than being just another pleasant excursion from Barcelona, Montserrat held some greater importance for Raoul.

  'There is something about this place... I cannot explain it... that always makes me feel humbled,' said Raoul, gazing around him at the assorted icons and statues. 'You laugh? But it is true.'

  Zoë tried to wipe the grin from her face. 'I'm sorry; I wasn't trying to make fun. It's just that I find the idea of anything humbling you amusing.'

  'You think I am an ogre.'

  'No. Just a bully,' she said, teasingly. 'And you know what they say about bullies.'

  Raoul eyes narrowed as he dissected Zoë's comment; he did not look especially pleased.

  'You are saying I am a coward, but that is not so.'

  No, thought Zoë; not a coward, but... something. What was it? 'But you are frightened,' she said, sensing that, in some way, this was what this trip was all about.

  Raoul gazed directly into her eyes, as if such action could prove to her that he was not scared, was not a man who knew fear. But even as he summoned the effort to pull off such a charade, Zoë could tell that his heart was not truly in it, and his gaze fell to the floor. He turned away from her then, and made for the exit. Zoë, worried, followed.

  In the grounds outside, they sat down on a wall and looked out over the plains below, the mountains forming an impressive backdrop behind them. After a few moments silence, Raoul spoke again. Zoë did not at first realise that he was continuing the conversation they had had inside the basilica.

  'We are all frightened... is that not so? Perhaps that is why this place quietens me; in the shadow of that which is great, we see ourselves as small and unimportant. We see how temporary we are. Do you never feel this?'

  Zoë shrugged. 'What... mortality? Sure. But I can't say it worries me,' she replied, truthfully. 'And certainly not in a place like this.' She gazed around her, drew deeply on the fresh mountain air. 'It inspires me to think that men were moved to build such an ornate, impressive structure here, closer to the heavens. But then, I'm easily impressed by the results of other people's faith.'

  'But it does not affect you in a religious way.'

  Zoë thought for a moment. Religion was a tricky subject for her; she wasn't sure how much she should say. 'I wouldn't say that. I'm moved alright, but not to thoughts of death. But then, I don't think of death as the end of something; I couldn't, it would drive me crazy.'

  Raoul raised his eyebrows in that infuriating interrogatory manner. 'You are Buddhist perhaps? Or Hindu? This is just one of many acts in an infinite play, and next time you will return as a Rajasthani farmer or a chipmunk or some such, hmm?'

  Zoë bristled at this. She rarely felt comfortable talking about spiritual matters, and was even less likely to be found discussing her own half-formed theology. She had no certainties, not like those who could profess beliefs as strong and unmovable as the Rock of Gibraltar. But whatever her belief was, it was a frail, delicate thing, effortlessly shattered by the thundering cynicism of the atheist, easily run down by a speeding zealot.

  'No. But I wouldn't mock people who thought so; it makes a good deal more sense that spending eternity in the fires of hell because I masturbated once too often.' She paused, wondering whether she had hit a nerve.

  Zoë didn't know a great deal about Catholicism, but in her limited experience, one thing she had discovered was the majority of Catholics felt guilty about something, and that something was often connected to early sexual experiences. 'Is that what frightens you?'

  Raoul distanced himself from this last comment, seeking, somehow, to rise above such mundane banter.

  'No, not at all; despite my... nominal adherence to this religion, I cannot believe these things either.' He paused then, and gave one of his deep melodramatic sighs, although this time, Zoë could see it was heartfelt. 'It is not the next world that bothers me. Only that this one must end.'

  Zoë found this confession shocking. In the few days they had spent together, and despite the fact that their
exploits in bed had been of the "no-holds-barred" variety, this was the first true intimacy that she had been party to. The Great Invulnerable Raoul admitted that he was mortal; not only that, he didn't like it.

  'You wouldn't really want it to go on forever, would you?' said Zoë, intrigued now to discover more. 'I think I'd find the idea of eternity much more frightening than death.'

  'Perhaps,' said Raoul unconvincingly, 'But again, it is not death, as such, that frightens me.' He paused again. Zoë sat, rapt; she sensed a confession coming, a dark secret... he was definitely building up to something. 'I do not like to let go of things, Zoë. Ever since I was a child, I wanted to hold on to things for ever. My mother told me that I could not bear to part with broken toys, even if they were damaged beyond use. In my adolescence this trait translated itself into a dreadful jealousy; I once nearly killed a man for trying to steal a lover from me. Not because I loved her, but because I could not stand the thought of losing her.'

  Zoë was neither shocked nor especially surprised to hear this; if anything, it sounded familiar, as if she had guessed as much just by studying him, and was merely having her suspicions confirmed. 'That doesn't strike me as a good way to live.'

  Raoul shook his head gravely. 'It is not. Over the years I have had to curb my jealousy. One way in which I do this is to avoid becoming too attached to things that I know will not always be there. Do you know, I have never owned a pet. I am fond of animals, but... this is why I lavish more attention on my house than on my friends or lovers. Barring an earthquake, my house will always be there. People are not so reliable.'

  Zoë suddenly felt terribly hurt by this last admission, as if it reflected on her personally. Anger seeped into her tone. 'So you have a lover in every port, someone like me perhaps, or Liz, for appearances sake and to keep the old testosterone flowing. I think that's a sad attitude to take.'