Obsession

by Florencia Bonelli

  “The deal was for her name only. In a week I’ll be back for the results.”

  “Before you go I want to ask you to call off the Bosnian brute who follows me from dawn to dusk.”

  “His name is Sándor, and he’s not a Bosnian brute, but the man who keeps you safe.”

  “It’s a nightmare, Eliah! I have him breathing down my neck every time it’s his turn to go on guard.”

  “Just as it should be. Takumi sensei and I trained him, Yasmín. He’s one of my best men.”

  “He’s so young! He’s not even twenty-five.”

  “His spirit is much older and wiser than yours, I can assure you.” He was annoyed by Yasmín’s grimace. “Yasmín, don’t bug me about this. Sándor is going to continue as your bodyguard, end of discussion.”

  In Amsterdam, in his suite in the Hotel de L’Europe, he received the president and financial director of the Metropolitan, one of the insurance companies that had hired him for the Bijlmer disaster, and presented them with his plan of action. The representatives seemed pleased. This meeting was followed by another of the same nature with the president and vice-president of the other company, World Assurance, who were worried about the scandal in the media. Al-Saud did his best to play down the importance.

  “Our objective is for El Al to compensate you economically and we will achieve that. The reputation of World Assurance will remain intact.”

  He said good-bye to his clients and, as soon as he closed the door, looked at the time. Six in the evening. Matilde would be at the institute. It would be useless to call Juana’s cell phone, because she’d have it turned off. He called Medes.

  “Did you bring Matilde to the institute?”

  “Yes.”

  Al-Saud noticed that he sounded tense.

  “What’s going on, Medes?”

  “There was a small incident, sir.”

  “Is Matilde okay?” His voice shook, and he cleared his throat.

  “Yes, she’s fine.”

  The relief made his legs wobble and he fell into a chair.

  “Tell me what happened, Medes. Speak.”

  The chauffeur told him that a man had been waiting at the door of the building on Rue Toullier. From the description, Al-Saud realized that it was Roy Blahetter. The bastard apparently didn’t listen to threats. When he heard that Blahetter had grabbed Matilde by the arm and shaken her, Al-Saud snapped a pen emblazoned with the hotel’s logo in half.

  “Miss Juana hit him with her notebooks, but the man wasn’t deterred. I intervened, sir. I got out of the car and pulled him off her. The young ladies got in and we left quickly. That was it.”

  What Medes didn’t tell him, because he didn’t know, was that someone was taking photographs of them from a van parked on Rue Soufflot.

  Al-Saud hung up on Medes and called Zoya.

  “Hello, mon chéri. How are you?”

  “How did it go last night with Blahetter?”

  “Parfait. I have what you need. You can come by and get it whenever you want. And thank you for sending such a fiery victim my way. It’s been a while since I had such a good time.” Zoya’s comments didn’t improve Al-Saud’s mood. “Oh, I forgot! Natasha got in touch. She called me this morning.” Al-Saud didn’t say anything. “She asked about you. A lot.”

  “Did she tell you where she is?”

  “No, she didn’t want to. She just said that she’s fine, although I found her a little depressed.”

  “It’s a relief to know that she’s okay. If she calls again, tell her to get in touch with me, please.”

  He didn’t have much time. In less than an hour, Lars Meijer, the Dutch journalist, would come for dinner at the hotel restaurant. He took a shower. He didn’t dress in a suit and tie but chose a more relaxed style, a blue blazer with gold buttons by Ralph Lauren, a pale-yellow Tommy Hilfiger shirt, jeans and brown boots.

  Meijer was waiting for him at the bar. They shook hands and the Dutchman smiled uncomfortably. The maître d’ led them to a table and recited the specials for them. To avoid having to read the menu, both chose from the specials. Neither ordered wine.

  “I think, Mr. Meijer, that you and I got off on the wrong foot.”

  “It was my fault. I never should have approached you like I did that day outside the George V. It was pretty silly trying to take a black belt in karate by surprise—someone who could kill me with his bare hands,” he added in a joking manner. Eliah laughed at the joke to lighten the mood.

  “Just like you, I was only doing my job: protecting Shiloah Moses.”

  “Yes, I understand. And given what happened weeks later, I see that your precautions were very wise. That attack on the convention was such a terrible business!”

  They spoke at length about the attack, which led them to the political situation in the Gaza Strip and the West Bank after the Oslo Accords. When dessert arrived, Al-Saud decided to start his negotiation.

  “Mr. Meijer, just as you have been investigating me, I’ve been finding things out about you, and I have found some very interesting information. For example, I know that you were at the scene of the accident the day the El Al plane crashed into Bijlmer.”

  “That’s right,” Meijer admitted. “I live there, and that day I was working from home. I witnessed everything.”

  “I even found out that you saved many of your neighbors who were trapped in their apartments by flames. I congratulate you,” Al-Saud concluded, bowing his head. “And I know that you didn’t just witness the plane crashing, but that a few days later you and your neighbors started to suffer all kinds of health problems right? Skin diseases, respiratory disorders and other more serious problems.” At that point, Meijer sat up straight in his chair and stopped fidgeting with his fork. He nodded. “I also know that, even though you investigated and tried to uncover the truth, you weren’t able to. I read the two articles you published in the NRC Handelsblad and Paris Match. They were well written”—Al-Saud flattered him—“but, without proof, it remained mere speculation and the matter drifted out of the public’s consciousness.”

  “There are still people suffering from serious health problems that I’m convinced started that day, when the El Al plane crashed into the building in Bijlmer. But, as you rightly say, without proof there’s nothing. Both El Al and the Dutch government closed ranks and I found it impossible to penetrate them.”

  “I penetrated them,” Al-Saud replied, “and I have the proof that you need. What I need is someone in the press who can help me to expose them. I think you’re the right person.”

  Meijer fell silent; his expression changed entirely. A few seconds later he regained some control and asked, “Why me?”

  “Because you’re the only Dutch journalist who investigated the disaster professionally. You didn’t just limit yourself to questioning the causes, but also studied the consequences.”

  “What’s in it for you?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “I don’t want to be part of an intrigue that could get me fired.”

  “Mr. Meijer, an investigative journalist like yourself can’t be frightened by the prospect of getting involved in an international intrigue. What would have happened in the early seventies if Bernstein and Woodward,” Al-Saud said, referring to the journalists from the Washington Post who investigated the Watergate scandal, “had lost their nerve given the magnitude of what they were uncovering?”

  “They had Deep Throat,” Meijer thought out loud, his eyes on the tablecloth, as he remembered the name of the North American journalists’ informant.

  “And you’ll have me. I’ll be your source. I don’t imagine that Bernstein and Woodward were very interested in knowing why Deep Throat told them what he knew. They just wanted the information.”

  “And the proof,” Meijer added, having regained his confidence.

  “And the proof,” Al-Saud agreed. “Are you prepared to do it? Though it will, of course, have to be on my terms.”

  “I’ll need to discuss it w
ith my editor, but I don’t think there will be a problem.” Al-Saud nodded. “All the same, I have one condition.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “That you give me an interview to talk about so-called private military businesses.”

  Al-Saud stared at him. Meijer, feeling uncomfortable, looked away.

  “Fine,” he conceded.

  Al-Saud was alone in the conference room. He had spread out a map of Africa and was concentrating on Ethiopia and Eritrea, whose relations were growing more and more tense with each passing day. Weeks before, Dingo and Axel had returned with information that helped them to sketch out a strategy. On Fergusson Island they were training a group of men who would travel to the region along with weapons, ammunition, water and provisions. It was a titanic endeavor.

  Al-Saud watched the monitor that displayed the feed from reception. Victoire and Thérèse, each at their desks, were working in silence. Nobody was in the guest armchairs. An unusual silence and tranquility reigned over the offices at the George V. The loudspeaker system was quietly playing Mendelssohn’s “Symphony No. 3,” one of his favorites, enhancing the sense of peace. He looked at the time. Twenty-five past twelve. He fixed his gaze on the main door, impatiently waiting for it to open. Matilde was twenty-five minutes late. Maybe she didn’t feel the same anxiousness to see him again that he did? He turned back to the map.

  “Bonjour, Matilde!” Eliah’s head shot up toward the monitor. “Monsieur Al-Saud has been asking for you.”

  “Yes, I’m late!” she exclaimed in English, her cheeks crimson out of nervousness and the cold. “I just discovered that my watch is almost half an hour late. It was a disaster. Poor Medes had been waiting for me outside for some time.”

  Damn that watch! Al-Saud cursed, watching her put down her rustic bag and coat. He immediately recognized the outfit as being the same one as she had worn that day at the Rue du Bac station: the skinny brown-and-pink tartan pants and the tight pink turtleneck. Just like that day, her hair was braided into pigtails. He waited, unmoving, for her to open the door to the conference room. Matilde did so cautiously, inching it open little by little, and peeked inside with her oval face. They looked at each other in silence until she uttered a little laugh, almost a shriek, and, after closing the door behind her, ran to him. Al-Saud took her in his arms and lifted her into the air, and Matilde wrapped her legs around his waist. As their mouths came together in a kiss, he leaned back against the wall and slid down to the floor, where they continued to kiss as though it had been a year instead of twenty-four hours.

  “Matilde,” Al-Saud sighed, his mouth still on hers. “I couldn’t wait for you to get here. I was going crazy! You’re late!”

  “Sorry, sorry! If you knew how anxious I felt all through yesterday and this morning, you wouldn’t be mad at me. You didn’t call me.”

  The barely whispered reproach moved him. She had thought about him, missed him. He tightened the embrace and buried his nose behind her ear to breathe in her aroma.

  “I wanted to smell you so badly. I love your perfume. What’s it called?”

  “Upa la-lá.”

  Matilde laughed when Al-Saud imitated her.

  “Say it again. Upa la-lá. You’re funny.”

  “Now I’m your clown. Upa la-lá,” he said, to please her. “What does it mean?”

  “It doesn’t mean anything. It’s something people say when they pick up a baby. We say, ‘upa la lá!’ when we lift them up. I don’t know where it came from.” Matilde swept her nose along his neck. Her voice cracked as she said, “And I love your cologne, Eliah. I don’t know what happens to me when I smell it on your body and clothes. I went around all yesterday smelling your handkerchief so I could feel closer to you. I have to confess that on Sunday at your house I doused it with A*Men. Do you forgive me?”

  Matilde arched her back when Al-Saud grabbed her breasts, and when he squeezed her nipples with his fingers she started to moan, forgetting entirely where they were. To silence her, Al-Saud covered her mouth and stood back up with Matilde still coiled around his torso. He cleared the table with one swipe—the map ended up on the back of a chair—and placed Matilde there instead.

  “I can’t wait until tonight,” he confessed, touched by the shocked look on her face. “Don’t make too much noise.”

  “I don’t know if I can.” She bit her lip and fixed her gaze on the satin ceiling as she felt him taking off her boots and pants.

  Eliah looked at her legs at length before turning his attention to the white cotton panties with pink polka dots. He was pulling them off when Matilde’s hands closed around his wrists, as if trying to stop him.

  “Let go of me, Matilde. Let me take off your panties.”

  Her hairless pubis was revealed inch by inch, emerging like a bare white mountain under the dip of her belly. The sight drove him insane, and he rubbed his face against it, licked it, smelled it and ran the tip of his tongue over the scar.

  “Matilde!” he exclaimed, almost exasperated, and she shivered to feel his hot breath on her mound of Venus. “Matilde,” he whispered, his hands tight around the girl’s hips and his forehead on her pubis. He thought of Thérèse and Victoire, who were working only a few feet away, barely separated from this scene by a wall. He had never lost control like this, not even when he came back from flight school after weeks without seeing Samara. He was cold, calculating and temperate; he kept his passions under control. He wasn’t about to waste time worrying about it because he had already learned that Matilde exercised an extreme influence over him, something that was beyond his comprehension. He unbuckled his belt and freed his penis. He took a condom out of his wallet and furiously pulled it on. She watched him fearfully from her vulnerable position; her braids were coiled on the table. She had seen his struggle. He smiled to cheer her up and spoke into her lips.

  “Yesterday, before I went away, I did the test. In a week we’ll have the results.” Matilde just nodded, still unsure of herself. “I don’t want to be dependent on condoms to love you.”

  She wrapped her arms around Eliah’s neck and pressed herself against his body. Their mouths searched for each other desperately; their tongues entwined and their breath mingled together. His hands slipped under her wool sweater and the cotton tank top, lifted her bra and caressed her nipples. Matilde squeezed her eyes shut. Green sparks were exploding inside her. Pleasure flowed through her like a strong, cold current. Her limbs went weak.

  Al-Saud grabbed her by the buttocks and pulled her to the edge of the table, where he placed the soles of her feet. The gynecological position, Matilde said to herself, and that thought made her think of a paragraph in The Perfumed Garden. “The first position. First method. Have the woman lie on her back with her thighs raised, then, once between her legs, introduce your member into her. By pressing your toes to the ground one can move in the proper way. This is a good position for men with large members.” Matilde turned her head to look at how Eliah’s left hand clutched her thigh. She noticed that hair grew even at the top parts of his fingers, near the nail. It was very dark. The hand was buried in her flesh, and the contrast between her whiteness and his dark skin excited her. She was also thrilled by Eliah’s wrists; his shirt cuffs were pulled back as he moved, and she saw them, thick and hirsute. Now she understood the expression “made my mouth water,” because she suddenly needed to swallow. She yearned to touch him, even though it was through the fabric of his shirt. She moved her hands, open-palmed, up his arms, feeling his sinuous muscles; she traced the line of his jaw, his lips, trailed down his neck and squeezed his nipples right as he drove into her. She was suddenly frightened. Al-Saud’s back arched violently, as if he had been punched or received an electric shock, and Matilde thought that his spasm was an epileptic shock. His eyes had even rolled back in his head; she could see their whites. Finally, he pushed deeper into her. He was breathing as though he had just done two dozen sit-ups. She felt his member throbbing inside her. She didn’t know what to do. She ca
ressed his head.

  “Eliah, my love, are you okay?”

  Al-Saud looked up, and Matilde saw the change in his countenance. Without saying a word, he started to move in and out, his eyes remaining fixed on hers. He liked to pull out completely so he could penetrate her hard and deep; he was enthralled by Matilde’s reaction as she bit her fist in an attempt to stifle the sobs of ecstasy. She transmitted her pent-up screams of pleasure through her fingers to his scalp, neck and shoulders.

  Al-Saud managed to cover her mouth when an orgasm overcame Matilde’s determination to stay silent. He loved watching her convulse on the table. His pulse quickened and he soon followed her. His nostrils flared to let in huge gusts of air, and his lips, tight together in a single pale line, revealed the effort he was making not to burst out screaming. Semen flowed out of him in a never-ending current. The orgasm seemed endless, it overwhelmed him. It sounded as though the Mendelssohn recording had been turned up, or was it an illusion? The music buzzed in his ears and his blood. The more he repressed his shouts of joy, the more he was deafened by the chords of the symphony.

  He collapsed onto her, breathing through his mouth like he was about to have a heart attack. It was as though he couldn’t get enough air to fill his lungs. Matilde’s caresses on his back and head helped, but he still needed a few minutes to recover.

  “I don’t think I can ever leave this room,” he heard her say. “I feel like I’m wearing a sign on my forehead that says Monsieur Al-Saud just made love to me.”

  “What a wonderful sign. I wish you were really wearing it, then none of those idiots would come near you again.” He looked at her with a sour expression. “Medes told me about the incident with Blahetter outside your house.”

  “Please, don’t bring it up. Not here. Not when you’re still inside me.”

  “Okay, okay,” said Al-Saud, feeling contrite. “Do you want me to order lunch from the hotel restaurant so we can eat it here?”

  “Yes, yes please. I can’t face your secretaries. Not yet.”