Obsession

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  CHAPTER 2

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  Roy Blahetter asked Matilde if they could have a few words in private. She felt unable to refuse with her father standing right in front of her.

  “Don’t be long,” Juana warned her. “I want to go to the duty-free shop before we board.”

  Roy shot his wife’s friend a withering glance and took Matilde’s arm to guide her somewhere a little more private. Once they had put some distance between them and the others, he tried to kiss her. Matilde turned her face away.

  “I disgust you, don’t I?” Matilde looked at her feet and pressed her lips together. “You never loved me. I should have realized that when we were engaged.” He patted his head, smoothing down his hair. “But I was so crazy about you that I wouldn’t have known if it had hit me in the face. I confused modesty and virginity with coldness.”

  Matilde made as if to return to her group; Blahetter took her by the arm and pulled her back toward him. She shook him off.

  “Don’t go. Don’t leave me. Don’t get on that plane. Don’t leave me.”

  “Roy.” Matilde always spoke in a very quiet voice so that he had to duck to hear her; he was more than a head taller than she. “I’m not abandoning you. You and I are separated, and soon we’ll be divorced. Who told you I was leaving? My father?”

  “No, your aunt Enriqueta.”

  “Aunt Enriqueta.” She adored her aunt, and admired the fortitude with which she had overcome the problems in her life: first her alcoholism, Grandmother Celia’s opposition to her artistic career and, finally, the death of her husband, which almost drove her back to the drink.

  “Did you tell her why I left your house? Why I left you?”

  “Our house,” he corrected. “It’s our house. And no, I didn’t say anything because I don’t tell people about our private life, unlike you, telling everything to that idiot Juana Folicuré.”

  “Come on, Mat!” Juana called.

  “I have to go.”

  “I love you, Matilde!”

  He grabbed hold of her shoulders and shook her. Matilde slowly raised her head to look at him, and Blahetter waited with bated breath until their gazes met. His wife looked like a teenager, even though she was almost twenty-seven. She was five foot two and weighed 110 pounds—he had always felt as though he could pick her up with just one hand. Nonetheless, he had learned that she wasn’t to be trifled with.

  “Get your hands off me.”

  Blahetter obeyed, slowly.

  “You know it’s true, you know that I love you,” he insisted, more calmly. “I turned my back on my family for you. I fought with my grandfather.”

  “I fought with my grandmother. If you remember, she didn’t like the idea of your being Jewish at all.”

  “You weren’t close to your grandmother Celia. But I had an excellent relationship with my grandfather Guillermo. Thanks to you, I was thrown out of the family businesses. I’m ruined.”

  “Now you can go back, recoup your losses and marry your lover.”

  “She doesn’t mean anything to me.”

  “She does to me, Roy.”

  “You can’t blame me for having looked for a lover.”

  “Good-bye, Roy.” He grabbed hold of her again.

  “I told you not to touch me.”

  “Okay. I’m sorry. Are you going to see my brother in Paris?” He asked quickly, to keep her talking.

  “Of course. Ezequiel is one of my best friends. He’s going to pick us up at the airport and take us to Aunt Enriqueta’s apartment in the Latin Quarter. We’ve never been to Paris, of course.”

  “Could you give him this letter?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Thank you, my love.”

  Matilde took the letter and put it in her shika, a low-slung backpack made from the chaguar plant by women from the Wichi tribe in the north of Argentina.

  “Matilde, the money troubles didn’t help. There never seemed to be enough cash. You, with your pittance from the Garrahan”—he referred to one of the most important pediatric hospitals in Argentina—“and me, unemployed in spite of all my degrees. We’d get nervous and fight and you couldn’t relax enough to accept me. Now that’s all about to change. I’m about to close a big business deal and then we’ll have tons of cash.”

  “Didn’t you get enough money from selling my painting? The portrait my aunt painted of me when I was little girl, which I loved. Or did you get ripped off?”

  “I’ll get it back! I’d do anything you ask to save our love.”

  “I asked you to go to therapy but you wouldn’t. You chose to solve the problem by listening to your cousin Guillermo’s advice.”

  “I’m sorry! How many times do I have to say it?”

  “I’ve already forgiven you, Roy, really. But now I want to move on with my life. And our marriage doesn’t figure in my plans.”

  “Yeah, a few stinking black men in Africa are better than me. Anything but me, right? Sorry!” He apologized immediately. “I’m sorry,” he gasped again.

  Matilde sighed. The conversation was starting to get pathetic.

  “How long will you be in Paris?”

  “Four months. Healing Hands is funding an intensive course in French before sending us to the Congo.”

  Blahetter nodded, and thought about telling her that maybe, if he was lucky, he’d soon be able to follow her to the French capital. He kept his mouth shut. Matilde surprised him with her cold indifference, addressing him as though he were a recent acquaintance. “Good-bye, Roy. I wish you the best.”

  He watched her as she walked away. The sharp pain he felt in his heart was genuine. Is that why love is linked to the heart? His was hurting right at that moment. “I’ll get you back, Matilde. I swear on my life that I’ll get you back.”

  Aldo and Roy made their good-byes to the Folicurés after the girls left to board the plane. Once they were alone, they chose the most isolated, solitary table at the airport bar.

  “What news?”

  “I made a few calls,” Aldo informed him. “A country might be interested. But they asked me questions I couldn’t answer. For example, they want to see a prototype.”

  “I worked for months in my grandfather’s metallurgy laboratory. I made some parts, but I don’t have the money to continue the project.”

  “I don’t think they’ll buy it without seeing a prototype. They’re afraid it’s a fake. When I explained to them how your centrifuge would work, they seemed very skeptical. Interested and intrigued, but skeptical. They think it’s impossible.”

  Blahetter took some folded papers out of his jacket pocket and pushed them, his hands shaking, across the table toward Aldo.

  “Calm down, Roy.”

  “I can’t. This is the proof that my invention,” he said, pointing his index finger at his chest, “is one of the most revolutionary advances in nuclear physics since the atomic bomb. This article is from Science and Technology. It’s the most prestigious scientific magazine in the world. It’s a giant step toward the Nobel Prize. The son of a bitch who stole the invention from me has published it there. And do you know why, Aldo? Because he, a genius in nuclear physics, knows that it’ll work.”

  Aldo turned over the pages and looked for the name of the author of the article. Orville Wright. Then he looked at the date. It had been published fairly recently.

  “How did your invention end up in this guy’s hands?”

  “Because I’m an idiot!” Blahetter blurted out, pounding his fist on the table. “I was stupid enough to trust him. We met at MIT. I was young and naive. Eager to learn. And Orville Wright is a physics genius. And he noticed me. He asked me to be his assistant at the laboratory. I was walking on air. It’s not easy to be that man’s assistant. He works crazy hours, he’s irritable, he’s basically insane. Still, I did whatever I could to help him and participate in his research. I lived at night because Wright is a night owl. I was
like a zombie during the day. Nothing else mattered. I trusted him with my studies, my plans, my breakthroughs. I’d never trusted anyone like that before. In fact, I never even used computers because they’re vulnerable. It’s so easy for a hacker to get into your computer and strip you bare. I worked in the old-fashioned manner, doing the drawings by hand and typing the reports on an Olivetti typewriter. And he stole it away from me. My work was my life.”

  “Have you only just found out? Because of the magazine?”

  “Yes. We were still exchanging e-mails up until a few days ago. Now I understand why he was asking me what he did. He needed to complete the centrifuge because the design he stole from me at MIT was unfinished. But as I never wanted to discuss my work over the Internet, I didn’t answer any of his questions.”

  “It would seem that he finished your work on his own.” Aldo was getting discouraged. “Otherwise he wouldn’t have published it. And he’s probably patented it already. Most likely they’ll end up buying the invention from him, prototype included.”

  “A prototype that’ll never work.” Blahetter’s sky-blue eyes suddenly perked up. Aldo raised his eyebrows. “I’m not going to give you a list of reasons why Wright’s model won’t work. You wouldn’t understand them. But I can tell you that Wright has made some errors in his calculations for the final phase.”

  “You could discredit him, expose him. He committed plagiarism and he shouldn’t get away with it. You’re its true inventor.”

  “I will. I’ll get my revenge one day. But I can’t until I have a prototype to demonstrate his mistakes. And I need to find out myself if my prototype works, which is why I need to build it as soon as possible, and for that I need money from a sponsor.”

  “Roy.” Aldo looked at him seriously. “You can’t mess around with the people we’re dealing with. You can’t promise to sell them something, build it and then say, ‘Oops! I was wrong. It doesn’t work after all.’ You’ll end up in a gutter with your throat slit.”

  “I know that it’ll work! I know it.”

  “You’re brilliant, son, there’s no doubt about that. And I trust you.”

  “Aldo, I’m desperate. I have a potential gold mine on my hands and I can’t exploit it. I need the cash to win Matilde back.”

  The older man smiled with an air of nostalgia.

  “Have you met my daughter? You’ll never get her back with money. That’ll just push her further away.”

  “I just want to give her financial stability so she doesn’t have to worry.”

  “I don’t judge you for having a lover. God knows that I’m hardly in a position to say anything. But did you really have to cheat on her only months after getting married? Worse than that,” Aldo complained, growing exasperated, “you were so negligent! It was as though you wanted her to catch you.”

  That’s not why Matilde left me. It was for something much worse, thought Blahetter, although he was unable to say it out loud.

  Eliah Al-Saud heard the voices of the first passengers as they passed him by and disappeared behind the curtain that separated first class from business class. He got up from his seat, ducking so as not to hit his head, and went out into the aisle to look for Esther. He stepped forward but hesitated when he saw Juana and “Mat” walking toward him. He was surprised; he had seen them queuing in the line for economy class. Juana was leading the way, looking back and forth between her boarding pass and the seat numbers; she read them out loud. “Mat” followed her in silence, studying her surroundings. Unlike Juana, who wore figure-hugging white pants and a tight, cropped pink T-shirt that declared “I’m in love with myself” in gold lettering, the blonde girl’s outfit was simple and demure: light-blue denim overalls over a barely visible emerald-green tank top; her feet were clad in flat, white sandals made from two leather strips that crossed in the middle. He noticed the bag she had slung across her back, a rustic weave in different shades of brown; she wore it across her shoulder as if it was weighing her down. Though it was difficult to see her body under the large, baggy overalls, Eliah thought to himself that she was very petite; he guessed that she wouldn’t be taller than five foot three.

  “Mmmm,” Juana purred, “someone’s using A*Men by Thierry Mugler. I love that scent.”

  Matilde was always surprised by her friend’s ability to detect scents in the air or on the skin. She couldn’t see how Juana could possible smell that someone was wearing A*Men when she had just smothered herself in Organza by Givenchy in the duty-free shop. Juana loved perfumes and knew each of their scents well, but since she couldn’t afford them, she had to make do with the imitations produced by Sercet, which, in her opinion, improved upon the originals.

  They passed by Eliah, who was still standing in the aisle. Although Juana bent her head down, he could still hear her whisper, “That’s the stud wearing A*Men. How fuckable is he?”

  He was intrigued by “Mat’s” reaction; she never once looked at him, not even to sneak a glance, as though her friend hadn’t said anything. A flight attendant approached him, and they exchanged a few words in French.

  “Ooh! Even better, he’s French,” Juana noted, glancing sideways.

  “Juani, strangers are the last resort of the desperate.”

  Al-Saud raised his eyebrows at the girl’s response, surprised by her sobriety, aplomb and maturity. How old was she?

  “These are our seats, Juani. Mine is seven-B and yours is six-B.”

  Al-Saud didn’t let his excitement show. He was sitting in 7A. But he was disappointed to hear her say, “If six-A or seven-A are free, we can sit together.”

  “Excusez-moi.” He slid in front of her and took his seat.

  Juana, turning so Al-Saud couldn’t see her, mouthed the word lucky.

  “Mat, this is the best!” she exclaimed as she discovered all the benefits of a business-class ticket.

  Matilde stretched up to put her bag in the overhead compartment, lifting her tank top slightly. Through the little gap in the side of the overalls, Al-Saud could make out the thinnest part of her waist and the translucent skin dotted with little freckles. Why did the image of his lips on that curve and his tongue running across her skin come into his head? He shifted in his seat as a sudden current pulsed in his groin. He looked down, annoyed at himself, and heard her settle in next to him. A sweet smell that reminded him of his nephew wafted over to him. She smelled of baby powder.

  He turned, unable to resist looking at her. Pretending to look for his seat belt, he leaned toward her. For some reason he couldn’t put his finger on, “Mat’s” scent stirred up intense emotions within him and he realized that he couldn’t take his eyes off her. A book, which she had taken out of the rustic bag before putting it in the overhead compartment, rested on her lap. She bunched her hair to the left so she could braid it, which she did slowly and skillfully. He liked her hands and long, thin fingers, even the shape of her clean, short, unpolished nails. She wasn’t wearing any rings or bracelets, just a cheap gray plastic watch, too big for such a slender wrist. Her forearms were completely smooth and he counted five moles, a constellation of small brown sequins. His gaze continued upward. I could fit my hand around her bicep with room to spare.

  “Monsieur?” It was Esther. “Your seat in first class is ready, monsieur. Please come with me.”

  Eliah thought for a moment: in first class he would be able to sleep the whole night through; the seats lay flat. His reply caught Esther off guard.

  “I’ve decided to stay here.” The reason for his sudden change of mind was sitting to his right.

  Esther stared at him until a bright-blonde head entered her visual field. She had to admit that the girl was certainly adorable.

  “Have a good trip,” she said, adding in Spanish, “Please fasten your seat belt, miss.”

  Matilde put down her book and picked up each end of the seat belt. She made a few unsuccessful attempts at fitting the tongue into the buckle. A pair of dark hands closed over hers and, before she could withdraw them,
silently showed her how to do it. For the first time, she deigned to acknowledge the person sitting next to her and looked him in the eye.

  “Thanks,” she whispered, turning away after a moment’s eye contact. My God! She said to herself, squeezing the book between her legs. She had always disregarded physical beauty; it wasn’t at all important to her and, rather than finding it attractive, she generally found it to be an obstacle. She often found beautiful people to be superficial and stupid. Juana chastised her for being unfair and her psychologist assured her that behind this indifference to beauty lay a hidden shield that protected her from being attracted to someone. Nonetheless, in that moment, the rugged beauty of the face in front of her knocked the wind out of her and upset her composure, as if she were in the presence of something sacred or supernatural. She was clearly affected by these particular eyes, which didn’t seem superficial or stupid; to the contrary, they shone with brilliant intelligence. What color were they? Blue green, yes, but what shade? She had to force herself not to study him further.

  Did she flap her eyelashes like that on purpose, so slowly, like the flutter of a butterfly as it balanced on a flower? His intuition told him that she didn’t. He prided himself on his ability to decipher people’s hidden motives from a simple exchange of words or the analysis of certain gestures, and he could tell that this creature didn’t have a drop of artificiality about her. For a fraction of a second, she had honored him with a glance, and he, an unfeeling cynic, felt pierced through, naked and enthralled. She had dominated him with all the surefootedness of a wise and serene soul. He wondered again how old she was. Twenty? Not more than that. What color were her eyes? Was it possible for someone to have silver irises? He had never seen eyes like that before. He continued to study her, unable to rouse himself from his stupor.