A Pimp's Notes (15 page)

This little speech was necessary. Just like others that I’d deliver later, much cruder and more laden with details. For the moment, I’ve done my best to use language that wouldn’t make her feel like too much of a whore. The relationship with the work she’d be doing, as Laura taught me, is a personal matter. My job ends outside the bedroom door.

If for no other reason than that, inside, I wouldn’t have a lot to offer.

She seems to be lost in thought. She’s staring into the middle distance, and I have no idea what she’s actually visualizing. If what I’m seeing on her face is hesitation, it would probably be better to clear things up immediately, before it’s too late.

“Are you having second thoughts? Changing your mind?”

Carla looks at me in that way she has, which creates a new vacuum inside me every time.

“No, I’m not having second thoughts. It’s just that I’m discovering a new and unexpected world, Bravo. It’s not clean, it’s not honest, and it’s totally unjustified. I’ll earn in one night what I used to earn in a year. And I’m sick and tired of resoled shoes, of hairdressers in fourth-floor walk-ups, of living in a building where the smell of cooking seems to have seeped into the plaster.”

In her voice I can sense all of those things. I feel as if I can see them and smell them as she speaks.

“I want a real home, nice clothes, a car, and some things I can rely on. I don’t care what I have to give in exchange. My dreams, if there are any, can come later. For now, there’s nothing but bare necessities and things I want to forget. And I intend to wipe them out, all of them, one by one.”

She smiles. But there’s no happiness on her lips, only bitter traces of regret.

“Today, thanks to you, I learned three things. The first thing is that I can be beautiful too. The second thing is that, for better or worse, I can decide how to live my life. The third thing…”

She falls silent. I push to know more. Not out of curiosity, just a strange and sadistic form of personal euthanasia.

“The third thing?”

She smiles in a different way and steps close to me. She sets all her bags down on the sidewalk. She stands back up and in her high heels she’s almost as tall as me. She tilts her face up, throws her arms around my neck, and places her lips on mine. She closes her eyes as she does it. She stays there, motionless, forever. Then she pulls away and time resumes flowing normally.

“The third thing, if you don’t mind, I’ll keep to myself for right now.”

She picks up the bags again and starts off, leaving me rooted to the sidewalk, alone in a way I hadn’t thought possible. I catch up with her, because I can’t do anything else. We walk in silence, side by side, looking at the world while the world looks back, until we reach my car. I open the trunk and add the bags and packages to the ones already stowed away. If I consider myself as a businessman, I can just think of this as an investment for the future.

We get in the car and we pull away from the Galleria del Corso and the Crota Piemunteisa, a bar where I once ate about two metric tons of frankfurter and sauerkraut sandwiches, when I first came to Milan. Not because I was a snob, but because other people were snubbing me.

Just to lighten the atmosphere, I steer the conversation onto more worldly topics.

“Are you hungry?”

“Starving. Where are we going to eat?”

“In one of the restaurants that I find it necessary to frequent, from time to time. We have an appointment there with Cindy and Barbara, the girls I told you about.”

She instinctively asks the question.

“Is it expensive?”

She said it in such an apprehensive tone of voice that this time I’m the one who bursts out laughing.

“Don’t worry about it. It’s my treat. Moreover, I herewith authorize you to assume that the days of packing a sandwich before you leave the house are over.”

I give her time to metabolize what I just told her. It’s important that she believe. Confidence in the future makes your eyes shine, and it gives you a certain strength. Carla needs that strength right now the way she needs oxygen. Confidence is allure and allure is power.

And power equals money.

I talk to her about practical things to erase memories and ward off sadness.

“It seems to me that you no longer want to go home. Until you find a better place to live, you could stay at the residence in Piazzale Principessa Clotilde. It’s very popular with models these days. It’s a good showcase for the work we have to do.”

I forestall any further financial analysis.

“And don’t ask me how much it costs. I guarantee that you’ll be able to afford it.”

She looks at me. I can’t decipher her expression.

“Can I stay at your house again tonight?”

Perhaps I wait a little longer than I need to before answering. And maybe I ask the wrong question.

“What for?”

“No reason. I just don’t feel like being alone. Too many things have happened, and all too quickly.”

I’m surprised to hear my voice giving permission for something I would never have allowed any other person in any other case.

“All right. Tomorrow, while you’re working, I’ll find you a place to stay.”

Carla relaxes and smiles.

“I’m hungry and tonight, since it’s on you, I want to have a feast. You know I’ve never tasted champagne?”

We laugh heartily at the thought and it occurs to me that to someone watching us from outside we must look like an ordinary couple, our car full of packages, heading home after an afternoon shopping spree. What we really are is tucked away deep inside, and we have the whole evening ahead of us to avoid thinking about it. Meanwhile, an oddly indulgent traffic flow has allowed us to move quickly down Via Ripamonti and to drive past the intersection with Via Antonini. We keep driving and take a left turn. A short distance later we’re parked outside a renovated farmhouse where a sign confirms that we have arrived at the restaurant called Ricovero Attrezzi—the Toolshed. The cars parked in the dim light are nearly all powerful and expensive. I can guess that later this evening some of these cars are likely to be pulling into the parking lot of a casino somewhere outside the town of Opera. Or maybe they’ll be parking at the Charly Max or they might be double-parked outside Nepentha, with a lavish tip left to the attendant to make sure the car’s parked properly as soon as a space opens up. I slip my pathetic little Mini between a couple of grown-up cars, handing a thousand lire to Nino, the parking attendant, so he’ll keep an eye on it.

We walk into the place, and Carla stops just inside the door. Her entrance was like tossing a bowling ball at a cluster of pins. I don’t know if it was a strike, but she definitely knocked down quite a few. Within a couple of seconds dozens of eyes swivel to stare at her.

I’m used to it.

But she isn’t.

I take her arm and I can feel that she’s slightly tense. I smile at her and she can sense the amusement in my voice.

“It’s all just like I told you it would be, isn’t it? You just have to get used to it. Come on. Barbara and Cindy are already here.”

The girls are sitting in a small room in the back, visible at a diagonal angle from the front door. I walk ahead of Carla. Passing by sharp glances and silverware, we make our way through the main dining room of the restaurant, furnished in a style that matches the age and nature of the building. Wood, amber lights, slightly rough plaster in a light yellow hue, oaken tables. As in all fashionable restaurants, the food is no good at all and the prices are astronomical. This is the magic of Milan by night, mysterious alchemies that transform lousy food into solid gold. Maybe many years ago this really was a toolshed, but whoever renovated it turned it into a shed where they hang rich people out to dry. Actually, now that I think about it, many of those rich people really are nothing but tools. So in a way, its original purpose has been preserved.

As we walk over to the table, I can see Cindy and Barbara unstitch the clothes on Carla’s back and count the money in her purse.

By the time we sit down, she’s already been identified and cataloged as a dangerous rival, although neither of them would admit it, even under torture. But in this case the point of reference is me, and none of them have ever had any reason to complain, about their pride or their pocketbooks. Of course, certain minor jealousies can be tolerated, especially if there’s caviar and champagne to go with them.

I make the introductions.

“Carla, meet Cindy and Barbara.”

Barbara is a brunette, a daughter of the Mediterranean, with dark eyes and an olive complexion. She is self-possessed, with a magnificent figure and a cheerful temperament. Cindy is the diametric opposite. She’s tall and slender, with nice curves where it counts, fair-skinned, with a blond pageboy and blue eyes. She’s a little neurotic and slightly introverted but, I am told, just unbelievable between the sheets.

Voice of the people, voice of Eros itself.

The two girls both look at me with a very similar expression, tacitly asking the same question. I assuage their concern and curiosity by completing the introductions.

“Girls, this is Carla. From now on, she’s working with us.”

They’re evidently relieved, to some extent. This means that the conversation can at least be freewheeling, no matter what there might be to say. There’s no time to add anything more. A waiter promptly shows up at our table bearing four leather folders containing our menus. Before he leaves, I order mineral water and a bottle of champagne, as promised. Carla watches what the other girls do and behaves accordingly. I look around at the three women’s faces as they immerse themselves in the reading of the menu to determine whether to order fish or fowl. Restaurants are one of the few places where it’s possible to establish with confidence whether it’s one thing or the other.

While the girls study the menu, I study the dining room. There are a couple of television personalities, a few leading celebrities of the Milanese milieu, and lots of people I don’t recognize, possibly provincials who’ve made the long journey into the city just to see and be seen.

At the far end of the room are two women, alone, eating dinner. One of them has her back to me. The other has salt-and-pepper hair. She’s pretty, a very attractive forty-five-year-old, nicely attired in a dark outfit that must have cost a fortune. Her complexion speaks eloquently of beauty masks and Caribbean sunlight. Her name is Margherita Boni and I know her very well. The name means a husband who’s almost always away for work and a huge amount of money to spend on her pastimes. She nods her head in my direction and swivels her gaze toward the door of the bathroom, on the wall to the right of where I’m sitting. Then she stands up, picks up a clutch bag from the chair next to hers, crosses the room, and slips into the restroom.

“Order whatever you like, just no onions and no garlic. I want your breath to be sweet as a rose tomorrow. When I get back I’ll explain everything you need to know. Order me a steak, blood rare, and a salad.”

I stand up and I join Margherita in the bathroom. She’s waiting for me in front of the bathroom sinks, checking her makeup, which has absolutely no need of a touch-up. I doubt that she invited me there to snort a line of coke. She knows I never touch the stuff. I find out the real reason immediately, and it’s exactly what I thought.

“Who is that girl?”

I understand exactly who she means, but I’m feeling lively this evening and I sense that my prey is about to walk into the trap. And the trap is poised to snap shut on her checking account.

“What girl?”

“Don’t act stupid. The girl who walked in the front door with you.”

I move over next to her and start washing my hands. Our conversation continues between our reflected images in the mirror.

“Her name is Carla.”

“I want her.”

Margherita is a lesbian and on more than one occasion I’ve supplied her with the toys she requires to satisfy this innocent diversity of hers. There are plenty of girls in my network who are AC/DC, or, as we say in Italian, who run on both sail and steam. But where Carla is concerned, we haven’t yet established how far she’s willing to go.

I let my uncertainty become hers.

“She’s a new girl and I don’t know her well enough to be sure. What about Barbara, the brunette: Don’t you like her? She’s bisexual.”

“The other two are local talent and nothing more. They’re pretty, but it’s stamped on their faces just what they are. Carla’s a dream, and I want her to come true.”

Now the preliminaries are over. It’s time to talk business.

“If I can swing it, she’ll cost you.”

“Has money ever been a problem?”

“I’d have to say no.”

“Very good. I’ll wait to hear from you at the usual number.”

She picks up her clutch bag from the bathroom counter and leaves, while I remain behind to consider my expression in the mirror.

It’s the eternal conflict between having and being.

Some time ago somebody heavily curtailed my possibility of being. What remains to me is the possibility of having. Which is a pretty miserable surrogate, unless you own half the world. But even in that case, sooner or later you’ll wind up running into the person who owns the other half, and then things turn ugly. I feel like I’m the owner of that thin line that marks the boundary, and nothing more, for now.

Sooner or later I’ll have everything I’m looking for, and when that happens, I can go back to being, to some extent.

I dry my hands and toss the hand towel into a burnished metal receptacle. In one corner of the bathroom is a phone for clients to use. I slip a token into the slot and dial Remo Frontini’s number. I looked him up in the phone book and committed the number to memory, the way I have all the others.

He picks up on the third ring.

“Hello?”

“Signore Frontini?”

He must be unaccustomed to being addressed in those terms, because his answer, when it comes, is a little hesitant.

“Yes. Who’s this?”

“This is Bravo, your neighbor. We talked the other evening, do you remember?”

“Yes, of course.”