The Past is a Foreign Country (16 page)

I didn’t say anything. I gathered the money, the cards, the empty
beer bottles, and walked away. The crowd of onlookers dispersed, still talking about what they had just seen.

We didn’t stay in Altea with Angelica’s friends after all, but drove off again as the sun was setting. It was already night by the time we got back to Valencia. Angelica asked us if we wanted to come up to her place for a drink or a joint. I was about to say that I’d see them to the door and then go back to the hotel, but Francesco got in first.

‘Sure, we’d like that. That’s OK with you, isn’t it, Giorgio?’

Of course it was OK with me. So we went up.

Angelica’s place was a kind of bedsit, with a little balcony looking out onto an inner courtyard and a bathroom without a door, just a dirty curtain to block the view. It was hot and smells drifted in from the courtyard. I was reminded me of those apartments in the Libertà neighbourhood, near where I lived, that gave directly onto the street. I would walk past them as a child, and from behind the curtains hear voices, noises, shouts, and smell cooking smells mixed with bleach and other things. And sometimes I would imagine that if you walked through those curtains you’d find yourself in another dimension or a parallel world.

We drank rum and smoked a few joints that Angelica had already rolled. We talked in a disconnected kind of way, the way people do at times like these. After a while, Angelica took a drag, maybe the last one, on her joint and said she wanted to pass me her smoke. I looked at her through half-closed lids, smiling stupidly. She didn’t wait for my answer, stuck her mouth against mine and blew the smoke inside. I coughed. They both laughed, while I tried to put on a dignified expression. Then she stopped laughing and kissed me. Her mouth was hard and aggressive, like a thick rubber gasket. Her tongue was the same: strong and elastic.

After that, the scene breaks up into fragments. She kisses me again, and her hands move down to unbutton my trousers. Her mouth isn’t on mine any more, but somewhere else. I’m undressed, and so is she, and she’s on top of me, moving slowly. She does this thing where she contracts her groin muscles, and the sensation goes right to my brain, much more than the dope and the alcohol did. She’s good, I think, very good. Just like Francesco said. Oh yes, Francesco. Where is he? I turn my head very slowly – though it’s the fastest I can go – and see him. He’s sitting on the floor, to my left, maybe a metre away, maybe less. He’s watching us and smiling vaguely. Or maybe he’s looking at something else. Angelica’s still moving and I think she’s touching herself as she fucks me. Then everything gets mixed up again.

Before falling asleep, or whatever that sinking feeling is, I see Angelica and Francesco. They’re together, moving in slow motion. Very close. But I’m far away.

Getting further and further away. 

I WAS WOKEN by the light, the heat, my blocked nose, and the pain in my back and neck. I’d slept on the floor. My throat was burning, and my tongue was stuck to the roof of my mouth. I had a sense of constriction, of nausea.

I hoisted myself up on my arms. Francesco and Angelica were on the bed, on the other side of the room. They were fast asleep, and I sat there for a few minutes, looking at them. Francesco was lying on his back, with his arms at his sides, looking as calm and composed as usual. He was breathing silently though his nose.

Angelica was lying huddled on her side, with one hand between her head and the pillow, facing Francesco. She reminded me of a child. Then I recalled what had happened during the night and I had to look away.

I didn’t know what to do. I felt so out of place there, with the two of them sleeping, in that hot little room filled with smells I didn’t want to smell. But I couldn’t go. The very idea of spending another morning wandering around aimlessly in that sweltering heat, on my own, filled me with dismay.

As I sat there, thinking, Francesco opened his eyes. He didn’t move. He opened his eyes and looked at me without saying
anything
. For a few moments I thought it was a kind of sleepwalking or something like that. He sat up on the edge of the bed.

‘Good morning,’ he said. 

‘Hi,’ I replied.

‘Did you make coffee?’

I looked at him. It was such a banal question, it seemed ridiculous.

‘It’s over there,’ he said, with a touch of impatience. ‘In that little cabinet between the kitchen and the washbasin.’

What was? I was about to say something, when I realised he was still talking about the coffee. He’d already spent a night here, I
remembered
. So I went to the cabinet – a horrible pale green object, with a few faded floral stencils on it – and took out the coffee and the coffee maker.

We drank from small chipped cups. I took one to Angelica, who had woken up at the sound of our voices and the other noises we were making. She took the cup drowsily. She looked astonished, as if she wasn’t used to that kind of gesture.

I felt ashamed that I was still there, after what I vaguely
remembered
had happened the night before. I’d have liked to be far away. I’d have liked to disappear.

Angelica got up, completely naked, and went to the bathroom. Through the curtain that functioned as a door we could hear her having a pee. I felt as if the walls of that already small room were closing in on me.

We stayed long enough to smoke a last cigarette. When Francesco said we had to go, the relief I felt was out of all proportion.

‘I’m going back to sleep,’ Angelica said.

‘We’ll come and see you at the bar, tonight or tomorrow at the latest,’ Francesco replied. ‘We have to see a friend.’

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Angelica nodded listlessly and raised her hand for a moment. I had the impression she didn’t give a damn what we were going to do, or not do. She looked tired, as if she’d already been through this farewell ritual many times – too many times. With the light filtering through the curtains and the already oppressive heat, the room was heavy with a sense of defeat.

‘Bye,’ I said from the door, in a low voice. She didn’t reply. As the door closed, I saw her lie down on the bed. Then the door was shut and she was gone.

We never saw her again.

‘Nicola should be back today,’ Francesco said as we walked
downstairs
. ‘He may even be back already.’

We went out into the harsh sunlight. We found a phone booth and Francesco called him.

‘Nicola!’

Yes, we were in Valencia. Three days now. Where the hell had he been? Yes, OK, as per the agreement. We could drop by that evening. No, why should there be any trouble? A friend, and a partner. No need to worry. OK, he’d go alone, but there was nothing to worry about. Had he ever given him any trouble? OK, OK, see you later.

He was talking about me. Why did he need to reassure Nicola about me?

‘Let’s go to the hotel. We’ll have a rest and then I’ll explain.’

What was there to explain? And what agreement was he talking about? I wondered as we flinched from the overwhelming heat,
hugging
the walls to salvage a few scraps of shade.

We bought rolls and croissants from a baker’s shop, and cheese, ham and beer from a delicatessen, to eat in the hotel, where at least the air was cool.

And there, in the noisy, insalubrious coolness of that absurd hotel, surrounded by breadcrumbs and empty beer cans, Francesco explained to me what it was we’d come to Spain to do.

‘COCAINE?’

Have you gone mad? I was going to add, but it sounded trite. An inadequate response to the enormity of what he’d just told me. So I just said the one word, and let it hang in the air.

‘Yes. Top quality, at a very good price. We can get a kilo for forty million lire. If we sell it in Bari, just as it is, without even dividing it into doses, it’ll bring in more than double that. I have someone who’ll take the lot and give us ninety, maybe a hundred million.’

‘And where are you going to get forty million lire?’

‘I have it.’

‘What do you mean, you have it? You brought forty million with you in cash, just in case we’d need a lot of spending money? Or are you planning to pay for a kilo of cocaine by cheque?’

‘I have the cash.’

I looked at him for a few moments. He had the cash. In other words, he’d brought forty million lire –
at least
forty million lire – with him from Bari, across the whole of Italy, the whole of France, all the way to the east coast of Spain. In other words, he’d set off with the specific intention of coming here to Spain and buying a kilo of cocaine. That might have been the
only
reason he’d left home.

‘You’d already decided before we left Bari that you were coming here to buy drugs.’

He was silent for about twenty seconds. Then he rubbed his nose
with his thumb and index finger and answered the way he often did: with a question.

‘What’s your problem? I mean, come on, tell me, what’s your problem?’

‘What do you mean, what’s my problem? One fine afternoon in summer you say, Let’s take a holiday, we’ll leave tomorrow, just like that, no particular destination in mind. I agree, and we take this fucking trip, and when we’re here I discover the whole thing was planned.’ I broke off, because I was finding it hard to say the words that had formed in my head. I swallowed. ‘I discover the whole thing was planned as part of a drug deal. Fuck it.’

‘You’re right. It was wrong of me not to tell you, but I was sure you’d have said no and I wouldn’t have come without you.’

‘Can you swear to that?’

‘Look, I was wrong not to be honest with you. But what’s your problem now? I mean, are you opposed to buying drugs on moral grounds, or are you thinking of the risks?’

‘Both, obviously. Do you realise what we’re talking about here? We’re talking about buying and selling drugs. We’re talking about doing something which, if we’re caught, can land us in prison for so long, I don’t even want to think about it.’

‘Are you opposed to the use of drugs?’

‘I’m opposed to
dealing
in drugs. I’m opposed to being a person who deals in cocaine, or anything like that.’

‘There are people who use cocaine. Just as there are people who smoke or drink. The two of us, for instance.’

‘I’ve heard it all before. Tobacco and alcohol are much more
lethal
than drugs, look at the statistics, the best thing to do would be to legalise it, all that kind of thing.’

‘So you’re opposed to it?’

‘It doesn’t matter. It’s
illegal
. It’s a
crime
…’

I broke off. I looked at Francesco. He had a strange expression on
his face. We were both thinking the same thing. Or rather, I knew what he was thinking and there was no need for him to spell it out. We’d be committing a crime, but what about the crimes we’d
already
committed?

‘Listen, Giorgio, let’s forget for a moment whether it’s a crime or not. Let’s look at it another way. Imagine someone who uses cocaine regularly. Maybe he likes to offer some to his friends if he can. What he wants to avoid is going once a week to a street dealer, with all the risks that entails, and all the unpleasant aspects. What could you possibly have against someone like that? Maybe he’s an artist – a painter, a theatre director, whatever – and cocaine helps him to be more creative. Or maybe he just likes it and wants to stock up so that he doesn’t have to worry about it for – let’s say a year. Without taking any risks and without causing anyone any trouble. Imagine someone like that.’

‘What of it?’

‘What’s the harm in selling a kilo of cocaine to someone like that? And making a lot of money in the process? We’re not doing anyone any harm. We’re not talking about selling heroin to some miserable junkie who hides out in dirty alleys and mugs people to get money for his fix.’

‘Just tell me one thing. Is this pure speculation, or are you telling me that, apart from planning the whole trip – without my
knowledge
– for the sake of a drug deal, you already had a buyer lined up? Please tell me.’

‘I already told you I’m sorry. I made a mistake. You’re my friend and I wanted you with me on this trip, and not just to buy coke. If you’re saying I deceived you, that’s all right. If you’re telling me you don’t trust me any more, that’s all right, too. Maybe I wouldn’t trust myself either, if our roles were reversed. If that’s it, just say it, and that’ll be the end of it.’

We both fell silent. He was right. I was furious about the fact that
he’d made a fool of me. Or rather I was furious about the fact that he’d made a decision like that, practically taking it for granted that he would convince me when the time came. But the fact that he had come straight out with it like that cut the ground from under my feet. The silence lasted so long, I started to think about other things. The fact that I wanted a coffee. The fact that we had to remember to check the oil and the wheel pressure before we left.

The fact that I needed a cigarette. I immediately lit one.
Francesco
took my packet and took one out for himself.

‘There’s no harm in it,’ he said. ‘There’s not even any risk.’

‘Oh, yes, that’s the best part of it. There’s no risk. We just have to drive across Spain, France and the whole of Italy with a kilo of pure cocaine in our car. We just have to cross two borders full of customs officers, police, carabinieri, God knows who else. No risk.’ I thought I was being sarcastic. In fact, I’d simply risen to the bait.

‘It’s simple. We go and get the stuff. Or rather I go and get it
myself
, since that jerk is trying to act like a big shot. We pack it really well and send it to Bari. We send it to a post office box, and when we get back we sell it, take the money and share it between us.’

‘Why should we share if you brought all the money yourself?’

‘We’re sharing the risks. If anything happens when we’re sending the drugs, if – which is a remote possibility – we have to ditch it, in other words if anything unexpected happens, we’re partners. If we lose the consignment, you give me your quota, in other words, twenty million. If everything goes well, as I’m pretty sure it will, we deduct my forty million from what the buyer pays us, and share the profits. Fifty-fifty, as usual.’

‘What if we get caught before we can send the package?’

‘What if a cornice falls off a building onto our heads as we’re walking along the Via Sparano on a quiet spring afternoon? Come on, why should we get caught?’

Yes, why should we get caught? Come to that, who were we
harming, if things were the way he’d said? A single, rich buyer who wanted his own supply: when you got down to it, it was his business. I lit another cigarette from the stub of the previous one, and
Francesco
reached out and patted me on the back as a sign of approval.

After that, we concentrated on the logistics. The cocaine came from Venezuela. Better than Colombian, Francesco said. We would put it in a shoe box and pour coffee powder all round. In case they had dogs sniffing round: it confused their sense of smell. We would put a lot of wrapping paper and packing tape round it and send it. Easy, harmless, clean.

At that moment, I was certain this wasn’t Francesco’s first time.