Obsession (Year of Fire) (42 page)

“I can’t wait until tonight,” he confessed, touched by the shocked look on her face. “Don’t make too much noise.”

“I don’t know if I can.” She bit her lip and fixed her gaze on the satin ceiling as she felt him taking off her boots and pants.

Eliah looked at her legs at length before turning his attention to the white cotton panties with pink polka dots. He was pulling them off when Matilde’s hands closed around his wrists, as if trying to stop him.

“Let go of me, Matilde. Let me take off your panties.”

Her hairless pubis was revealed inch by inch, emerging like a bare white mountain under the dip of her belly. The sight drove him insane, and he rubbed his face against it, licked it, smelled it and ran the tip of his tongue over the scar.

“Matilde!” he exclaimed, almost exasperated, and she shivered to feel his hot breath on her mound of Venus. “Matilde,” he whispered, his hands tight around the girl’s hips and his forehead on her pubis. He thought of Thérèse and Victoire, who were working only a few feet away, barely separated from this scene by a wall. He had never lost control like this, not even when he came back from flight school after weeks without seeing Samara. He was cold, calculating and temperate; he kept his passions under control. He wasn’t about to waste time worrying about it because he had already learned that Matilde exercised an extreme influence over him, something that was beyond his comprehension. He unbuckled his
belt and freed his penis. He took a condom out of his wallet and furiously pulled it on. She watched him fearfully from her vulnerable position; her braids were coiled on the table. She had seen his struggle. He smiled to cheer her up and spoke into her lips.

“Yesterday, before I went away, I did the test. In a week we’ll have the results.” Matilde just nodded, still unsure of herself. “I don’t want to be dependent on condoms to love you.”

She wrapped her arms around Eliah’s neck and pressed herself against his body. Their mouths searched for each other desperately; their tongues entwined and their breath mingled together. His hands slipped under her wool sweater and the cotton tank top, lifted her bra and caressed her nipples. Matilde squeezed her eyes shut. Green sparks were exploding inside her. Pleasure flowed through her like a strong, cold current. Her limbs went weak.

Al-Saud grabbed her by the buttocks and pulled her to the edge of the table, where he placed the soles of her feet.
The gynecological position
, Matilde said to herself, and that thought made her think of a paragraph in
The Perfumed Garden
.
“The first position. First method. Have the woman lie on her back with her thighs raised, then, once between her legs, introduce your member into her. By pressing your toes to the ground one can move in the proper way. This is a good position for men with large members.”
Matilde turned her head to look at how Eliah’s left hand clutched her thigh. She noticed that hair grew even at the top parts of his fingers, near the nail. It was very dark. The hand was buried in her flesh, and the contrast between her whiteness and his dark skin excited her. She was also thrilled by Eliah’s wrists; his shirt cuffs were pulled back as he moved, and she saw them, thick and hirsute. Now she understood the expression “made my mouth water,” because she suddenly needed to swallow. She yearned to touch him, even though it was through the fabric of his shirt. She moved her hands, open-palmed, up his arms, feeling his sinuous muscles; she traced the line of his jaw, his lips, trailed down his neck and squeezed his nipples right as he drove into her. She was suddenly frightened. Al-Saud’s back arched violently, as if he had been punched or received an electric shock, and Matilde thought that his spasm was an epileptic shock. His eyes had even rolled back in his head; she could see their whites. Finally, he pushed deeper into her. He was breathing as though he had just done two dozen
sit-ups. She felt his member throbbing inside her. She didn’t know what to do. She caressed his head.

“Eliah, my love, are you okay?”

Al-Saud looked up, and Matilde saw the change in his countenance. Without saying a word, he started to move in and out, his eyes remaining fixed on hers. He liked to pull out completely so he could penetrate her hard and deep; he was enthralled by Matilde’s reaction as she bit her fist in an attempt to stifle the sobs of ecstasy. She transmitted her pent-up screams of pleasure through her fingers to his scalp, neck and shoulders.

Al-Saud managed to cover her mouth when an orgasm overcame Matilde’s determination to stay silent. He loved watching her convulse on the table. His pulse quickened and he soon followed her. His nostrils flared to let in huge gusts of air, and his lips, tight together in a single pale line, revealed the effort he was making not to burst out screaming. Semen flowed out of him in a never-ending current. The orgasm seemed endless, it overwhelmed him. It sounded as though the Mendelssohn recording had been turned up, or was it an illusion? The music buzzed in his ears and his blood. The more he repressed his shouts of joy, the more he was deafened by the chords of the symphony.

He collapsed onto her, breathing through his mouth like he was about to have a heart attack. It was as though he couldn’t get enough air to fill his lungs. Matilde’s caresses on his back and head helped, but he still needed a few minutes to recover.

“I don’t think I can ever leave this room,” he heard her say. “I feel like I’m wearing a sign on my forehead that says
Monsieur Al-Saud just made love to me
.”

“What a wonderful sign. I wish you were really wearing it, then none of those idiots would come near you again.” He looked at her with a sour expression. “Medes told me about the incident with Blahetter outside your house.”

“Please, don’t bring it up. Not here. Not when you’re still inside me.”

“Okay, okay,” said Al-Saud, feeling contrite. “Do you want me to order lunch from the hotel restaurant so we can eat it here?”

“Yes, yes please. I can’t face your secretaries. Not yet.”

“What would you like to eat?”

“Anything.”

That afternoon, in French class, Matilde felt as though the teacher was speaking to her from very far away. Images from earlier that afternoon on the table flashed in front of her eyes. It was still hard for her to believe that she had experienced them at the Mercure offices, just steps away from Thérèse and Victoire. She smiled involuntarily, remembering how the orgasm seemed to finish Eliah off. She supposed that if he had given in to the power that she had seen building up in his face, muscles and between his legs, he would have exploded in bellowing that could be heard in the lobby on the ground floor. She looked at her classmates, concentrating on the professor and the blackboard. She felt her spirits lift surprisingly and had a sudden urge to yell out, “I just made love with the most wonderful man in the world! I, Matilde Martínez, made love.” Later, during the break, she plucked up the courage to ask Juana, “Could you please tell me how to do beautiful things to Eliah? In bed,” she clarified.

“Have you blown him yet? Oh, don’t blush, Mat! Have you blown him yet?” Matilde shook her head. “It’s important to learn how to do it well. It drives them crazy. If you don’t blow him, then he’ll find someone else who will. That’s the way it is, don’t look at me like that. Remind me that we need to buy bananas.”

At six thirty, Al-Saud came to pick them up from the institute with Leila. He was increasingly worried about the gloominess on Rue Vitruve, the poorly lit entrance to the Lycée des Langues Vivantes and the dubious feel of the neighborhood.

Leila, who was sitting in the passenger seat, got out of the Aston Martin and ran to hug Matilde. She immediately made friends with Juana. When they went over to the car, Leila hurried to her seat next to Al-Saud.

“Leila, get out. That’s Matilde’s seat.” She refused to budge, crossing her arms and pouting. “You have to sit in the back,” he insisted impatiently.

“Leave her be. I’ll get in the back.”

“No, Matilde.”

“Please, Eliah, don’t say anything to her. I’ll go in the back.”

“You and I are going to have to have a conversation tonight,” Al-Saud threatened, which only made Leila’s angry face worse; by now her arms were almost crossed at her neck.

Matilde sat behind Al-Saud and ran her hands through his rough beard. She whispered into his left ear.

“See? This is the best spot because from here I can touch you as much as I want. Where are we going?” She asked in a louder voice and in French.

“We’re going shopping,” he explained in the same language. “Today is Tuesday and Leila wants to go to her favorite
marché
, although I don’t know if she deserves it.”

“What does
marché
mean?” Juana wanted to know.

“Market,” Al-Saud explained, “the kind where you can get anything.”

Matilde reached out, brushed a lock of hair from Leila’s forehead and stroked her cheek, which was still red from anger. The girl didn’t take long to give in. She grabbed her hand and kissed it a few times, on the palm and the back. Al-Saud looked at her out of the corner of his eye.

The market on Place Maubert, on Boulevard Saint-Germain, was a celebration of colors, aromas and sounds. It was packed with stalls, decorated with white-and-green striped awnings, that displayed everything from African masks and artisanal chocolates to shellfish and fruits and vegetables; the variety was overwhelming. Matilde felt calm and happy as Al-Saud led her silently by the hand. They bought some chocolate bonbons filled with dried fruit that made all three of them sigh with pleasure. It was fascinating to watch Leila haggle just by gesturing and making faces at the vendors; they all knew her and called her by name. Al-Saud didn’t say a thing; he limited himself to taking out his wallet and paying when the haggling was over. Juana remembered to buy bananas.

When they got to the house on Avenue Elisée Reclus, they found Marie and Agneska busy getting dinner ready. They were both surprised by the appearance of Matilde and Juana, and their mouths gaped wide
when they saw the boss kissing the blonde girl before shutting himself in his study. They were apprehensive and shy, but relaxed immediately when they found that the young ladies treated them as equals and saw them helping Leila put away the shellfish, vegetables and mountains of other things they had bought; they even helped set the table for all the guests, since Alamán, Peter, Mike and Tony all showed up a little while later on and announced that they would be staying for dinner.

Alamán hugged Matilde when he saw her and whispered into her ear, “Do you know whose birthday is this Saturday?” Matilde shook her head. “Eliah’s.”

Her heart leaped in her chest. Her expression made Alamán laugh, because she suddenly smiled and her silver eyes shone. Matilde did a quick calculation: Eliah’s birthday was the seventh of February. She got on her tiptoes and kissed Alamán on the cheek.

“Thank you for telling me,” she whispered.

On the other side of the room, Eliah pulled Juana away to talk to her in confidence.

“I want to buy Matilde a watch.”

“Perfect.”

“What do you think of a Rolex?”

“Not a good idea.” Seeing Al-Saud’s surprise, she explained, “Look, stud, Mat is the best person on the planet, no exaggeration, but the poor thing is also pretty weird. Up until she was fifteen, she lived in a palace with fifty rooms and a dozen servants tending to her. She was sort of like the Empress Sisi: extremely spoiled by her father. She lived in luxury and opulence when she was little, and she was very unhappy. She relates that world with superficial things and vanity, and she looks down on it. Or just ignores it. I think you’d have more chance of pleasing her if you bought her a high-quality watch that isn’t so lavish. Ostentation repulses her.”

Peter Ramsay’s partiality to Leila was obvious to Matilde. The Englishman rarely took his eyes off her and insisted on speaking to her in his badly pronounced French. She smiled at him, flirted with him and answered with signs. It worried her that he was married. Eliah had told her that Ramsay’s wife lived in London and that he visited her every once in a while. In his own words, in English, his marriage “was a little bit strange.”

Mike and Tony were competing for Juana’s attention, but she was more interested in Al-Saud’s exotic house than in his partners. Matilde took her on a tour, with Leila holding on to her hand, taking advantage of a moment when the men had absented themselves to talk business. Proudly, as though she was the mistress of the house, she passed through the rooms, pointing out the Art Nouveau details. She shivered when she remembered what Al-Saud had said to her on Sunday night before setting off for Rue Toullier: “I want us to make love in every room in this house. As a kind of ritual baptism,” he’d explained.

Claude Masséna saw Al-Saud come into the base, followed by Alamán and his three partners. Since he had uncovered the intrigue devised to hire and keep him as the head of systems at Mercure, but especially since he suspected that Zoya had taken part in the conspiracy, he had been filled with fury and hatred. Sometimes he was convinced that Al-Saud was one of Zoya’s clients, which was why he had been leaving her building on Rue Faubourg Saint-Honoré that night. Convincing himself of this suspicion was difficult; Al-Saud didn’t need a prostitute to satisfy his sexual appetite. Plus, in this sordid world, there were no coincidences.

He was especially exasperated by his dependence on Zoya. He needed her even though he knew she was a traitor and a bitch. Sometimes he thought about getting a gun and shooting her in the head to end the torment, but then he regretted the thought as soon as he tried to envision his life without her.

Mike Thorton summoned them to the map room. A transparent screen came down from the ceiling and projected a map of Cairo, which Al-Saud used to illustrate the details of the mission they would carry out in two days. Masséna was careful not to make eye contact with his boss; he was afraid that he would reveal his betrayal. He now worked for the Israeli secret service. He believed him perfectly capable of reading his mind just by looking into his eyes.