Obsession

by Florencia Bonelli

  He couldn’t complain; he was the one who had suggested that she put on the red chiffon dress with the mermaid cut. Matilde wasn’t aware of the looks she attracted. Her long blonde hair, the pronounced neckline and the effect of the red on her skin were turning heads. He put a hand on the small of her back and led her to the VIP section, glaring at anyone who dared to look at her until they looked away. They sat down, and Al-Saud drew her toward him to bury his nose in her neck. Yasmín had recommended the perfume for her: Paloma Picasso, with deep, erotic notes. It almost seemed too much for a creature like Matilde. Al-Saud smiled arrogantly as the thought came to him that, in reality, the fragrance also described Matilde, or at least the sensual and ardent side that only he knew, because he was its creator and the only one who could access it. For other people, she would smell like a baby. For him, of Paloma Picasso.

  “Promise me that you’ll only wear this perfume when you’re with me.” He was seized by tenderness as he saw the way Matilde blushed, fluttered her eyelashes and smiled. “Promise me, please,” he begged her.

  “Why do you want me only to use it when I’m with you?”

  “Because I want it to be our perfume.”

  “And you’re only going to use A*Men with me?”

  “I promise. And you can only wear Paloma when you’re with me.”

  “Yes, I promise.”

  They kissed with a frenzy that left them both unsettled. Al-Saud couldn’t stand up because his erection would have been too obvious. He recreated the scene of Ulrich Wendorff—he knew his real name now—trying to kidnap him to ease the pressure against the zipper of his pants. The waiter came over, beaming, leaned down next to Eliah and addressed him in Arabic. Al-Saud said something and slipped a fifty-pound note into his hand.

  “What language were you speaking?” Matilde wanted to know.

  “Arabic. He’s Saudi.”

  The waiter came back a few minutes later and spoke to Al-Saud as he put juices and snacks on the table. The latter put his thumb up in an approving gesture.

  “Shall we dance?”

  “I’m not a good dancer and I’ll be even worse in these heels, so don’t make fun of me.”

  Matilde had always hated clubs, the deafening noise, the environment corrupted by dense smells, the darkness, the colored lights, the excessive drinking, the cigarettes and other substances. Sometimes they thought that it would be a good idea to spray foam over everyone, and that really bugged her. The experience was different with Eliah. He moved well and if she kept her eyes glued to him, she forgot about her surroundings. She liked to see him happy. Al-Saud put his hands on her bottom, pressed her to his pelvis and moved with her in time to the beat of a remixed version of “I Want to Break Free” by Queen.

  “Sir,” Matilde spoke into his ear, “you are impertinent. Take your hands away from there.”

  “Miss Matilde, your tarantula ass or your Metal Pig ass, whichever you prefer, belongs to me. I can touch it as much as I want. And I do want to, I can assure you.”

  “Seriously, Eliah, it embarrasses me.”

  “Nobody’s looking at us. And your hair covers my hands. You don’t like it when I touch you like this?”

  She stared at him fixedly, dazed by excitement. Eliah laughed and kissed her on the neck. Happiness overwhelmed him. He didn’t remember ever feeling this happy at any time during his thirty-one years. He felt more alive than when he was flying a fighter jet or when he was on one of his risky missions for Mercure.

  “The song that’s coming on now is for you. Happy birthday, my love.”

  It was a remixed version of “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You.” It moved them deeply. Matilde’s expression, her smile and the sparkle in her silver eyes were spears plunged deep into his chest. The emotion hurt. They embraced and danced just as they had the night that they had first heard it together in Rouen.

  “Now it’s time for me to claim my prize.”

  “Here?”

  “It’s easy. All you have to do is say yes to the question that I’m about to ask you.”

  “I can’t say no?”

  “No. My prize is that you have to say yes.”

  “Eliah!” The exclamation filtered through the wall of music around them, startling them. “Chéri! I’m so happy to see you here!”

  Matilde saw the woman, even though she was holding a much younger man by the hand, try to kiss Eliah on the mouth. He avoided her elegantly, offering her his cheek instead. Even though she was spurned, the woman found the situation amusing and let out a cackle. She was the tallest woman Matilde had ever seen. Her gold lamé dress trailed along the floor and fit her like a glove. The slit running up to her groin revealed a dark thigh, with firm, lustrous skin. Her African blood was evident in the color of her skin, her full lips and disheveled, curly hair, which was dark chestnut lined with blonde streaks that reminded Matilde of the villain from One Hundred and One Dalmatians: Cruella De Vil.

  “Hello, Gulemale,” said Al-Saud, and Matilde immediately remembered the friend he had had dinner with during his trip. “How are you?”

  “Not as good as you,” she said, glancing at Matilde, who was clutching Al-Saud’s hand and cowering behind him.

  “Let me introduce you to Matilde.” It hurt her that he hadn’t said ma femme. “Matilde, this is Gulemale, the friend I told you about.”

  “Oh, you told her about me! How inconvenient, darling!” she added with another cackle, and held her hand out toward Matilde, who gripped it firmly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma chérie.”

  “Enchantée, Gulemale.”

  “Why don’t you join us at our table? You and I have so much to talk about, mon cher Eliah.”

  “I appreciate it, Gulemale, but…”

  “No, no and no. I won’t be denied. Let’s go. Even if it’s just for a few minutes.”

  They followed the couple and Matilde realized that Gulemale hadn’t bothered to introduce her companion. Their mood was getting worse; the heat from just a couple of minutes before was cooling and unease and discomfort weighed down on Matilde’s and Al-Saud’s spirits. Before they sat down at the table Gulemale indicated, Matilde announced that she would go to the toilette.

  “I’ll escort you.”

  “Oh, Eliah, don’t be ridiculous! Matilde may be a tasty little treat, but nobody’s going to eat her.”

  “Don’t worry,” Matilde said in Spanish. “I’ll come right back.”

  In the bathroom, she wet her hands and pressed them against her cheeks, which were red, not from shame but fury. Al-Saud should have insisted on escorting her to the toilette; he should have presented her as ma femme; he should have refused the old hag’s invitation. As she went back to the table, she saw from pretty far off that Eliah was laughing with his forearms on his legs, his hands together between his knees and his head thrown back, as Gulemale leaned over close to speak to him with an arm around his shoulders. Al-Saud sat up and the woman withdrew her arm when she reappeared. Matilde held her hand out to Gulemale’s escort and introduced herself. The boy, with a sincere smile, told her to call him Frédéric. He took out a Macanudo cigar and a cigar cutter and proceeded to light it. He cut off the cigar band and gave it to Matilde with another smile that Al-Saud wanted to wipe from his face. He smoked, blew a couple of smoke rings, which Matilde giggled at, and passed it to Gulemale.

  The night was ruined, Al-Saud cursed. Running into Gulemale was a good thing for his mission in the Congo, but his plans with Matilde had gone to hell. He felt in his pocket to make sure that the ring he had planned to give her after asking her to marry him was still there. He realized that he would have to postpone asking the question. Matilde was angry and trying to make him jealous with Frédéric. She was being successful.

  “Your friend is very young, chéri. How old is she?”

  “If I answer that question, Gulemale, then will you tell us your age?”

  Frédéric laughed out loud and then clamped his mouth shut when he saw the look of disdain that
Gulemale shot him.

  “Eliah, I don’t think it will bother Matilde if you tell me her age; she’s practically a child. How old are you, chérie? Eighteen, nineteen? No older than twenty!”

  “I’m twenty-seven.”

  “Oh.”

  “You’re not French, are you, Matilde?” Frédéric asked. “You have an adorable accent.”

  “I’m Argentinean. And you?”

  “Algerian.”

  “Oh, you sound French.”

  Al-Saud felt the rage welling up inside of him; his muscles stiffened, his jaw jutted and his hands were becoming fists.

  “What do you do, chérie?” Gulemale continued.

  “I’m a doctor,” she said instead of pediatric surgeon, because she couldn’t pronounce chirurgienne. “And you?”

  “I’m the president of a mining business.”

  “That sounds like a lot of responsibility.”

  “It is.”

  “Would you like to dance, Matilde?” Frédéric asked.

  “No,” said Al-Saud, standing up and dragging her away with him, cruelly taking her by the waist.

  “I asked her, not you,” the Algerian persisted, getting to his feet.

  “What’s wrong with you, imbecile?” Al-Saud rounded on him and would have grabbed him by the lapels if Gulemale hadn’t intervened.

  The older woman, looking into Al-Saud’s eyes, said, “It would be better, Frédéric, if you leave his woman alone.”

  “I’m not afraid of him.”

  “You should be. Believe me, you should be.”

  “Good-bye, Gulemale.”

  “Good-bye, chéri. I’m sorry for this little hiccup.”

  Matilde was being shaken around like a kite behind Eliah, whose hand was gripping her wrist so tightly it hurt. Each of his long strides was equivalent to three of Matilde’s steps in the Louboutin heels. He practically threw her coat in her face and didn’t help her into it. They contained themselves in the Jaguar because the chauffeur could hear them. The fight exploded as soon as they crossed the threshold of the room in the Savoy.

  “You were flirting with him right in front of me!” Al-Saud claimed. “You’re shameless!”

  “I wasn’t flirting. I was trying to make him feel like a human being, since your friend was treating him like a piece of furniture.”

  “Oh Matilde, the compassionate! You liked him and you were flirting with him!”

  “I don’t flirt with anyone! I don’t do that.”

  “Of course! You weren’t flirting with me even for a second that day on the plane! But you were flirting with this imbecile!”

  “You’ve got some nerve! What about you and Gulemale? What were you doing when she was all over you and you were laughing? Weren’t you flirting?”

  “That’s how it is with Gulemale!”

  “Ha! That’s how it is with Gulemale!”

  “But there’s nothing between her and I. Nothing!”

  “I don’t believe you!”

  “Matilde, I need to be on friendly terms with that woman because a very important business deal depends on her.”

  “Business with that old hag? You’d better take care of yourself! I could feel her wickedness as if it had a separate body. And now I’m going to take a bath to get the stink of that lady’s cigar off me.”

  She shut herself in the bathroom and yanked off her dress, muttering in anger. Al-Saud was undressing in the bedroom, cursing more with each article of clothing that he hurled to the ground. What a wonderful ending to a night that was shaping up to be the best of my life, he thought sardonically. He cursed the instant that it had crossed his mind to go to Ministry of Sound.

  They went to sleep angry and didn’t exchange a single word during breakfast the next day. Matilde asked if they could leave first thing in the afternoon, because she had to study for her exam on medical French on Monday, and Al-Saud agreed. They got to the house on Avenue Elisée Reclus at six in the evening on Sunday. Eliah shut himself in his study and Matilde pretended to study in the bedroom.

  * * *

  * * *

  CHAPTER 22

  * * *

  * * *

  Al-Saud’s cell phone rang very early on Monday morning, at six thirty. It was Dingo calling from Asmara, the capital of Eritrea.

  “Don’t swear at me,” Dingo apologized, “I know it’s early. It is here too. Only two hours later than Paris. But General Odurmán, the head of the Eritrean army, just called me wanting to expand our agreement. He seemed very anxious and in a rush. He wants an answer today or he’ll give the contract to Spider International. I don’t have the authority to make the agreement.”

  “What’s going on?” Matilde asked, without opening her eyes.

  “Nothing. It’s very early. Keep sleeping.” Al-Saud got out of bed and went into the dressing room so he could speak freely. “What’s this about, Dingo?”

  “They want us to train a group of Sudanese refugees in southern Eritrea who are planning to overthrow the Khartoum regime,” he said, referring to the present Sudanese government. “There’s also the possibility of getting a nice cut if we act as intermediaries in the weapons purchase. Madame Gulemale could help us with that.”

  They spoke for half an hour. Since neither Mike nor Tony could travel, Al-Saud decided to go that same day to Asmara to interview General Odurmán. The proposal from the Eritrean government was tempting, as was the opportunity to gazump Nigel Taylor. He showered and changed in a hurry and left for the offices at the George V before Matilde woke up. When he went back to the house on Avenue Elisée Reclus to pick up his suitcase, Matilde was eating lunch with Yasmín at Les Deux Magots. He left her a note on the bed.

  She had come back from the institute ready to make peace with Eliah, so she almost burst into tears when she found out that he had gone away again. “Matilde, I had to travel unexpectedly. I’ll be back in two or three days. Take care of yourself, please. Eliah.” The coldness of the note frightened her. She brought it to her nose. It smelled of Givenchy Gentleman, which calmed her a little; he hadn’t put on A*Men—he had kept his promise to only wear it with her. And yet the anxiety didn’t subside. She was sure that he had grown fed up of her jealousy and suspicions. She couldn’t control it. The dark, tormented feeling that awakened within her when she saw him with another woman forced her to face up to a part of her temperament that she had never seen before and didn’t like. She told herself she would find peace again when she left for the Congo and it was over because, she convinced herself, with Eliah Al-Saud it would always be the same: women would throw themselves at him, and she would suffer.

  During that week without Eliah or Juana, Matilde grew closer to Yasmín. On Monday at midday, in the café Les Deux Magots, Yasmín opened her heart and told her that she was in love with Sándor Huseinovic. The strength of her feelings exhausted and ended up crushing her. She said that Sándor inspired a love in her that she had never known. She told her about their argument in the house on Avenue Elisée Reclus and confided that, since that day, she hadn’t been sleeping or eating well and she hadn’t been able to concentrate on her work; she wasn’t herself. She needed to talk to Sándor and ask him for forgiveness. Now she saw how immature and petulant she had been.

  “You’re the first person I’ve told this to: I broke up with André yesterday.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “It was for the best. I was cheating on him with my thoughts and I couldn’t stand it. It made me feel terrible.”

  “How is André?”

  “I don’t think it surprised him. We’ve been distant for a while. But yesterday he was very hurt and angry.” She smiled sadly. “Our breakup will cause a scandal in my family and my group of friends. Many of them will probably turn their backs on me for getting involved with my bodyguard and chauffeur. It’s very badly looked upon in our circle.”

  “If they turn their backs because of something like that,” Matilde reassured her, “it means that they were never your friends
in any real sense of the word. Why would you want to have friends like that? I think that you did the right thing. Hypocrisy and lies are poisonous for the heart.”

  “I need Sándor so much right now. I don’t know where he lives and I can’t pluck up the courage to ask Leila or Diana because I know they don’t like me.”

  “I can ask Leila and if she won’t tell me, I’ll ask Thérèse or Victoire. Sándor is employed by Mercure Inc. They should have his details in human resources.”

  “Thank you, Matilde!”

  They met for lunch the next day at the restaurant in the George V. Leila didn’t know Sándor’s address, so Matilde was resorting to plan B: Thérèse or Victoire. Yasmín seemed impatient, nervous and happy.

  “When is my brother coming back?”

  “I don’t know,” Matilde admitted. “We argued on Saturday night and he was angry. He left me a very short, cold note and didn’t tell me when he’d be back.”

  “Do you mind telling me what you argued about?”

  Matilde told her about the events at the Ministry of Sound and admitted that she had flirted with Frédéric because she was jealous of Gulemale.

  “Eliah got very jealous.”

  “Eliah, jealous?” Yasmín was shocked. “That really is a novelty. It drove Samara crazy that he never got jealous. Oh, I’m sorry, Matilde! I’m such an idiot. It wasn’t my intention to mention her and upset you, I swear.”