Obsession

  “Lars Meijer, isn’t it?” Al-Saud said.

  “Yes, Lars Meijer.” The man stood up, his eyes popping out of his head. “Good evening, Mr. Al-Saud! What a coinci—”

  “Call my office on Monday and make an appointment with my secretary. Not here, but in your home city.”

  “Yes, yes, of course. Monday…”

  “Good night.”

  They went out into the dark street. Al-Saud took Matilde’s hand and they walked in silence. As they turned onto Pont Tournelle, where the cold grew keener, he put an arm around her shoulder and drew her to him to warm her up. Juana pointed out the bateaux-mouches, the flat-bottomed vessels that took tourists up and down the Seine, and, leaning over the parapet, they admired the apse of the Notre Dame Cathedral, whose lights were silhouetted against the black sky.

  “Your city is so beautiful, Eliah!” Matilde said. “I’m in love with Paris,” she added. Al-Saud turned toward her, and the intensity of his look cut through the night. And do you love me? His unspoken question floated between them.

  At the end of the bridge, Juana realized that they were opposite La Tour d’Argent, the famous Parisian restaurant.

  “Stud, have you ever eaten at La Tour d’Argent?

  “Yes, once or twice,” he said, but didn’t inform her that he and his family were actually habitué.

  “My grandfather Esteban told me that he had dinner in this restaurant once and ordered an exquisite duck.”

  “The duck is La Tour d’Argent’s specialty, but I prefer the lobster.”

  “Oh, yes, lobster!” Juana looked up at the sky, licking her lips.

  They got to the parking lot on Boulevard Saint-Germain, where they had left the Aston Martin. Unbeknownst to the girls, Al-Saud pressed a button on a small device he was hiding in his jacket pocket, which worked as a detonator to make sure that no one had hidden a bomb in his engine. All his vehicles were fitted with bulletproof glass, a reinforced chassis and an antimine undercarriage, as well as electronic countermeasures—most importantly a GPS blocker, a device that prevented any secretly planted devices from sending out a signal. In Alamán’s opinion all these were unnecessary excesses, a result of the trauma Eliah suffered after his wife Samara’s death, or perhaps from being the victim of a failed kidnapping by leftist extremists in the seventies, to whom his family of Arab magnates was a desirable target. Eliah didn’t think it was a result of trauma or an excessive precaution but the logical consequence of having served as a member of L’Agence and losing the capacity to be surprised by the perversion of human nature. Someone like him couldn’t allow himself to get careless, or overcautious.

  “Put on some music, please.”

  Al-Saud looked at Matilde with a smile. She rarely asked him for anything.

  “What would you like to listen to?”

  “I loved what we were listening to on the way.”

  “Really? That’s my favorite composer. His name is Jean-Michel Jarre. And you were listening to his album Revolutions. One of my favorite works by him.”

  “It moved me.”

  They made the short trip back to Rue Toullier in silence, with the overture from Revolutions pulsing inside the Aston Martin, beating in Matilde’s chest and infusing her with life and energy. She worried about feeling so alive when she was with him, because she had no idea what would happen to her when it all ended. She turned away so that Eliah wouldn’t see her doubts. He put his hand on her left knee for a moment before removing it to change gears, and later, when she felt it on her neck, she turned and smiled at him to let him know that she was happy, that he made her happy. The music, with its little explosions of treble and bass notes, altered her, making her different and more daring. At a stoplight, she put her hand to the back of his head, pulled his lips toward her and kissed him the way he had shown her; passionately, without pretense or fear. Nothing mattered, not Juana’s presence or his surprise, which quickly became excitement as he opened his mouth and devoured her lips. Matilde could feel in the wildness of his tongue how much he yearned for what she didn’t yet dare give him. She pulled back when she heard a honk and Eliah stepped down on the accelerator with a grin.

  As he entered the apartment on Rue Toullier, Al-Saud used the tiny scrambler that Alamán had given him so that the hidden cameras and microphones wouldn’t transmit data during his visit.

  Juana, claiming to be exhausted, went to bed, and Al-Saud immediately sensed the tension that seemed to seize Matilde every night when they were alone that had kept him at arm’s length. At that moment his self-control flagged, especially when he remembered the kiss she had given him in the Aston Martin. As he came out of the bathroom, he saw her in the kitchen with her back to him, making coffee, and walked blindly toward her. He grabbed her waist and pushed the hair away from her neck so that he could smell, nibble, kiss and lick it. He heard her moan as he pressed her against the counter. Matilde lifted her arms and seized his neck, looking for support, and the movement made her breasts strain against her tight black shirt. Al-Saud couldn’t restrain himself and cupped them in his hands for the first time. This new contact shook them both to the core. Matilde felt faint, and Al-Saud was paralyzed by the furious throbbing in his groin and the pressure of his penis against the gabardine of his pants; a single rub against Matilde’s behind and he would explode like a teenager.

  “My love,” he panted heavily, “I can’t take it anymore. Please, let’s go to my house.”

  Matilde imagined reaching a hand back and caressing the bulge that was pressing into her back. I only wish that I could! she sobbed. Going down that path terrified her because it would end up leading somewhere she wasn’t ready to go. Still, it was a miracle that she even wanted to touch him. It was a good sign. As were the pulsing between her legs and the moisture on her panties. Elated, she turned in his embrace, opened his shirt and smelled his chest and its thick black hair, and kissed him where she could feel the beating of his heart. She heard him exhale violently and looked upward. His eyes had lost their natural green, and his eyebrows, eyelids, eyelashes and irises had become a mask that made him mysterious, beautiful, sinister and terrifying. Matilde had never seen him like this—his desire for her had never been so clearly exposed. She cupped his face in her hands.

  “I want you so much, Eliah. So much. You can’t understand what that means to me. You’re the first person to make me feel like this. But I need time. Time for me and time to share something important with you. Don’t think for a second that I’m toying with you. I swear on my life that I would never do that.”

  Exhausted, Al-Saud pressed his forehead against Matilde’s. His breathing was still erratic.

  “Eliah, I understand if I’ve made you angry and you don’t want to see me again. I…”

  Al-Saud put his hand over her mouth.

  “I want to see you again, Matilde.” He took her chin and forced her to look at him. “Just as I want you.” He continued to stare at her. He was still tense and excited, and his self-control was hanging by a thread. “What’s happening to us, Matilde? What is this? Good God, what is this?”

  “Something so strong,” she murmured, “so strong that it has turned my life upside down. And the ironic thing is that I don’t care at all. At all, Eliah. Ever since I met you the only thing I’ve done is think about you. All my thoughts are of you.”

  “My love!” he exclaimed, and pressed her against his chest.

  They stood there holding each other in the kitchen until their heartbeats slowed back down to normal and their lust-tormented souls cooled. Al-Saud spoke first.

  “Matilde, I don’t know if I’ll be able to see you this weekend. Monday is the start of Shiloah’s convention at the George V and I have to take care of all the last-minute details.”

  “I understand. Don’t worry at all. We’ll see each other when you have time.”

  “What will you girls do this weekend?”

  “Study for the exam on Monday, clean the apartment, do the laundry, the ironin
g. We won’t be bored. Please, I don’t want you to worry about me. If Ezequiel is in Paris, I’m sure he’ll take us out for a stroll.”

  “I don’t want you to go out with him. I don’t want you to go out with anyone. You’re just for me.”

  “I don’t see myself as anyone else’s. I am just for my Eliah.”

  “Say it again,” he begged her while he touched his lips to the back of her neck. “Say ‘my Eliah’ again.”

  “My Eliah. My love.”

  “Matilde!”

  The kiss that followed left them exhausted and more relaxed. He lifted his head and enjoyed the sight of her thick, damp, swollen lips.

  “I’d better go,” he said, and Matilde opened her eyelids languidly. “I have to get up early tomorrow.”

  They walked to the door, still in their embrace. The separation ended up being more difficult than they had imagined. It pained them to let each other go.

  “To think that you once told me you were cold.”

  “I was, Eliah. I’m only this Matilde with you. This is the first time in my life that I’ve been like this.”

  “On Monday, at nine in the morning, Medes will come to get you and take you to the George V. I have a surprise for you. Will you come?” Matilde nodded. “I’ll be calling the phone or Juana’s cell every hour.” Matilde laughed, surprised that his badgering didn’t bother her. “Matilde, if you need anything, promise me that you’ll call. Promise me, Matilde.”

  “I promise.”

  On Monday morning Matilde woke up at seven, anxious to see Eliah again. He had visited them briefly on Saturday night, on the way to a dinner with the members of Al-Fatah, Yasser Arafat’s political party, which had finally decided to send three representatives to the convention on the two-nation state.

  On Saturday night Matilde thought that he looked so good in his dark, two-button suit that she stood there staring at him with her hand on the doorknob. His silk shirt was black too, and he wasn’t wearing a tie. She stopped herself from leaping into his arms because she was afraid to mess up his outfit. He, however, didn’t seem particularly concerned, as he encircled Matilde’s waist with his arm, lifted her into the air and carried her inside, kicking the door closed behind him. Matilde giggled as he nuzzled her neck, inhaling deeply; her perfume calmed him.

  “I missed you all day. Tell me, what did you do today?”

  “You called me every hour. You know better than I do what I did all day.”

  They didn’t see each other on Sunday, and Al-Saud had called her that night. Matilde noticed that his voice sounded tired, or concerned, and wanted to be with him. Time had taken on another dimension, and a day without Eliah had become an eternity. Is this what Einstein meant when he talked about the relativity of time? she wondered.

  “Juani, I want you to tell me what to wear,” she said very early on Monday morning.

  “Good morning. My name is Juana Folicuré. And yours?”

  “Don’t be stupid,” Matilde complained, and was unable to stop the blush creeping onto her cheeks.

  “Stupid? Have you looked at yourself lately? You’re a different person, Mat! I’m so happy, girl! This Parisian Arab you found is the best thing that could have happened to you. Hooray!” Juana jumped off the bed and hugged Matilde.

  “I’m scared, Juani,” she confessed and squeezed her tight. “You know why.”

  Juana pulled her onto to the bed and they sat next to each other on the edge.

  “Mat, the night before you married Roy, you came to my room and said the same thing, but I suspect that the circumstances were very different then.” Matilde nodded. “You didn’t love Roy, he didn’t even turn you on. It’s different with Eliah. I can see it and feel it. Don’t think that just because I was playing dumb and looking out the window I didn’t notice the smacker you gave him on Friday when he brought us home.” Matilde let out a stifled giggle. “My friend, my dear sister, be happy. Allow yourself to be happy.” Matilde’s face clouded over. “The fear you’re feeling is natural. Do you think that I was completely relaxed my first time? Poor Mateo was at his wits’ end trying to get me to let him in. I’ve told you this a thousand times. It’s worse for you because of how you were educated, so strictly with all those terrible messages, and also because of what happened to you. Let yourself feel the fear and hand it over to him, let him worry about it. Matilde, you’ve spent your life trying to deal with your family’s problems and you don’t understand that someone can help you with yours. Give yourself up, girl! It’s different with him, and you know it, don’t you?”

  “Very different.”

  “Perfect!” Juana exclaimed, jumping up. “Let’s see what we can do to doll you up for the stud. Fortunately, Eze bought you some beautiful things, because I wouldn’t let you go to the corner in one of your Amish outfits.”

  The end result pleased her, although she had trouble recognizing herself in the mirror. Since that Monday wasn’t too cold, she agreed to wear the black-and-yellow tube skirt with thin red lines, thick, dark tights and black patent-leather ballerina flats. The outfit was finished off with a black angora wool turtleneck.

  “Doesn’t this skirt cling too tightly to my butt?”

  “That’s a good one. Flaunt the little tarantula butt God gave you. You’re welcome, Mr. Al-Saud. As soon as you get to the hotel, take off the coat to show off your outfit. Don’t you want to put on a little makeup? If you put mascara on those transparent eyelashes, you’d be something else. They’re so long.” Matilde shook her head. “At least put a little gloss on your lips. Here, use this, it’ll give them a rosy glow. We’ll brighten you up a little! You’re paler than a nun’s tit. Use my black purse. Don’t even think about going with your shika!”

  When she saw Matilde after the finishing touches, pink gloss and all, Juana exclaimed, “You’re divine, Mat! Eliah’s going to die of love.”

  Medes came to get her at nine. They barely exchanged a greeting in French; Medes didn’t speak English. Al-Saud had explained that the man was Kurdish and that he spoke Arabic from having lived most of his life in Iraq.

  The security measures at the George V surprised her. Medes guided her through the outer perimeter, which kept the sidewalk clear of passersby and onlookers. She saw a white truck with a parabolic antenna on the roof and guessed that it must belong to a television channel. She saw a few brawny, well-dressed men in dark glasses with cables coming from their ears that ended in spirals attached to their shirt collars. They guarded the entry, checking entrants against a list and staying alert. One of them, with his suit coat unbuttoned, raised an arm to show Medes the way, and Matilde could see the shadow of a pistol strapped in a chest holster. Until that moment, she hadn’t known how much security an event like this needed.

  Medes led her to the elevators and said good-bye with a slight tilt of the head. The doors opened, and Matilde got on. The only passenger, the bellboy who always greeted Eliah warmly, was probably coming up from the underground garages. Suddenly she noticed the sweat on his forehead and the ashen color on his dark face. They looked into each other’s eyes. The boy swayed and leaned against the mirror in the elevator. Matilde rushed to prop him up and made him sit down on the marble floor. She didn’t have a watch—Juana hadn’t let her wear her gray one. She had to take his pulse by ear. Even without the accuracy of a watch, she knew it was low. She took out a little bottle of Effortil, a medicine she always carried because she was susceptible to fainting fits.

  “Je suis un médecin,” she informed him in her rudimentary French. “Ouvrez la bouche, s’il vous plait.”

  The boy opened his lips slowly, timidly, and Matilde put the Effortil pill under his tongue. She opened his uniform jacket and loosened his tie. As she did so, she realized he was armed; he had a pistol hanging from the belt of his pants. She pretended not to have seen it and fanned him with her French exercise book. The elevator arrived at the eighth floor and the doors opened. Matilde helped the bellboy to stand up and smiled at him. She couldn’t
remember how to ask him how he felt.

  “Ça va?” she finally blurted out, and the boy nodded.

  “Merci beaucoup, mademoiselle.”

  Matilde got out and the doors closed, with the boy inside.

  Udo Jürkens passed through the metal detectors without incident. He had been staying on the fourth floor of the George V for two days, and the receptionist waved at him from afar. In his room he put on blue overalls and went out into the hall carrying a toolbox. He walked toward the service elevator and, following Rani Dar Salem’s instructions, found the locker rooms on the first basement level. In spite of the heightened security, nobody would pay attention to someone from maintenance wandering around in this area. He found Rani’s locker, put on some latex gloves and picked the lock. Finally, among the dirty shirts and newspapers, he found what he was looking for; a Beretta 92 semiautomatic pistol that the boy had brought into the hotel along with a Glock 17 before the deployment of security measures began. Of course, the Glock wasn’t there; the boy probably had it on him. Udo undid his overalls and slipped the Beretta into the back of his pants. He closed the locker and went back to his room on the fourth floor.

  In Mercure’s suite, Thérèse informed Matilde that Mr. Al-Saud would be back in a moment. She took off her jacket and sat on the farthest sofa from the entrance. Eliah appeared a few minutes later but didn’t see her; he looked hurried but full of energy.

  “Matilde still isn’t here? It’s past nine thirty already.”

  Thérèse pointed to her, and Matilde stood up. Al-Saud spun around and she watched his expression transform from surprise to pleasure. His face lit up in a smile and he strode over to her, kissing her on the lips as he hugged her.

  “Hello, my love. You look so beautiful.”

  Matilde admired the ease with which he switched from one language to another without making grammatical mistakes or mixing up words or expressions; she had heard him speak German on the phone while simultaneously giving orders in French to his secretary and others in Arabic to Medes. Very rarely, he used a French word because he didn’t know how to translate it into Spanish; he had almost never conjugated a verb incorrectly.