“I’m looking for Alex,” he said in Creole, scanning the room. “My name is Luc.” It was the language I’d heard each day in rural Haiti when patients wasting away from cholera begged for our help. His accent was from the countryside, exactly like Martine’s and almost every other person I encountered at the Port-au-Prince airport, almost none of whom were the least bit affected to see a man at death’s door and in dire need of aid. His voice triggered a deep anxiety in me for many reasons.
“Why? What are you supposed to give him?” I nodded toward his pocket.
Luc said nothing and stood, realizing this errand wouldn’t be as simple as he’d been led to believe. That’s when two of Sandro’s men moved like lighting and placed a loaded gun to each of his temples. He took a deep breath and sat down again, slowly.
“Aren’t you a doctor?” he pled, remaining perfectly still but turning his eyes up at me. “How could you kill me?”
“Easily,” I said in Spanish, knowing it was the same in Creole. Fasil.
“Your pockets.” Sandro poked roughly at Luc, who stared at him blankly. “Bolsillos!” he demanded again in Spanish.
“Pòch,” I said, my mind going back for a split second to the wailing Haitian woman who demanded the contents of her dead husband’s pockets. She had patted her thighs and screamed pòch over and over again until we finally understood and brought back the body.
Luc drew his right hand out slowly, and among the grubby junk he dumped on the table was a clear bag of assorted pills and another full of white powder.
“What is it, Alex?” I asked, not taking my eyes off Luc. Every head in the room turned toward the back, where Alex had tried to blend in against a wall. With measured steps he weaved between Sandro’s men and came to me. Leaning over the card table, he took one glance and knew.
“Downers and coke.”
“Is this what they always send you?”
“Yeah. Sometimes a little heroin, too, but I always traded it for more coke or pills.”
“Your boss is a real piece of shit, you know that?” Achille est merde, I said. I watched Luc carefully, waiting to see just how deep their connection went. Apparently not deep at all.
“Oui,” he mumbled, dropping his head.
“You take that garbage, too?” I pointed at the drugs and then at him. “Ou dwòg?”
“Oui,” said Luc.
Without waiting for him to answer, Alex grabbed the bags and tossed them back at Luc. “No more.”
“Tell Achille it’s over.” I said. “Ale.”
Luc nodded and observed Sandro’s men, who moved the guns away from his head. He put everything back in his pockets and bolted to the door.
“One more thing,” I said. Sandro’s man Mel stepped in front of the exit to block his path. I used the same words I’d spoken many times in the field, ones I could never forget. I pointed at him, then myself.
“Retoune. Ede ou.” Return. Help you.
CHAPTER THREE
I got home around midnight and pulled right into Amada’s garage, feeling the now familiar twinge of guilt as I parked her Ferrari next to the other exotic vehicles. I wondered if the day would ever come when I could look at the cars, the yacht, and her palace on the water and not recoil at the decadence of such a lifestyle. They say it’s easy to get used to the good life, but so far all I could think about was buying a cozy little house just for us. I wondered how angry she would be if I just did it and surprised her.
I found my beautiful Amada upstairs in my new office, arranging the last of the medical books she’d ordered on the shelves. The French style desk had finally arrived, and as she’d promised it was spectacular, but all I could think about was pulling her off the ladder and laying her open across the top. I watched her ass shift under the blue silk robe she wore around the house, knowing she probably had nothing on underneath, admiring how her calf muscles flexed as she stretched to reach the uppermost shelf. I would have grabbed her right then if I didn’t think it would startle her. Acutely aware of how my lust for her had begun to simmer, I leaned against the doorway and watched her another few seconds before speaking.
“What’s going on here?” Her body stiffened at the sharp tone in my voice, which had dropped a few octaves since I’d ended my call with Piraña in the car five minutes earlier. We’d talked about the painting Amada wouldn’t stop asking me for, and we’d come to a very satisfactory agreement.
“Amada wants an erotic portrait of us,” I’d told him. As I predicted, his silence betrayed his thoughts. He was probably imaging her naked in his studio, lounging like a courtesan.
“I can do that.” Piraña was the most talented artist in the country, and it would be a shame if I couldn’t give Amada what she wanted, but I couldn’t allow her to be in a situation where she might be uncomfortable. I wanted us to keep his friendship for a long time.
“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think you could be professional, but go ahead and put my mind at ease anyway. Amada is going to be my wife and the mother of my children. She has to be covered, and you have to assure me you won’t be thinking of her like that every time we see you.”
Piraña sighed, pausing long enough so that I knew his answer was honest.
“Not her, Rafa. You. If that were to happen, it would be you, but I promise it won’t be awkward. Once I’m in the zone, it’s the furthest thing from my mind.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. This I could handle. Knowing Piraña had no sexual interest in Amada made me so much more willing to let her have her painting.
“How much time do you need?”
“One long sitting. Shorter if you allow me to take a photo.”
“We can be there as long as you need us,” I said.
“Then come over tonight if you want,” said Piraña. “I don’t sleep.”
Now in my new office, Amada braced herself by propping a leg up on the middle shelf, the robe falling aside to expose her leg and hip.
“Hello, handsome,” she said, turning to look at me over her shoulder. Her green eyes shined in the soft, indirect light of the office, more feline than ever. Sometimes strong lines on a face can be severe, but on hers it was nothing less than fierce, the alluring face of a siren. With one look she had me, from the first time I saw her to this very moment.
“How was your evening?” I asked, staring up at her shapely leg.
“I took a shower and then reread The Great Gatsby,” she said. “To prepare for the next class.”
“The whole book?” I asked, glancing at my watch. “How fast do you read?”
“Pretty fast.” Her face lit up as it always did when she talked about literature, her obvious passion for her work only intensifying my already out of control attraction for her. I still had no idea how such an intelligent and beautiful woman could fall in love with a simple man like me. “It’s always been one of my favorites. I’ve read it many times and it never gets old. Why don’t we read Gatsby after we finish Don Quijote?”
“I thought El amor en los tiempos del cólera was next.” Truthfully, I don’t even know why I mentioned it. I couldn’t care less as long as it involved her in bed, wearing next to nothing, with her full attention on me.
“Oh, that’s right. How about you read that one in Spanish? I think it’ll sound beautiful in your accent. Just as a little treat for me. Then back to English lessons with Gatsby.”
“Of course, mamita,” I said. “I’ll read to you.” We locked eyes, conjuring similar visions of our naked bodies undulating and sliding against one another like rippled silk. Somehow, even the absurd antics of Don Quijote could turn erotic for us at the drop of a hat. Book or no book, both of us in bed together always led to kissing, touching, and delicious exploration. I couldn’t even imagine what reading a love story would do to us. “Anything for you. In fact, could you do something for me now?”
“What do you want, Rafa?” Her voice was husky, laced with want.
“Uncover your breasts.” She opened her mouth as if to as
k something, but I just barely cocked my head. “Please, just do it.”
She did as I asked, allowing the robe to slip off one shoulder, the weight of the silk pulling the other side down with it. Perfectly still, she waited for my next command.
“Now the rest.”
She obliged, and like curtains in a theatre, the panels of her robe parted revealing her sex to me, a dewy flower yet to open. A sweet smile fell upon her lips, and I returned it. Stepping closer, I placed a hand on her hip to steady her and stood just a few inches away, eye level with the object of my desire. I didn’t try to hide how much I was enjoying the sight before me, interested to know just how long she would tolerate my obvious stare.
“Good, but if there were another man in this room with me, would you be able to do the same thing?” I leaned in and placed the barest whisper of a kiss on her silky mound, inhaling the strong scent of Amada’s favorite French lavender soap and just a trace of her own intimate perfume. Shuddering, she angled herself toward me and buried her fingers in my hair, using the tips of her index fingers to scratch behind my ears, one of my many weak spots.
“What do you mean?” Her voice had changed from sultry to strained in just a matter of moments, betraying her intense need. I felt myself stiffen not just in my groin, but all over, the point at which I knew I had to exercise supreme self-control or yield to all my basest instincts. And with Amada, those instincts were so, so base.
“I called Piraña. He’ll see us tonight.” I found another spot scented of lavender and musk and resisted the urge to taste her, but I buried my nose deep, hoping her smell would attach itself to me for the rest of the night. “Do you want to go?”
“Oh yes, Rafa. I’m so glad you’re not worried about it anymore.” I considered and then quickly discarded the idea of telling Amada it was no great sacrifice on my part, now knowing that Piraña wouldn’t be tempted by her. In fact, it might be fun to let her think otherwise, a safe thrill for her that wouldn’t trouble me.
She sighed and let me know she wanted more, my tongue no doubt, but it occurred to me that keeping her in a state of arousal might yield an interesting layer to the art.
“No, baby,” I murmured into her skin. “We’ve got to go now.”
“Please,” she breathed, tugging on my hair.
“Later, I promise.” I concealed a smile, quite aware of what I was doing to her, knowing she had to be soaking wet and aching for me already. That feeling would only intensify over the course of the night, and I knew that watching her unravel into a pool of need would be delightful.
“You didn’t answer my question.” I stepped away from her and put a little distance between us. “Can you be nude in front of him? If you’re ill at ease, it’ll be awkward.”
“Of course.”
“You almost couldn’t take your clothes off in front of a ninety-year-old woman, Amada,” I said, referring to how difficult it had been for her to disrobe for Doña Delfina’s cleansing bath. “He’s twenty years old and will be lusting after you with every fiber of his being. He’ll see what I see.”
With that, I made sure the fires would burn all night by gently spinning her around so that she was still on the same rung of the ladder but facing away from me. Pushing her robe aside, I reached between her legs and caressed her from front to back, touching her everywhere as I spread her open from behind. Not in the mood for subtlety, I made sure I was close enough for her to feel my eyes on her body and my breath on her skin.
“Everything.”
We arrived at Piraña’s high-rise apartment and studio a little after one, where he was finishing up a modern mixed metal sculpture that looked to be almost eight feet tall. The car ride over had been electric, Amada still wildly aroused from my attentions and my subsequent refusal to do anything further. Her eyes had dragged along my body, willing me to touch her and continue my intimate advances, but I acted as if it were the furthest thing from my mind, discussing only business matters and other assorted details of my day.
Piraña lifted the welding helmet away from his face and greeted us both warmly, inviting us in by pointing in the direction of his small but well-stocked bar. Amada and I shared a rum and coke as we enjoyed the view of the city and browsed all of Piraña’s art pieces, some beautifully displayed and others tossed haphazardly in any available corner, and in five minutes he was back wearing a clean shirt, wet hair gathered into a tail at the nape of his neck. Short in stature but full of charisma, Piraña chatted about the piece he’d been working on as he made a drink for himself, and after a few pleasantries, joined us in the living area, stretching out in a chair across from Amada, whose shallow breathing and anxious smile betrayed any attempt to appear at ease.
“How are you feeling?” He set his glass on the table and leaned forward, concern evident in his youthful, kind eyes. “Do you want to be draped or undraped?”
“I’d like you to paint us in the nude. And I’m very nervous,” she admitted. I put my arm around her and smiled, wishing I could take all her discomfort on myself.
“Everyone is at first.” He scratched his full, messy beard as if wondering what to do next. “Look,” he said, clasping his hands together, “Rafa, how about we start with you?” His hooded, almost sleepy eyes went from me to her. “And then, when Amanda feels comfortable, she can join you. It’ll be a good twenty minutes before I have to sketch her.”
“Sounds good. And she can always change her mind, can’t she?” I caressed her cheek and turned back to Piraña.
“Of course. We’ll take our time, and if it’s still too difficult she can wear anything she wants. Look at my two models. The painting will be beautiful no matter what,” said Piraña, his artist mind taking over. “Rafa, can you get undressed now?”
By the time I’d completely disrobed behind an Asian screen in the corner of the studio, Piraña had pulled a gold colored chaise out from another room and set his easel and materials beside it. He explained to Amada how the background colors and objects were of little consequence, that it was the form of our bodies and the mood that he had to be captured from the sitting. I stepped back into the studio holding a small towel around my waist and waited.
“One second,” said Piraña, going to the console where he had his iPhone docked on a large speaker. “I can’t dim the lights, but we can have a little music. What do you like?”
“Classical is nice,” said Amada. She came to me by the chaise, moving with small, tight steps, her eyes hungry and wild, her body language revealing that she was aroused less by the prospect of my nudity than by indulging in the forbidden pleasures of my objectification. Happy to indulge whatever it was that making her look at me that way, I removed the towel so that she could enjoy all of me. Now semi-erect, I gave her a quick peck on the lips.
“Rafa,” she hummed, inching closer. The way she said my name told me she was conflicted about wanting to look at me and cover me up at the same time.
“I’m very comfortable,” I assured her, rubbing her arm. “I’ve told you before, I want you to enjoy this experience, so stop worrying about me.”
While he shuffled through his music, Piraña asked Amada to think about how she’d like to see me, and also to consider how she would fit into the composition when she decided to step in later. Once he began the underpainting, he explained, my position was fixed, our pose determining the orientation and size of the canvas.
When Piraña pressed play, the rich deep tones of Spanish flamenco guitar flooded the room in an unexpected eruption. “Sorry, I meant to put on some Mozart. One second,” he said, tapping the screen with agitation. “I know it’s in here.”
“Leave it on,” said Amada. “It’s nice. Very sexy.” For the first time, I saw she had relaxed a little, the music affecting her. She looked over Piraña’s shoulder and glanced at the screen. “Asturias,” she said, as if to commit the song title to memory. Her shoulders dropped and loosened, her gaze finally fixing directly upon on me.
“It is,” said Piraña. �
��Have you ever been to a classical flamenco performance? I was in Spain last summer and saw one. We happened upon an impromptu show behind a little restaurant in Madrid at three in the morning, after a few bottles of Rioja,” he mused, arranging his pencils and brushes. “It was breathtaking. Sensual. Loud.” He smiled, then glanced at me, both of us pleased with the obvious change in her manner. “Rafa should take you to Madrid. Spaniards are intense.”
“I’d love to see Madrid with you,” I said. I imagined my Amada and I strolling the Puerta del Sol at night, her lovely face awash with the soft, warm lights of the city. Ensconced in the comfort of my own language, I’d take her everywhere, watch her taste everything, then make love to her all night.
“So, Amanda,” said Piraña, interrupting our momentary fantasy. “How should we pose our subject?”
“At first I thought I’d like Rafa above me.” Amada turned her attention to him, taking a step back. “But now I think I’d like us to lie together on the chaise. What do you think of him on his side, maybe propped up on his elbow looking down at me beside him?”
Piraña set his pencils down and came closer. His eyes roamed over every inch of me, measuring, calibrating. His mind was working, the artist in him alive.
“May I position you?” he asked. Amanda came over to us, also fascinated by his process.
“Lie down on your side, please.” I did as he asked, allowing him to take my wrist and drape one arm over the headrest, my back to the arm of the lounge. “I don’t like the way his shape truncates when he’s on his arm. His shoulders hunch too much. With the arm extended, we can see the muscles in his torso better. Everything elongates this way. You can appreciate his beauty.”
“Oh yes,” said Amada. “Rafa, what’s that ligament called?”
“El ligamento inguinal, mamita.”
“Will you be able to see it with me in front of him?” she asked. “I love it.”
“I don’t know what that is,” said Piraña.
Amada stepped forward and ran her finger along her favorite part of my body, the v-shaped crease of my abdomen. “This.” My body responded to her touch as it always did, and I watched with delight as Amada tried not to stare. Piraña either didn’t notice or didn’t care, his focus elsewhere.
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