Purely Decorative

by Angelina Cabo

  This time he nodded, also sadly. 'But it is safe,' he murmured. 'Or it was.'

  Raoul shifted his gaze to Zoë. The sadness was still there in his face, but he had adopted the soft, ruffled look that Zoë had noticed the morning after they had made love among the dollar bills. She was still examining his expression, trying to decipher it, when he took her hand in his.

  'I do not think of you in the same way as the others,' he said tenderly. 'You are different.'

  Zoë shrugged. She hadn't been expecting this at all. Raoul was gazing at her intensely. She started to feel uncomfortable. There was only one more day to go, and then it would all be over. She didn't want things to start getting complicated now. Not now.

  She tried to withdraw her hand, but Raoul had a firm hold of it. What was he playing at? He wasn't going to start coming on all romantic and serious, surely? Because he wasn't a serious person, and if he tried that, then it would be a lie, something false... ulterior motives, all that sort of thing.

  She couldn't stand looking at him now; she wanted him to stop. She didn't need this; she didn't need hurt.

  'Don't give me that old crap,' she said, trying to be distant, diffident. But the words caught in her throat.

  'But you are different.'

  She was genuinely upset now. 'So you've said. But not sufficiently so to make me exclusive... that's right, isn't it? Because that's how I see myself; an exclusive sort of person. And I don't think you could handle that.' She was surprised by the vehemence of her words. What was she trying to say? Why was she getting so choked up over it? She wasn't an "exclusive" person at all. She didn't believe in that stuff. What had he done to her?

  Raoul shrugged, then smiled at her warmly, leant over and kissed her on the cheek. Zoë still felt uncomfortable; what was it about this man that had this effect on her? Christ, it was almost as if she wanted to be mistreated. She bit down on her lower lip, trying to hold back the tears gathering behind her eyes, and clasped Raoul's hand more firmly. She wanted the conversation to stop now; she was scared about what might happen if they carried on.

  They wandered back towards the car, Zoë's head resting against his shoulder.

  'Can't we stay a little longer? In Barcelona I mean. I'm only just getting to know the place.'

  'All my business is transacted now, and there are people waiting to see me,' Raoul said. 'I must return home, at least for a while. But...' He hesitated, stopped in his tracks, turned to Zoë and took hold of both her hands. 'I would like to see you again... I would like very much to see you again.'

  This wasn't funny any more. Zoë could feel her insides knotting up. She shrugged, pulled her hands away gently and continued walking to the car. She tried to defuse the situation by making a joke out of it, but her nervousness shone though.

  'Well, any time you're walking past Sizzlers, just drop in. You'll find me, propped up against the bar...'

  'I want you to come back to Venezuela with me,' interrupted Raoul, with all seriousness, but Zoë, suspecting the truth but not daring to acknowledge it, could only respond flippantly.

  'What, for another holiday? Sounds great.'

  'No, I do not mean for a holiday. I want you to come back to Caracas, to live with me.'

  The tears were now welling up in her eyes. This wasn't fair; he couldn't do this to her. It just wasn't fair.

  'And join the rest of the harem? Thanks, but no thanks.'

  'Really Zoë, this is not easy for me. I am trying to let you know how I feel, and all you can do is make a joke of it!'

  They were standing beside the car now, but Zoë couldn't bear it any longer. She pulled away from him and started to yell.

  'Well what the fuck do you expect me to do?' she screamed. 'Jesus Raoul; one minute you're trashing me, bawling me out in restaurants, ogling every woman in sight, telling me you don't get attached to people... and the next you're playing hearts and flowers with me, inviting me to the other side of the world! I don't know what you expect of me! Do you think I'm going to be swept off my feet just because you decide, all of a sudden, that I'm "suitable"! Do you honestly think for one moment that I'd be prepared to put up with your continual philandering and voyeurism? Well fuck you!'

  Zoë was now crying, even though she was still trying to control the tears. She did not want to appear weak, but it had all become a bit much for her.

  Raoul, shocked by the outburst, looked away, embarrassed. When he spoke next, the words fell from his mouth like the final, dried leaves of autumn.

  'I'm sorry... I told you, it is my manner. I'm just not very good when...' He broke off in midsentence, opened the car door. 'It's getting late.'

  He got into the car, signalling that Zoë should do the same. Zoë, frustrated and angry, hesitated, took a deep breath, wiped her eyes and, burying her anger, reluctantly got in to the car. This wasn't over yet, not by a long shot, but they couldn't just stand outside a monastery screaming at each other. Besides, she was now too upset to say anything.

  They drove back down the mountainside in silence.

  ***

  When they arrived back at the hotel Zoë, impatient to get to her own room, made to get out of the car but Raoul reached out and grabbed her arm.

  'It is our last evening; we should not fight.'

  Zoë closed her eyes and sighed; she was still too upset to speak.

  'I did not intend to upset you,' continued Raoul, softly. 'I would never deliberately do such a thing. Despite what you think of me, I meant what I said; I would like to see you again. Will you at least think about it?'

  Zoë nodded, lifted his hand from her arm, and ran into the hotel.

  Chapter 17

  Zoë found the number and dialled; she hoped Liz was home. She desperately needed someone to talk to, someone who would perhaps understand. Not that Liz was the ideal choice; she had her own agenda when it came to Raoul, and Zoë realised that she could hardly expect Liz to be objective about the situation. On the other hand, Liz was the only other person who knew Raoul, and she was also her closest friend, and right now, that's what Zoë needed most; a close friend.

  She could hear the exchange ringing, but there was no answer. She put the phone down and tried again. She wasn't quite sure what she was going to say or even how she could phrase it. "I think Raoul is a manipulative, insensitive macho pig and I've fallen in love with him"? No, that didn't sound right at all. After all, how would Liz feel about such a confession? She may well have been married with a baby, but she must surely still feel something for Raoul. Perhaps it wasn't a good idea talking to her after all?

  The phone was still ringing, but Zoë decided not to wait and find out whether Liz was there; it might only complicate matters further. No, she had to work this one out by herself. She put the phone down, lit a cigarette and, as she watched the wisps of smoke curl upwards into the room, tried to put her thoughts in order.

  After ten minutes of this her head was pounding; it was no use. She decided to have a little siesta. Que sera, sera, she thought as she started to drift off to sleep; whatever will be, will be.

  ***

  It was dusk when she woke. Raoul had said they would go out to dinner - wherever she wanted - at eight, so she still had plenty of time to get ready. Her mood was such that she wasn't sure where she wanted to go. One part of her wanted to throw on shorts and t-shirt and go tapas hopping from one seedy bar to another. At the same time, she was aware that this might be her last chance for a little luxury, something she might never experience again.

  Consequently she had plumped for the Café d'Iradier and phoned Raoul's room so he could book a table. It also gave her an opportunity to dress up.

  ***

  An hour later, Zoë was standing in front of the full-length mirror, examining her appearance. She was wearing the striking white silk tuxedo she had picked out in El Corte Inglés, and had accentuated her eyes, giving them a sultry look. She even liked what she had done with her hair, crimping it into a tousle of curls.

  S
he considered herself from every angle. Something wasn't right. Two minutes later, the white dinner suit lay discarded on the bed as she wriggled into the slinky black dress she had worn for their first dinner together.

  She twirled in front of the mirror. Better, but something still wasn't right...

  The gold earrings were wrong; she needed something less flashy, less ostentatious. None of the pairs that Raoul had bought seemed right. For a few moments she felt a little flustered, then remembered that she had brought some earrings with the clothes that Liz had lent her.

  She dragged the suitcase on to the bed, opened it up, and started rustling around inside it. All her clothes were hanging in the cupboard, which was why she hadn't bothered to look in the case since they had arrived. Not that there was much inside.

  Lying on top was the canvas tote bag and cloth shoulder bag that Raoul had forbade her to use. Beneath that there was a bottle of shampoo, a couple of scarves, a spare box of Tampax, two belts, a pair of jeans. Somewhere, she knew, there was a small red make-up bag with the earrings in, but she couldn't find it. She knew it wasn't important, but it was bothering her now; she wanted that bag and those earrings.

  She turned the suitcase upside down so all the contents fell out on to the bed. She gave it a good shake. No small red bag. She let the suitcase fall back on to the bed.

  That's when she noticed it; a faint, barely perceptible dusting of fine white powder on the lining of the suitcase. For a moment she wasn't sure what she was looking at, and then, in a flash, she realised. She felt her heart stop momentarily.

  She reached out, touched the dust, brought her fingertips to her lips, and tasted. Unmistakeable. Her heart now started to pound. She could feel herself breaking out all over in a sweat. Her fury now mounting, she reached into the case and tugged at the lining.

  Sure enough, as she pulled at the lining on the inside of the bottom half of the case, it came away to reveal a slim hiding space. There was a light dusting of white powder all over the inside. The tears of anger were now running down her cheeks, and she could hardly catch her breath. She slammed the case shut and fled out of the room.

  ***

  'You bastard!' she screamed as Raoul opened the door. He stepped back, surprised, as Zoë stormed into his bedroom slamming the door behind her.

  'What...' he started, but got no further.

  'You used me! No wonder you made such a fuss about my bags...'

  'I do not understand...'

  Zoë thrust her hand out towards him so that her fingertips were waving right under his nose. 'Look what I found in the suitcase, Raoul.' She expected him to turn white, or to start stammering, or something: she had caught the rotten, stinking creep red-handed. But no. He smiled.

  'Zoë,' he said softly, 'please, let me explain...'

  Zoë couldn't believe it. The miserable shit was smiling! He had used her to smuggle kilos of cocaine through customs from Germany to Spain, and it was all a bit of a laugh! She knew at that moment that she had never been as angry in her entire life.

  'I don't want to listen to any more of your lies. You're full of crap Raoul. All that fake morality and sincerity... when all along you'd have let the cops find the drugs on me! You snake... I hope you rot in hell!'

  She stormed back out of the room before Raoul had a chance to respond, and once inside her own room, locked the door behind her. A moment later Raoul was knocking loudly on the door, calling her name, begging her to answer the door and listen to him. Zoë took a deep breath, walked across to the television, turned it on and turned up the volume until Raoul's voice was drowned out. She grabbed her cigarettes, lit up, and started to pace around, wondering what to do next, how to control her rising anger and distress. How could he! How could he do that! It was unfathomable, unthinkable. What if the Customs officers had stopped them and searched her luggage? What could she have said? Who would have believed her?

  Suddenly, the full weight of what had happened hit her. She stopped pacing, her body began to shake, and the next thing she knew, she was lying on the bed, curled up in a tight little ball, unable to stop her bitter sobbing.

  She did not sleep that night, nor did she answer Raoul's call to listen to his explanation. She did not want to hear it; she did not want to know. The lads at Sizzlers had been right; she had been a fool.

  ***

  The next morning, Zoë decided to get out of the hotel as early as possible, make her own way to the airport. She packed her scruffy canvas bag with her clothes, leaving everything that Raoul had bought for her in his suitcase, that suitcase, which she left on the bed in the hotel room.

  At the reception desk she tried to order a cab to take her to the airport, but the receptionist seemed concerned and wanted to contact the Señor about it. While Zoë was trying to explain that it wasn't necessary to disturb Señor Garcia, he appeared from the lift, looking tired and unhappy. Zoë saw him, and turned her back; she didn't want this, not now, not here.

  'You were not going to leave without saying goodbye, surely?'

  Zoë ignored him and carried on talking to the receptionist. Raoul tried again.

  'Listen,' he began, his hands spread out before him in supplication, 'I can understand...'

  'I have nothing to say to you,' snapped Zoë, interrupting him before he could get another word out.

  'You have condemned me without a trial,' objected Raoul a little testily. 'Won't you at least listen to an explanation? Perhaps you have made a mistake.'

  Zoë took a few steps away from the reception desk; she did not want the world listening in to this conversation. Raoul joined her.

  'Mistake? Mistake? I suppose next you're going to tell me it was talcum powder? I know what I found in that case Raoul, and that's all the proof I need. You betrayed me, and that's all there is to it. What's more, I was a total stranger to you then. I trusted you. I trusted Liz. I could have ended up spending the rest of my life in some godforsaken Spanish prison... I can hardly bear to think about it.'

  She stopped then, as she could feel the tears and anger welling up in her again.

  'I know what you think,' said Raoul, taking the opportunity of this break to try to get his point across to her, 'and I cannot blame you for it...'

  'Well isn't that big of you...'

  '... only, you have made a mistake!'

  Raoul had raised his voice to prevent Zoë from interrupting him again, and this unexpected vehemence caught Zoë off guard. She found herself voiceless for a moment. Raoul seized his chance.

  'It is true, that suitcase was used for carrying some goods... four kilos, to be precise, but only as far as Frankfurt. Before I gave you the case, I removed the... merchandise... from the compartment. One bag had a small perforation, and some powder had escaped into the case... I thought I had cleared it all out, but I was in something of a hurry and may have missed a very small amount. You may recall, I could not join you for breakfast as I had some last-minute business that morning. It was careless of me, I admit, and for that I am most sorry. But I have not used you in the way you think, and while I see that you do not believe me, I swear to you it is the truth.' He stopped, looked at her, but Zoë looked away. 'That is all,' he said, his voice no longer strident as it had been, but full of sadness and melancholy. 'There is still time for us to have breakfast together if you wish... the chauffeur will drive you to the airport when you are ready.'

  Zoë studied his expression carefully; for a moment she faltered. What if he were telling the truth? She felt herself succumbing to an indescribable panic, and she couldn't stand it. No, she said to herself; he could not be telling her the truth. It was a clever, convenient story, something he had cooked up overnight to make him look less guilty than he was. But it wouldn't work.

  'I'm ready now.'

  Raoul lowered his eyes and sighed. 'Very well. I am sorry it had to end like this. You have brought something very special into my life, and for this I shall be forever grateful.'

  Very slowly, so as not to surprise her
, he reached for her hand, brought it gently to his lips and kissed it. Zoë did not pull her hand away; she could not. Instead, she just watched him perform this last ritual, her head full of confusion, her heart sad.

  Raoul released her hand then walked over to the receptionist and asked for the chauffeur to fetch the limousine.

  Zoë felt numb. She stood there, staring into space, wondering why it was that the world around you could collapse so swiftly, so completely. Like so many things in life, it wasn't fair, and knowing that, as Liz said frequently, "life wasn't fair", made no difference to her. She was close to tears again when she heard Raoul's voice behind her.

  'The driver will bring the car to the front. Shall we?' And he motioned towards the hotel entrance.

  They had only been standing there for a few moments when the limousine drew up. The chauffeur loaded Zoë's bags into the car and Raoul tipped him, giving him some instruction or other. When he came back to her, Zoë couldn't even look at him.

  'So,' he said, the nervousness evident in his voice; 'you will send my very best to Elizabeth?'

  Zoë nodded. 'Of course.' She swallowed noisily. 'I've left the clothes in the room. And the earrings.' It was all she could think to say.

  Raoul sighed. The chauffeur came around to open the door for Zoë, but she waved him away and climbed into the front seat. She did not say goodbye, neither did she wave, as the limousine pulled away.

  ***

  It was early morning and the city had not yet come to life. As the car drove through the half-empty streets, Zoë found herself drifting in and out of reality. It was as if she could not come to terms with her situation. One moment she was driving along the streets of Barcelona heading for the airport and the aeroplane that would take her back home. A moment later, she would be wondering where she and Raoul would be going that evening, who they would be seeing, what deals they would be transacting. Within moments that fantasy would collapse, and the truth would dawn, and she would feel her heart sink. It was appalling, as if her life was a piece of clay, malleable and without form, ready to be shaped by external forces into whatever was required, whether she cared about it or not.