II

Mercedes

            Momentarily stopped, it seemed as though the subway was spewing a perpetual flow of passengers dripping with the sadness, anxiety and concerns that downpours on the platform. It was ten to eight in a few minutes there would be only one corresponding.

Mercedes however was one of these people who could had the privilege of influencing their own time. She was not agoraphobic, but regretted however, being stuck in the crowd at rush hour. It was stupid, she thought, as nothing really justified her haste; to flee Vladimir’s apartment as though he had acted like a monster; that her departure would not have had to suffer a few imaginary hours late. Thus, in the corridors, she was operating at full speed, like a smooth eel, in the normal and routine course of this gigantic human herd.

          Swallowed by the tunnel, like a gaping mouth, the subway train was running at high speed. Standing, crushed against the door by the oppressive weight of the other passengers allowing her to breathe in various smells; the train did not empty and she needed keep her ailing patient with the earphones clinging uselessly to her ears, she pondered on the inadequacy of the metro to deal with everything that was not on two legs.

            She finally reached home, after washing; Mercedes took a tea earl grey flavoured tea, bought in London on a recent getaway. Tonight, naked and reclined on her wicker deck chair, she was in the process in gradually unwinding like the aroma of the fragrant cup of tea which dispersed in the air with smooth curves. Legs nonchalantly positioned they were velvety smooth like waves of music, Mercedes settled comfortably on “She hate me”, a composition by Terence Blanchard that only lacked a languorous feet massage which would have added to the perfection of the moment. Vladimir, had he been there, the fervent gentleman he was, would have willingly complied with this delicate task, but still in shock, she had fled for reasons that now she thought, seemed as unclear as the smoke from her cup of tea, which vanishes in the room.

            She felt so at home in his hut that looks like a small cozy nest. There were more than a week was not returned and she needed to be alone, quiet. To focus on herself. All this time spent with his young and beautiful patron he was, in fact, so profitable than pleasant, but she did not more in its work. No! At the bottom of herself, she knew it was a double false pretense as his work was neglected for almost a month already and that his feelings for his beloved and tender, if there were feelings, were neither innocent nor sincere. Share the life of a married man was not easy. Especially on the mental plane. She had, however, not to the wrong place and she was reassuring to look a little closer, his situation seemed almost enviable: pleasure by pleasure for pleasure. Nevertheless, she felt gnawed by remorse. It was almost obvious; Mercedes did not love this man. However, Vladimir was handsome man and what is more charming, even unctuous when it does not adding tons. It was, moreover, his kindness a little too strong that irritated. It was addresses at a private inauguration in the south-west of Paris. He did not give away when she was permitted to ask questions about his private life.

Thus, it happened, sometimes, to ask how he could stay so calm while sharing the layer of a woman who was not his. She did not prefer to think of it so much the images which scrolled in his tired spirit inspired him only disgust. Disgusted herself in reality to enjoy the generosity of his benefactor. Advantage of Relations available to it in business, politics and culture. But she was young and pretty as well as being intelligent and he showed a rise impertinent the intricacies of power to a person so young. So what harm could there be to want to combine business with pleasure.

            Emerging from dark dreams that it was difficult to recall events clearly, Mercedes woke up sweating in the middle of the night. It was difficult to return to sleep. Curtains open nightly rays reproduced on the walls and ceiling ballet weaving of glass caused by the headlights of cars outside. His clock showed three and a quarter hours.

            Located on the second floor of a building stone, his apartment was bathed in a soft shambles. It was necessary, to tidy up little but she had, deliberately, made of her cosy nest a small studio in which be engaged in leisure activities that were passions painting and sculpture. Leaving the art school three years ago, Mercedes Beaurimar seemed to be more and less attracted by the modern movement Fluxus. Current thinking in the late fifties from the Dada and Zen philosophy among others. With illustrious characters among many others: Yoko Ono, or, and here she did not know very well, a grandparent of the artist Beck Hansen. However, if she adhered to the fact that everyone is an artist, she still sometimes felt permeated the traditional movements and did not reject in whole the institutional side of art, including the musing. And it was with that she had chosen to travel smoothly to the rest of the night. Lambchop’s compact disc, bought recently, nearby. It had this annoying habit of staying stuck on particular song, she heard repeatedly. In this case it was the track number six: “Flick”.

            The night seemed still long and she had intended to listen to this CD completely this time as well as Beck’s “Sea Change” (with a preference for “Paper Tiger” whom she would also listen to in buckle at first) and to recover in his works of sculpture. Moreover, she felt again inspired and the music had this sweet power to multiply tenfold its senses, to transcend her literally.

…/…  No surprised arriving in the first one on the scene, Mercé waited patiently not far from Al Gusto Paradisiaco restaurant. This well-rated place in the specialized press and women’s magazines, corresponded to her perfectly even if the reasons of his choice were different.

“Hello!” Launched a voice behind her which she would have been able to recognize among one thousand other. “Excuse me. I hope that I do not have you too much keep waiting?

            — Oh Yeah, bitch! Very very longtime, says Mercedes by laughing.

            — You talk nonsense. Then, you reserved us a table tonight?

            — I was told that is was not necessary tonight. You knew they were free tables here, just for me?” they’re laughing out loud while going to the restaurant. “It’s a pleasure to see you… little bitch! Naturally, if I do not call up I do not have news anymore!” Says, Mercedes. The Gusto Paradisiaco restaurant was the kind of establishment which hold your attention strongly. Tropical atmosphere, cosy and exotic facilitated by the timba salsa of Picason came from the Swiss Alps (condimentar salsa muy picante): lacerated by heavy bass lines and a good mix of Afro-Cuban rhythms and groove. Through this warm evening, they had chosen to settle on the terrace while enjoying the intoxicating music and practice the old sport more than a millennium which consisted to ogle in interested comments people who passes and more especially, the men.

            “You’re nervy of me to say it. You who are still mop. Even the Queen of England does not travel as much as you! In fact, you have to have something juicy to tall, says Meylee with appetite by pinching the lips and by rolling eyes. This trip to Italy was how?

            — Interesting.

            — What’s going on? You have nothing else to tell me? I don’t think so! You go to Italy at the expense of the princess. What’s more natural, isn’t it? I love you. I really adore you.

            — Stop! We were at friends of Vladimir in Parma. We stayed only two days then we came down on the Genoese coast to one of his cousins who has a private marina. This boy has cousins all over the world. It is very scary. It was finished, then, in a hotel in Livorno.

            — Finished? Humm… In a hotel? Wow… And in how much? I want details my darling. You tell me that as if you had a train to be taken. You will not persuade me that I more enjoyed myself by staying here. You escape one week silently. It’s pathetic! Come on, frankly, between us. How they are Italian? You were how much made? Shit! Say something!

            — Clearly you, you will never change…

            — Change? Why would you want me to change? Do you find me enough not to your taste? Says, Meylee with a smile full of mockery.

            — Oh yeah! Delicious. Change nothing, babe. This is how I love you.

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© Copyright – Enrick CINDY – 2005 April