A Pimp's Notes (11 page)

“Do you have a driver’s license?”

“Yes.”

I stick my hands into my pockets and then I hold out my car keys to her. I can’t imagine what my face looks like as I tell her, with the thin thread of a voice that I can still muster, what I want from her.

“Drive me home, please. I don’t want to faint behind the wheel.”

7

The last thing I see are headlights
.

The light disappears suddenly, along with my breath. Then a rough canvas bag over my head, shoving, yanking, a callused hand pushing me into a car. From then on it’s only sounds. Bumping and jouncing, the clicking of vibrations and the roar of the engine in the dark. The heavy breathing of more than one man. Then the car stops and the whole thing happens in reverse. This time it’s to get out of the car, but it’s still yanking and jerking and shoving and a callused hand

the same one?

pulling me out and I’m unable to breathe because now two hands

the same ones?

are throttling my neck and forcing me down onto my knees. And the voice comes out of the void and …

I wake up with a jolt.

I’m in bed, naked, and I can feel that the sheets are drenched with sweat. Maybe it’s not only sweat, but I pay no attention to that detail. My head is doing its best to get my thoughts into some kind of order. Unfortunately, with the return of some semblance of order comes memory as well. Tulip, the trip to the outskirts of the city, those three pistol shots smothered by the silencer, the bloodstain on his shirt, his eyes staring glassy in the darkness. And after that, Carla’s eyes, docile while she looked at me, rebellious while she was speaking to me, and careful while she was driving and listening to the directions to my house.

I can’t imagine what her eyes were like as she watched me emerge from my clothing.

As soon as we got home, walking as best I could, I went into my bedroom and collapsed onto the bed, fully dressed. I fell asleep instantly. She must have undressed me. I can well imagine her surprise. Maybe she leaped backward when she slipped off my underwear. A reflexive act of horror, a switchblade jab to the stomach, the kind of thing that the mind combines to form a new memory.

I stand up, yank the sheet off the bed, and wrap myself in it like a toga, ready for my twenty-three stab wounds. I walk into the bathroom, lock the door behind me, lower myself onto the pot, and let go of everything I’ve got inside. When I think of the fact that right now I ought to be lying motionless a yard deep in the ground with a bullet lodged in my head, even pissing and shitting can become a hymn to life.

I step into the shower and carefully soap every square inch of my body to remove all traces of last night. I don’t know who shot Tulip and I don’t even bother to venture a name. I’d need to search through too long a list of people who might have it in for that murderous psychotic. The thing I can’t figure out, no matter how hard I try, is why the same guy didn’t shoot me too.

I slip into my bathrobe and notice as I step out of the shower that my clothing is piled in a heap next to the laundry hamper. I’ll have to get rid of it. Washing it might be enough, but it’s a risk I’d rather avoid. I don’t want to be found walking around in clothes that might contain traces of dirt from a place where the police have just found a dead body with three bullet holes in it.

I step out of the bathroom with my hair still wet, walk up the hallway, and emerge into the living room. Carla’s on my right, lying down on the sofa. She’s asleep, fully dressed, her legs tucked up, one arm wedged under one of the little throw pillows. She’s removed her jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders as a blanket. Her shoes lie neatly on the floor. She’s breathing lightly, despite her uncomfortable position. Her face is beautiful; her complexion is fair, even without her eyes to illuminate it.

I run my gaze around the room.

On the chest of drawers next to the television set is everything I had in my pockets. Cigarettes, lighter, wallet, money clip and wad of bills, pager—almost exactly the way I arrange them before I undress, in practically the same order. The wall clock says it’s noon. The red light on the phone is blinking to tell me there are messages on my answering machine.

Later for them.

When my eyes swing back around to Carla, she’s awake and looking at me. I made no noise walking on the carpeted floor. Evidently my simple presence was enough to awaken her. She remains curled up, in anticipation and in self-defense. She speaks without moving.

“Sorry.”

“About what?”

“For taking off your clothes. I didn’t—”

I break in, brusquely and dismissively filing the case away for good.

“It’s not a problem. Do you want some coffee?”

She studies me, carefully. Then she swivels to a sitting position, in a rather graceful manner.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

I shake my head slightly, and as I do, in spite of myself, I can feel my jaw muscles tightening. “No.”

I walk past her and head into the small galley kitchen. Her voice follows me.

“That thingy made a noise once or twice.”

I accept the information without comment. I presume that the thingy in question is my pager. It can wait too. Right now, I don’t feel like getting back in touch with the world. I’m still alive and I’m at home, with one of the few people on earth who knows about my condition. I feel strangely at ease. That’s a feeling that I should enjoy as a gift of chance. I doubt that heaven would go to that much trouble on my behalf.

While I’m preparing the espresso maker, her voice comes looking for me again.

“You know, I don’t even know what to call you.”

“Bravo.”

“That’s a strange name.”

“In fact, it’s not my name at all. But that’s what everyone calls me.”

“You must have a name of your own.”

“A name doesn’t mean a thing. Even Shakespeare said so. You can just call me Bravo like everybody else.”

“Exactly where did you get this nickname?”

Understand? That’s it, don’t squirm. Bravo!

I shrug my shoulders, as if she could see me.

“It’s just one of those things you get stuck with for no reason. I don’t even remember how it happened.”

I turn around to put the espresso pot on the burner and I see that she’s standing in the door watching me. Her footsteps, like mine, made no noise. But I didn’t perceive her presence behind me.

“Can I help you?”

“No, take it easy. Have a seat. There’s barely room for one person in here.”

I watch her as she goes over and sits in one of the four chairs around the small circular table by the window. I think back to her outburst that morning, when we met outside the Ascot. I wonder how much determination and how much emotion there was behind her words. The first quality makes a person act, the second makes them cut and run. You have to work out the proportion of one and the other. And there’s only one way to do it. I lean against the doorjamb and ask her.

“Are you still determined to do what you asked me this morning?”

“Yes.”

“It’s not a road you can’t come back from. But if you do, you’ll be bringing some unpleasant memories with you.”

She instinctively shakes her head.

“That’s something to worry about in the future. Anything would be better than the present.”

From the stove I hear the steaming gargle of the espresso pot. I swivel around and turn off the gas. I pick up the demitasses and the sugar bowl and set them down on the table. Then I step back into the galley kitchen and reappear with the pot of coffee. She watches as I pour the espresso into the little cups. An intense gaze, which would wind up who knows where if she allowed it to roam.

“Why do you do it?”

“For the same reason you’ve decided to work with me. For money.”

She takes a sip of coffee without adding sugar. Then she sets the demitasse back down on the table, running her hand underneath to make sure there are no drops clinging to the bottom.

“I don’t think it’s that simple. In my case, sure, because I intend to use what God gave me to get out of this shitty life.”

She pauses, and in the interval she allows herself a little extra time to size me up. Then she continues, as if she were thinking aloud.

“You don’t strike me as somebody who came from the poorer part of town, from the outskirts. I can spot people like you. You speak without an accent. You have nice manners, I’d even say elegant. You have books on your shelves that don’t strike me as the pulp porn that my brother reads.”

From the tension in her voice I can tell that she’s having a hard time not referring to what she found out about me when she slipped off my underwear.

“In other words, you don’t seem like what you are.”

“No. I am: one hundred percent.”

I finish my cup of coffee before going on.

“The men who use my services are usually afraid and in a hurry. They’re far too busy running a company, a bank, or a political party. These are lines of work that completely devour your free time. What they’re afraid of, on the other hand, is the idea of hearing someone say to their face the one syllable they’re least willing to hear: no.”

I go over to get my cigarettes from the top of the chest of drawers. I light one.

“I remove that fear and I give them that time. My girls are a reliable
yes
, satisfied and accommodating. A smiling island that has no name and won’t remember any.”

I emit a puff of smoke into the room, and it mingles with words that are equally unsubstantial.

“Sometimes these men have a wife they no longer love and who perhaps no longer loves them. They have children they see when they get a chance. They have families that are weak but armor-plated by plenty of money.”

At last I pull my greedy little rabbit out of the hat.

“But, as in all armor, there’s a chink in theirs. I identify that chink; I widen it until it becomes a fissure, and then a wide-open door.”

I sit down again. She catches me off guard with a sidetrack.

“In Spanish,
bravo
means courageous.”

“I know that.”

“And are you?”

I think back to a grave I dug but didn’t occupy. To the way I felt at that moment. I smile faintly, not at her, but at myself.

“It doesn’t take any particular courage to do what I do. Nothing really to be proud of. In the final analysis, the satisfaction I get is a very modest sense of power.”

We exchange a glance, and then we both look away at the same time, with the precision of a couple of experienced dancers. We sit in silence for a few seconds. Each of us has something different in our heads, both springing from the same subject.

Her voice brings us both back to practical considerations.

“Could I take a shower?”

“Of course. If you like, I think I have some casual clothes a friend of mine left in the apartment. She left them here one day when she got changed, just before an appointment. I had them cleaned and she never came by to pick them up. They ought to be just your size. They’re in the armoire at the end of the hall.”

She stands up and it’s a parade that seems to end too soon. I imagine her body under the cheap dress she’s wearing. I remember what Daytona said, when we were leaving the gambling den in Opera.

A fantastic body. A figure to knock your eyes out. A couple of tits straight out of science fiction and an ass that talks, eloquently …

She takes a couple of steps down the hallway. Then she turns around.

“Are you coming? I assume you’d want to check out the merchandise.”

I sit on the chair and look at her. Something moves inside me. Something that’s digging, looking for a way out that it can find only at the cost of my life. In my case, anger is the only outlet for desire. I want to hurt her, but I can’t do it. All I can do is give a slight jab, to remind her that she’s already been a whore, already worked for me.

“There’s no need. My friend gave me excellent references on your work.”

She gets the point and nods. Then she turns and disappears down the hall, leaving me alone. Unfortunately, what she aroused in me she doesn’t take with her. It sits there inside me, carving me inside and nourishing itself on my breath.

I light another cigarette.

Then I call the Eurocheck switchboard. They tell me to call the phone number 02 212121, without a name. I recognize it and know that it’s not a phone number at all. It’s just a signal, a sort of message. And in my mind, I’m replacing every one of those digits with a dollar sign.

I dial a number that I’ve memorized. In this case, no address books or sheets of paper or memos. Nothing that can be read. The mind is the best instance of something that can’t be read. With the face, it’s a little more challenging but you can get to it, in time.

The person at the other end of the line picks up almost instantly.

“Hello.”

“This is Bravo.”

My client’s voice is direct and flat, accustomed to giving orders.

“I need three girls.”

No chitchat. I know perfectly well that the man on the other end of the line looks down on me for the work I do. I believe that he must assume that, to the exact same extent, I look down on him for what he’s asking me to do for him. Neither of us cares. Each of us has something the other one needs. In his case, money. In my case, beautiful women who can keep a secret. I give and I get. Everything works smoothly if it’s a fair game.

“When?”

“Tomorrow, in the early afternoon. Let’s say around three o’clock. They’ll be picked up the same way as the other times. They’ll have to spend the night and be completely open to anything. Do you think that three million lire apiece will persuade them to be sufficiently compliant?”

I keep myself from whistling. Considering that I have the girls on a 70-30 split, that means there’s 2.7 million lire in some anonymous bank account that’s ready and eager to hop into my pockets.

“Oh, absolutely. Do you want the same girls?”

“Yes. They were perfect. If I remember correctly they were—”

I break in before he can speak.