A Pimp's Notes (44 page)

“Of course I baked it. There is always Feliciana’s cake in this house.”

I’ve lived here for eight years and my Spanish has evolved over time: from pathetic to not bad to what I’d now describe as excellent. My unequaled housekeeper, however, is impervious to any curiosity about foreign languages and she doesn’t speak a word of Italian.

She understands it, but she refuses to speak it.

For that matter, now that I think about it, why should she?

She bustles off, slightly indignant that I should have dared to doubt the availability of her masterpiece of confectionery. I plunge into the newspapers, reading about things that all these years later don’t even arouse my curiosity. Sometimes I have the impression that if you took the newspapers from ten years ago and substituted new names, you could just publish the same articles. Political squabbles, the underdeveloped south that refuses to grow, the working class that never went to its worker’s paradise. Still, in spite of everything, I am and I remain an emigrant. A pinch of nostalgia, tiny but tough, is still there.

Here on Isla Margarita, the Italian newspapers always arrive a couple of days late.

Today is the eleventh of May.

On the copy of
Il Corriere
that I’m holding, the date is the ninth of May.

Ten years ago, on that very same day, the lifeless body of Aldo Moro was found in the trunk of a Renault R4. That desolate image appears at the center of an article on the third page, the editorial page in Italy, retracing the stations of his calvary.

I remember a few chilly words in a hotel room.

Aldo Moro is already a dead man …

The state funeral had the scale and imposing gravity that a person of his stature, killed in such tragic circumstances, deserved and required. The funerals of my father and my uncle were carried out with the furtive haste usually employed in sweeping dirt under the carpet. No one was interested in being seen attending them and no one cared to say farewell to either man. Now they’re nothing but a couple of names and a photograph on a headstone and, in certain circles, a lingering awkward moment whenever they are mentioned.

Just like everywhere else in the world, in Italy we sometimes choose to remember. And we sometimes choose to forget.

The scrambled eggs and toast are served at the exact moment that Pilar emerges in her bathrobe through the glass door of the living room. She’s barefoot and her hair is glistening with water, which means she just took a shower. She takes a look at the view and stretches before coming over to sit next to me.

“¿Cómo estás, mi hermoso italiano?”

I take her hand and kiss her skin, which smells of bubble bath and pretty woman.

“Wonderfully well. How could I be otherwise?”

Pilar points to the eggs and speaks to Feliciana.

“Could I have the same?”

As the woman heads back to the kitchen, Pilar steals a slice of toast from my plate. She starts chewing it, pretending to be a hamster. I laugh, the way I always do when she pulls that sight gag. She pours herself a glass of
coco frío
from a pitcher.

“What are you doing today?”

“I have to go to El Pueblo del Viento. There’s a meeting for the development of a new shopping center and they’re wondering whether I have intentions of investing any money.”

“Do you have any?”

“Intentions or money?”

Instead of eating her last bite of toast, she throws it at me.

“Estúpido.”

I spread my arms out wide, like someone faced with the undeniable.

“The problem isn’t ideas, it’s money.”

She reaches out and embraces me. She presses her forehead against mine.

“My poor penniless darling. I hear there’s a rich gentleman from Switzerland in a hotel in Pampatar who’s very generous with the pretty girls. If you like, I can get you some money there.”

Those words take me back in time. To when I used to say them and the roles were reversed. A small cloud passes over the May sky, and I do everything I can to make sure Pilar doesn’t see it. Unsuccessfully.

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”

She looks at me, nonplussed. Then she bursts out laughing.

“You’re jealous.
Madre de Dios
, you’re jealous.
Hermoso y celoso
.”

She stands up and comes over to sit on my lap. She hugs me. The moisture of her bathrobe, the moisture of her hair, the moisture of her lips.

“Te quiero.”

“Yo te quiero también.”

It’s the second time we’ve said it to each other in the past few hours. And that’s something I didn’t mind even a little bit. Pilar fell into my life as an unexpected gift. She was a tourist with plenty of money who flew from Spain to Playa El Agua, either because she was looking for something or because she was running away from something. We met and she decided to extend her stay on the island. At first, it was supposed to be for another month. That turned into an extra two months. Then she moved into my house. Finally, the idea of a departure date was simply dismissed entirely. I told her only what I felt like telling her about me. She did the same. I explained to her what I was, what I wasn’t, and what I’d never be. She did the same thing. Since then, we’ve had a mutually comfortable relationship that’s lasted for more than five years. Like anything involving human beings, there’s no saying how long it will last. We may not be a family. But we’re the closest thing to it that we’ve been able to assemble.

Our moment of union is over but not forgotten.

I lift Pilar out of my lap and march her back to her chair. There’s a damp patch on my trousers where she was sitting. I brush a few bread crumbs off my shirt.

“I have to go. What are you going to do today?”

Pilar points inside the house.

“Howard invited me to go surfing with him, in the afternoon. We thought we’d go down to El Yaque too. As soon as he wakes up.”

Howard is the boy who followed us home. After the hard work he did last night, I have my doubts as to whether he’ll wake up anytime in the next couple of hours. From Pilar’s expression, I see that she feels the same way.

“That’s fine. In the afternoon, after the meeting, I’ll stop by the resort village. There are some things I have to work out with the manager. We’re planning to renovate a few of the bungalows.”

I forestall any possible reaction on her part.

“Let me reassure you, there are no money problems. So you won’t really have to call your wealthy Swiss gentleman.”

She laughs again.

I turn to go. Her voice reaches me as I’m about to head down the steps that lead from the terrace to the ground floor, past the pool, and to the garage in back of the house.

“I need the Patrol. Take the Mercedes.”

Without turning around, I give her the thumbs-up sign.

I walk around the pool toward the garage; the water is bright, reflecting the blue of the sky and absorbing its color. The garden is filled with trees and short palms; flowers are blooming everywhere, thanks to the expert care of Cristóbal.

A Mercedes sedan is parked next to a Nissan Patrol. The keys are in the ignition. I climb in and start the engine. I drive along the lane that leads out of my property. I turn onto Avenida 31 de Julio and continue until I reach the highway that runs across the island and takes me to Porlamar. At a fork in the road I lean right and take the road that runs around the airport and continues down to Playa El Yaque.

Every time I drive around this island, I’m forced to congratulate myself once again for the decision to live here. When I first got here, after an initial period of adjustment and giddy astonishment at the sheer beauty of the place, I took a good hard look around. I could sense a potential for tourism in the air that would certainly turn into a boom before long. That’s exactly what happened and what continues to happen. Here was a chance to live in a secluded place without having to feel like an exile or a fugitive. A chance to work while leading a relaxed life at the same time. I bought three hotels and I invested in a number of businesses: restaurants, shops, and agencies providing services of all kinds to tourists.

I’m not doing all that badly.

I turn on the radio. From the more or less paved asphalt road, a trail of dust kicks up behind the car and the cloud almost seems to be swaying to the rhythm of the music. When I get to the beach, I park in the courtyard, in a space reserved for staff of El Pueblo del Viento, one of the resorts that I own.

It’s a series of bungalows built in wood and masonry, carefully designed to appear primitive and still offer all the modern comforts. They’re arrayed around a clubhouse that contains the reception desk, the restaurant, and a number of services that I was the first to offer tourists on the island, such as massages and beauty treatments for the body.

The resort village takes its name from the fact that it’s just a short walk from a windy beach that is a paradise for windsurfers on Isla Margarita. In fact my clientele is for the most part made up of fanatical windsurfers who can’t believe they’ve found a place where they can walk out of their room, pick up their board, and minutes later be skimming over the waves in a steady wind. Of course, all that comes with a price tag. But then, everything comes with a price tag, in the world of men.

The people I’m scheduled to meet today agreed to hold our little war council in one of the conference rooms at the resort village. It was a gesture of respect, as well as a way of making it as convenient as possible for me to join them. After all, I am one of the most sought-after investors in this latest venture. In the presence of money, trousers have a way of sliding down around ankles, all over the world. The line about money and ideas isn’t exactly the way I recounted it to Pilar.

There’s plenty of ass, it’s the money we lack. That’s the original version.

Godie
dixit
.

I head for the clubhouse and walk in through the front door. I’m immediately in a large five-sided space, illuminated on three sides by large plate-glass windows. On the left is the bar and the lounge. On the right is the restaurant, which extends out onto a terrace overlooking the beach.

Across from the front door is the reception desk.

A group of new arrivals is standing in the lobby, waiting to be directed to their various rooms. Next to them sit the colorful patches of their suitcases, which will be carried to their rooms by the staff. I walk over and notice the manager, a man of average height with a beard and an aggravated bald spot, busy talking to a family of three.

Standing perpendicular to me, so I see him in profile, is a tall man with a receding hairline, an athletic build, and a square jaw. He has no need to wave an American flag for his nationality to be unmistakable. Next to him, with their backs to me, are a little boy about seven and a tall, slender woman with honey blond hair. She’s wearing a pair of jeans and a light denim shirt.

It strikes me from their posture that there’s some tension in the air. As the manager talks, he dry-washes his hands, a typical nervous tic of his in difficult moments. When he sees me coming, a look of relief spreads across his face and he gives me a sign. The three guests turn all at once, in response to his glance.

The woman is Carla.

My heart stops for a second. I manage to keep from lurching to a halt myself. I keep walking toward them, hoping that my face is just as smooth and untroubled as the face of the woman I’m seeing again after all these years.

“Buenos días, Guillermo. ¿Qué pasa?”

“There must have been a misunderstanding of some kind. The McKays tell me that they made a reservation but I see no sign of it in our records. Unfortunately, the resort village is completely booked and I have no way of giving them a place to stay.”

The manager spoke in English, so that everyone could understand. My theory about their place of origin has proved correct.

The little boy grabs his father’s waist.

“Oh, Daddy, this place is so pretty. Look at all the surfers. Can we stay here?”

Carla pulls the boy away from his father and pulls him close to her.

“Wait and see, Malcolm. I’m sure everything’s going to be fine.”

I extend my hand. The man returns a firm and vigorous grip. Since English is the official language of this conversation, I go along.

“Mr. McKay, my name is Nicola Sangiorgi. I’m the proprietor of this establishment. Let’s see what we can do today to make your son happy.”

Carla jerked imperceptibly in shock. I was the only one who noticed it, because I was the only one who knew to look for a reaction when she heard my real name.

I walk away, leaving them to wait expectantly. I check the reservation ledger and see that Guillermo Castillos, the manager, told the truth.

The resort village is fully booked.

I see on the list of arrivals for today a French couple, regular clients so faithful that they could be considered friends.

I point to their names.

“Please inform the Tourniers that there’s been a mistake and that we won’t be able to have them as our guests here. To make up for this regrettable mishap, they’ll be transferred to La Fortaleza and there will be no charge for their stay.”

La Fortaleza is the name of another hotel I own. It’s in Juan Griego and it’s unquestionably my finest property. The French couple will have nothing to complain about.

“But the Tourniers…”

“The Tourniers don’t care about windsurfing. They’ll be delighted to spend their holiday free of charge in accomodations that are perhaps even finer than these. Do as I say and you’ll see, everything will turn out perfectly.”

“As you like, Señor Sangiorgi.”

His expression is so unmistakable that I can practically hear the words he’s thinking.

Do whatever the fuck you want. You’re the boss and as long as you’re happy …

And I am happy, and so he’d better be happy too.

The manager goes back to his work. I go over to the family of three who are waiting to learn the outcome. I assure them that it’s just as they’d hoped.