Eighty Days Red (19 page)

His mind was still reeling with images of Summer in the Paris hotel room, and the sounds and smells of the French capital which he would now always associate with her. The heady fragrance of newly baked pâtisserie greeting him in the street as he passed the hotel door for his walk to the Métro and the brief journey to the train station. The topographical wilderness of wall graffiti on the often dilapidated and crumbling walls and tunnels through which the Eurostar moved as it bridged the no man’s land between Paris and its suburbs.

The gleam in her eyes as she came, his cock deep inside her, bathing in her heat. The muted sounds escaping from her throat with every successive thrust.
The way she held her breath silently, expecting the worst, hoping for the worst, whenever he

slowed his motions down and paused, anticipating another improvisation in his assault, his dominance, her levels of arousal zigzagging back and forth, one step back, a dreadful torrent, and two steps forward, a wonderful, uncontrollable storm, as Dominik forced her body into new positions, a finger here, the flat of his hand there, Summer like a beautiful animal being guided through its dressage, full of pride, lust and the steady invasion of Dominik’s hard cock.

Her face in repose as she slept afterwards, a thin film of sweat slowly drying across the surface of her pale skin, an involuntary shudder racing through her, skimming at the speed of light below the surface of her skin, like the aftershock of a localised earthquake. The peace. The beauty of her closeness. The serene acceptance of her trust in him.

Dominik felt alive again, as if he was emerging from a long sleep, a regrettable hiatus in his life. And all it had taken was another night with Summer. Unplanned, spontaneous, unforced.
He would phone her in the morning, he decided. Right now, he was weary, but it was a pleasant feeling of lassitude, as if his senses had been overwhelmed, his batteries over-charged, and he needed some time to complete his own transformation. But he also knew he was far from tired and would find this coming night difficult and restless, his mind in gentle tumult, the buzz still in electric control of his whole body.
He walked upstairs to his study. Called up the notes for the new novel on his laptop screen.
He opened a new folder and began to write on automatic pilot about the feelings and impressions the night with Summer in Paris evoked, while it still burned like a fire inside him, fearful the immediacy of the experience might fade all too quickly, leaving him with no mementoes he could cannibalise in his search for emotions to bring his pages alive.
It felt a bit like dreams that pierce your wall of sleep and that you feel you should write down as you know they will be gone in the morning and you will not remember them again. The only problem, Dominik realised from experience, is that whenever you did so, the notes you looked at again the following day were just random words and seldom made any sense whatsoever.
Her skin.
Her eyes.
The clean, curved lines of her body.
The sharp and rounded angles of her privacy.
Dominik sighed. Sometimes words were not enough.
He sighed and realised he hadn’t even checked his emails since returning from Paris earlier that afternoon. A sure sign of distraction.
He clicked on the Inbox.
Fortunately, there was little of importance. Yet more proof the world did not revolve around him and his romantic preoccupations. The usual spam, newsletters he subscribed to, speaking invitations.
There was, however, a reminder that he was expected in Barcelona the following weekend for promotional appearances on the occasion of Sant Jordi, on behalf of his local publishers. A commitment he’d almost forgotten in the midst of all the recent turmoil. He wondered whether the Catalan capital was on the Groucho Nights touring itinerary. It would have been too much of a coincidence, surely?
Finally unable to keep his eyes open much longer, he reluctantly made his way to his bedroom.
The following morning, careful not to call too early, all too well aware how much Summer enjoyed her morning lie-ins, he rang her in Brussels, where Groucho Nights were playing before moving on to Berlin.
She was out running.
‘You OK?’
‘I’m fine.’ Slightly out of breath.
‘When is the gig?’
‘At the end of the week, Saturday and then Sunday. We’re doing two shows. The initial one sold out fast so the venue suggested we do another. Then we’re staying in town for a few days before we move on.’
‘Where next?’
‘Amsterdam, and then some cities across Scandinavia, Copenhagen, Oslo, Malmo, Stockholm, and Helsinki, although I’m not sure in what order without consulting the tour sheet first. Then we go down to Austria and the Balkans. We’re even doing Sarajevo and Ljubljana.’ ‘That should be fun.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed with obvious enthusiasm. ‘They’re all places I’ve never been to before.’ ‘We never did get much of a chance to speak, did we?’
‘I know.’
‘Listen,’ Dominik said, searching for some form of vocal gravitas. ‘I had a meeting with that guy I was put in touch with. In Paris. Someone who knows the shady side of the market for musical instruments. You were right. Viggo does have a reputation as a collector in the field and it appears he was definitely aware of the Bailly. Had been for some time. It was on his want list …’
‘Damn it,’ she swore. ‘I really didn’t want it to be him.’
‘It doesn’t necessarily mean he’s involved,’ Dominik tried to reassure her, ‘but it is a bit coincidental.’
‘I agree. God, I just don’t know what I should do. Confront him, maybe?’
‘I’m not sure. Is he still touring with you?’
‘No, he went back to London today. With Luba. He has some recording commitments there over the coming weeks. He said he would try and rejoin the tour once we hit Stockholm. Even hinted to Chris he might come onstage for a number there. Give us his seal of approval, so to speak.’
‘Is there anything I can do?’ Dominik asked.
‘Let me think.’
There was a pause. He could hear the sound of cars behind her. She must be running alongside a busy road.
‘You’re not all going to Barcelona at some stage, by any chance, are you?’
‘Not on this leg of the tour,’ Summer said. ‘Maybe at a later date, though. We’d come back to London in between. Why are you asking?’
‘I have to go there myself this week. Some sort of book promotion. I’d agreed to it some time back.’
‘That’ll be good.’
‘I’d sort of wondered whether our dates might have coincided …’
‘Hmm …’ He couldn’t read the expression in her voice. ‘Not this time.’
‘Listen, the other night—’
‘I know, Dominik … maybe we should talk about it all once I’m back in London. I’d like that.’
‘I understand.’
‘Another thing,’ she said.
‘Yes.’
‘The Russian dancer from New Orleans …’ Summer’s voice tailed off.
‘Luba. Yes, she knew who I was. I’d recognised her anyway.’
‘She’s with Viggo.’
‘I noticed. But … the two of you … and him?’
‘It’s complicated.’
‘Sounds that way. But it doesn’t matter. The main thing is that we are on speaking terms again.’
‘I would call it more than speaking terms now,’ Summer remarked, and there was the hint of a smile in her voice. But there was also a wariness he could detect. She had never been a telephone sort of person. She needed the immediacy of closeness to communicate fully, to express herself.
‘I’ll let you get on with your run,’ Dominik said. ‘Can I call you later in the week?’
‘Of course.’

Sant Jordi was the Catalonia equivalent of Valentine’s Day, even though it was named after St George. It was held annually on a Sunday and the centre of Barcelona was transformed into a huge street market north of Plaza Catalunya all the way to Diagonal, with lavish flower tents and bookstalls, with tables crumbling under the weight of hundreds of new and older volumes. A celebration of nature and reading, with crowds of writers moving from stall to stall to sign their books which were then sold to the public. The stalls were organised by both local bookstores and publishers. The tradition had been for women to buy books for their male companions and men to acquire flowers, preferably roses, for their paramours. So on a sunny day, half the city paraded up and down the Rambla Catalunya laden with books and flowers. A spectacle that brought a smile to Dominik’s face as he hopped from stall to stall, urged by his minders.

Had Summer been here, he speculated, what book might she have bought for him? Although to be fair, as the majority of the titles on offer were in Spanish, it would have made little difference, he realised. But the thought struck him: books are permanent, while flowers wilt and die, and what did that say about the balance of things between men and women?

He was at his final bookstall of the day, sitting idle by now although the local authors sitting at the same table were still busy autographing and chatting amiably with fans and buyers, when a long, thin pale arm handed over a well-travelled copy of an original English edition of his book.

Dominik looked up.
The peripatetic Luba.

As ever, dressed to kill, her long, thin body sheathed in a skin-tight, flame-red woollen Roland Mouret dress.
‘You?’ Dominik couldn’t disguise his surprise.
‘You wouldn’t begrudge a friend a signature, no?’
‘A friend or a stalker?’
Luba’s laughter was crystal clear.
‘Well, I gave you my number and you didn’t call. What is a young woman to do?’
He took hold of the book, opened it to the title page and signed it for her. So she had been telling the truth when she had told him she had read it.
To a private dancer
, he wrote.
A late afternoon breeze was sweeping up the Ramblas and Luba’s white-blond hair floated like a silk veil in the cradle of its invisible currents as she stood facing his table reading the inscription.
‘Nice,’ she remarked.
‘My pleasure.’
‘I see you’ve almost finished here,’ she said. ‘Why don’t we go have a drink, or a coffee, or maybe even tapas?’
The publicity assistant from his publishers indicated his duties were over and she didn’t mind him leaving. He thanked her and the people manning the stand and stood up.
‘So how did you know I was going to be in Barcelona? And don’t tell me you just happened to just be passing through, Luba.’
‘Elementary, my dear Dominik. I Googled you … And then your Spanish publisher had a list of writers who are attending Sant Jordi on their website. It was all rather easy.’ Her smile was disarming.
Dominik couldn’t quite picture someone as ethereal and sexual as Luba sitting by a computer, but it made sense. There was nowhere to hide these days.
‘So you came all the way to Barcelona just to get your book signed?’
‘No. I also came to work. Dance.’
‘Ah …’
‘A private hire.’
‘Like New Orleans?’ he asked.
‘Not quite,’ she said.
‘Does Viggo approve of your … freelance work?’
‘It’s none of his business,’ she said simply. ‘He does not own me.’
‘Good.’
They’d walked up the Passeig de Gràcia and found a small bar situated down a set of stone steps, lowceilinged, half underground, where the smells of coffee, tobacco and smoked ham lingered in the air and made the mouth water. Neither of them spoke fluent Spanish so they just pointed at the small circular plates laden with mouthfuls of delicacies and strewn across the top of the bar to indicate which they wanted. The eyes of every man in the bar were on Luba. She stood out here like a sore thumb, lithe and graceful, imperious, almost perfect, the red of her dress like a beacon in the dying light of the day.
‘They are sending a car for me at ten tonight,’ Luba said.
‘Your clients?’
‘Yes. I think they are Russian too. Rich ones. So many of those these days. Wasn’t like that when I was younger. It will be on a boat. My dancing.’
‘You have quite a reputation, I see. In demand internationally.’
‘Maybe,’ she said with a modest smile.
She bit into one of the tapas, a minuscule square of potato overflowing with sour cream and dotted with paprika.
‘It’s very nice,’ she remarked. ‘You must try some.’
Dominik gulped down a few green olives, stuffed with anchovies. The balance of tastes was subtle and addictive. As soon as he had finished one he wanted more. The coffees they had been served were piping hot and sharp. He called the barman over for some mineral water.
‘I liked your book,’ Luba said. ‘Elena, the woman in it in Paris, she feels very real. But very self-destructive, I would say.’
‘And that’s why you wanted to see me,’ Dominik said. ‘It’s too late in the day to change her, you know. The book is done and dusted.’
‘Dusted?’
‘Just an expression. Finished, I mean. I’m now working on a new book. Different story, other characters.’
‘I’ve always thought that writers must be complicated men, that’s all. Makes me curious.’
‘Would that everyone did …’
‘And what is the new book about? Am I allowed to ask?’
‘It’s about musical instruments. In particular the story of a particular one, a violin, and the people who owned it – its story over a couple of centuries.’
‘Oh, that is a genius idea,’ Luba remarked, clapping her hands together. ‘I see where you got it, maybe?’
‘Summer, you mean?’
‘She plays violin. But I was also interested in meeting the man who asked his woman to dance back in New Orleans.’
‘I’m pleased to hear you find us entertaining.’
‘The lives of other people have always held much fascination for me,’ Luba continued.
‘So you’re not only a nude dancer but also a voyeur, in your own way.’
‘Why not? Anything to make life more varied, don’t you think?’
‘Tell me about your … friend, Viggo?’
‘What do you want to know?’
‘I’m told he collects things. Artwork, instruments too, no?’
Luba smiled enigmatically. ‘Ah, I see why you are also interested.’
‘Exactly. I’d like to know more. So?’
‘Ask me questions,’ she said. ‘I’ll do my best to answer.’

Luba agreed when Dominik expressed interest in seeing her dance again. He was to meet up with her in her hotel lobby shortly before ten that evening when the limo would be picking her up. She was staying in the Condal, away from the noisy hubbub of Barcelona’s centre, a plush but discreet hotel off the beaten track. The male receptionists – all clad in identical black outfits, would have fitted effortlessly onto a fashion show boardwalk – gave him a knowing glance when he indicated he would wait downstairs for their stunning blonde guest.

She emerged from the lift, a vision in white, her long silhouette a blur of ivory silk, endless legs prolonged by towering silvery heels, her mad mane of untamed blond curls hanging loose, her bare arms a porcelain vision of pallor. Her eyes were highlighted by smouldering kohl, and the difference between the fierce make-up surrounding them and the rest of her face, just an artful smear of pale red lipstick and blusher across her sharply defined high cheekbones, was like a study in contrasts.