The Hidden Assassins. Robert Thomas Wilson
her flat breasts. She kissed him and slipped a cube of ice from between her lips into his confused mouth and something like a firework went off in the back of his head.
She held him at bay with a single finger on his sternum. The ice cooled his tongue. She gave him an appraising look, from crown to crotch, and admonished him with a raised eyebrow. She took his jacket and hurled it into the room. He loved this whorish stuff she did, and she knew it. She dropped to her haunches, undid his belt and tugged his trousers and underpants down, then eased him profoundly into the coolness of her mouth. Calderón braced himself in the doorframe and gritted his teeth. She looked up at his agony with wide eyes. He lasted less than a minute.
She stood, turned on her heel and strode back into her apartment. Calderón pulled himself together. He didn’t hear her hawking and spitting in the bathroom. He just saw her reappear from the kitchen, carrying two chilled glasses of cava.
‘I thought you weren’t coming,’ she said, looking at the thin, gold wafer of watch on her wrist, ‘and then I remembered my mother telling me that the only time a Sevillano wasn’t late was for the bulls.’
Calderón was too dazed to comment. Marisa drank from her flute. Twenty gold and silver bracelets rattled on her forearm. She lit a cigarette, crossed her legs and let the shift slip away to reveal a long, slim leg, orange panties and a hard brown stomach. Calderón knew that stomach, its paper-thin skin, hard wriggling muscularity and soft coppery down. He’d laid his head on it and stroked the tight copper curls of her pubis.
‘Esteban!’
He snapped out of the natural revolutions of his mind.
‘Have you eaten?’ he asked, nothing else coming to him, conversation not being one of the strengths of their relationship.
‘I don’t need any feeding,’ she said, taking a shelled brazil nut from a bowl, and putting it between her hard, white teeth. ‘I’m quite ready to be fucked.’
The nut went off in her mouth like a silenced gun and Calderón reacted like a sprinter out of the blocks. He fell into her snake-like arms and bit into her unnaturally long neck, which seemed stretched, like those of African tribal women. In fact for him, that was her attraction: part sophisticate, part savage. She’d lived in Paris, modelling for Givenchy, and travelled across the Sahara with a caravan of Tuaregs. She’d slept with a famous movie director in Los Angeles and lived with a fisherman on the beach near Maputo in Mozambique. She’d worked for an artist in New York, and spent six months in the Congo learning how to carve wood. Calderón knew all this, and believed it because Marisa was such an extraordinary creature, but he didn’t have the first idea of what was going on in her head. So, like a good lawyer, he clung to these few dazzling facts.
After sex they went to bed, which for Marisa was a place to talk or sleep but not for the writhings and juices of sex. They lay naked under a sheet with light from the street in parallelograms on the wall and ceiling. The cava fizzed in glasses balanced on their chests. They shared an ashtray in the trough between their bodies.
‘Shouldn’t you have gone by now?’ said Marisa.
‘Just a little bit longer,’ said Calderón, drowsy.
‘What does Inés think you’re doing all this time?’ asked Marisa, for something to say.
‘I’m at a dinner…for work.’
‘You’re just about the last person in the world who should be married,’ she said.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Well, maybe not. After all, you Sevillanos are very conservative. Is that why you married her?’
‘Part of it.’
‘What was the other part?’ she asked, pointing the cone of her cigarette at his chest. ‘The more interesting part.’
She burnt a hair off one of his nipples; the smell of it filled his nostrils.
‘Careful,’ he said, feeling the sting, ‘you don’t want ash all over the sheets.’
She rolled back from him, flicked her cigarette out on to the balcony.
‘I like to hear the parts that people don’t want to tell me about,’ she said.
Her coppery hair was splayed out on the white pillow. He hadn’t been able to look at her hair without thinking of the other woman he’d known with hair of the same colour. It had never occurred to him to tell anybody about the late Maddy Krugman except the police in his statement. He hadn’t even talked to Inés about that night. She knew the story from the newspapers, the surface of it anyway, and that was all she’d wanted to know.
Marisa raised her head and sipped from her flute. He was attracted to her for the same reason that he’d been attracted to Maddy: the beauty, the glamour, the sexiness and the complete mystery. But what was he to her? What had he been to Maddy Krugman? That was something that occupied his spare thinking time. Especially those hours of the early morning, when he woke up next to Inés and thought that he might be dead.
‘I don’t really give a fuck why you married her,’ said Marisa, trying a well-tested trick.
‘Well, that’s not what’s interesting.’
‘I’m not sure I need to know what is interesting,’ said Marisa. ‘Most men who think they’re fascinating only ever talk about themselves…their successes.’
‘This wasn’t one of my successes,’ said Calderón. ‘It was one of my greatest failures.’
He’d made a snap decision to tell her. Candour was not one of his strongest suits; in his society it had a way of coming back on you, but Marisa was an outsider. He also wanted to fascinate her. Having always been the object of fascination to women he’d understood completely, he had the uncomfortable feeling of being ordinary with exotic creatures like Maddy Krugman and Marisa Moreno. Here, he thought, was an opportunity to intrigue the intriguers.
‘It was about four years ago and I’d just announced my engagement to Inés,’ he said. ‘I was called to a situation, which looked like a murder-suicide. There were some anomalies, which meant that the detective, who, by a coincidence, happened to be the ex-husband of Inés, wanted to treat it as a double murder investigation. The victim’s neighbours were American. The woman was an artist and stunningly beautiful. She was a photographer with a taste for the weird. Her name was Maddy Krugman and I fell in love with her. We had a brief but intense affair until her insane husband found out and cornered us in an apartment one night. To cut a long and painful story short, he shot her and then himself. I was lucky not to get a bullet in the head as well.’
They lay in silence. Voices came up over the balcony rail from the street. A warm breeze blew at the voile curtains, which billowed into the room, bringing the smell of rain and the promise of hot weather in the morning.
‘And that’s why you married Inés.’
‘Maddy was dead. I was very badly shaken. Inés represented stability.’
‘Did you tell her you’d fallen in love with this woman?’
‘We never talked about it.’
‘And what now…four years later?’
‘I feel nothing for Inés,’ said Calderón, which was not quite the whole truth. He did feel something for her. He hated her. He could hardly bear to share her bed, had to steel himself to her touch, and he couldn’t understand why. He had no idea where it came from. She hadn’t changed. She had been both good to him and for him after the Maddy incident. This feeling of dying he had when he was with her in bed was a symptom. Of what, he could not say.
‘Well, Esteban, you’re a member of a very large club.’
‘Have you ever been married?’
‘You are joking,’ said Marisa. ‘I watched the soap opera of my parents’ marriage for fifteen years. That was enough to warn me off that