The Skin Room Read online

  “I meet with lots of different men. All kinds.”

  I nodded. So, I was right.

  “You understand?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  I understood her voice better now, that tender tone which was just fake. Maybe she whispered encouragement with that same voice, but I didn’t want to think about it just now. Knowing what she did for a living didn’t change much. It just increased my chances, that’s all, because I knew she would be more willing to come away with me. And I thought that I would take her to the house today and get the whole thing over with.

  “We moved around a lot as kids,” I said, attempting small talk. “Due to my father’s work. I reacted quite well, I could adjust, but I think my sister found it hard.”

  “You always had to make new friends?”

  I nodded, glad she understood that making friends was tough.

  She finished her coffee, dabbed her lips with her napkin and reached for her bag. “Perhaps I’d better be going. You’ve been so kind and generous. Really, it’s been a pleasure meeting you,” she smiled. “Again.”

  She stood up and reached out her hand. I squeezed her palm. It felt soft and slightly moist. For some reason she didn’t wipe away the sweat like I did.

  I wondered if I’d talked too much. Everyone’s family is a snooze. Background is dull.

  She moved as if to go.

  She had obviously assumed that I wasn’t interested in paying for her services, even though I had already bought her chocolates and new boots.

  “I can pay you,” I said quietly.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  She frowned a little but then nodded her head. “Okay.”

  I remembered the chocolate line and decided to try that, too, just to make everything seem more friendly, less business-like.

  “You like chocolates, don’t you.”

  “You know I do. Why?”

  “Did I tell you I have a chocolate collection?”

  “You can’t keep chocolates for too long. Not in this heat.”

  “I have refrigerators, glass cabinets like wine coolers. I’m quite an expert: Mexican, Belgian, French, even Peruvian.”

  “Peruvian? Are you sure?”

  “Have you never heard of the Aztecs? They invented chocolate.”

  She tilted her head to one side. “You buy them and store them? What for?”

  “Like I say.” I looked down at her hands, knees, and ankles. “I collect them.”

  “Free chocolate isn’t enough, I hope you understand.” She spoke the last words softly because we were still in the café, and it was a rather explicit way of saying that I would have to pay her for sex, but I didn’t mind having to reassure her. Besides, once I got her home I wouldn’t have to pay her, anyway.

  “I know,” I said.

  She seemed to relax and even dropped the tender tone and went back to her normal voice.

  “It’s so nice to meet a rich ... I mean, a man like you.”

  She put her hand on my arm and I enjoyed feeling the pressure there, even if I was paying for it. I wondered if this was already part of the transaction. Proximity had a cost.

  I decided to talk about the chocolates, even if that was a lie, and I didn’t have any.

  “I really think you would enjoy the Belgian pralines. They’re by Hugolini, extra special. I won’t tell you how much they cost.”

  She straightened her face and stuck out her chin. “How much?”

  “I just said, I won’t say.”

  “Hugolini? That sounds Italian, not Belgian. Are you having me on?” She gave me a sharp look.

  “He’s Italian, works in Brussels. He imports the cocoa beans from places he knows well and visits, like Guatemala and the Dominican Republic. The roasting process, the grinding and conching, everything else is done in-house. We could have a tasting, a dégustation.” I even added a French accent, which I knew well.

  “OK, then.” She nodded.

  “My car is just outside,” I said.

  “What kind?”

  “There’s only room for the two of us. It’s an Alfa Spider, an old model.”

  “The Eighties?”

  “The Sixties.”

  She seemed to like my reply as she leaned toward me with a well-honed smile. I saw her teeth, poorly aligned, yet pretty. She picked up the shoebox and clasped it under one arm. Her teddy-bear brown eyes sparkled.

  “Then what are we waiting for?”

  5

  Inspector, was she worried about following a stranger? Was she at all suspicious? I imagined she would be used to this sort of thing. After all, it was her job. I played along, a pure gentleman, a classic fraud. She looked at me as though she felt at ease in my company. Perhaps I was a better actor than I thought. The truth is that I had tried real acting when I was young and I wasn’t very good at all. I used to hate going out on stage. I would get nervous and then fluff my lines. Besides, I knew I wasn’t very talented, and that didn’t exactly boost my confidence. School was really difficult—I won’t say it was a nightmare, but it verged on it, sometimes.

  I was a rebellious kid and got punished a few times, until one day I realized it was best to shut up and go into myself. Only when I spoke my thoughts out loud did I get into trouble. So I kept my thoughts to myself, and stayed out of it.

  My grades were fine. Nothing sensational.

  You probably assume, Inspector, that I’ve a limited mind, just because I like to keep things simple in my head. It helps to avoid confusion, that’s all. My personal life hasn’t been easy since school, or university either. I guess my job doesn’t help. I do my translations alone, on computer, and send them by email. I’m freelance, which means I only work when I want to. But since mother died I’ve had to work quite a lot because my dad has become a real burden.

  Valentina slid into the passenger seat, uncoiled her bronze legs and stretched them out beneath the dashboard. The roof was open and the seats were burning hot. That was the problem with leather in the sun.

  Another thought struck me, a potential problem. There was something I needed to check.

  “Do you have a cell phone?” I asked.

  “I left it at home today. I forgot to charge it. Why?”

  “No reason.”

  “Do you need to call anyone?” she asked.

  I shook my head.

  “Perhaps you will buy me a new one?’ She smiled.

  I liked it when she smiled because I saw her teeth again, and it reminded me of the first time I’d seen her standing outside Aurelio’s. And I remembered her sandals too, except that now she was wearing those black boots, and her sandals were in a box on her lap.

  “Maybe. One day.”

  I flicked on the engine and the motor stuttered and began to throb. It was a short, glittering drive up to my house in the hills. The road was narrow and in need of resurfacing. At one point there was a cliff on the right-hand side that dropped down to the sea. There was just room enough for two small cars to pass each other, yet I had to drive carefully because there were many blind bends. I beeped my horn a couple of times before turning a corner, just to make sure. The sea looked flat and shiny like a sheet of aluminum. Further up the road, we turned away from the coast, and sped beneath the dappled shades of fig and lemon trees.

  I occasionally glanced across at Valentina. Her eyes were fixed on the horizon as we drove north toward the volcano, Etna. It was going through a quiet phase at this time. There had been no repeat of the famous eruption of 1669 which re-sculpted so much of the Catanian landscape; the shifting volcanic lava giving the city a black edge.

  Valentina’s hair streamed and flittered. She slipped on her sunglasses.

  “You might want to put your jacket on.” I raised my voice above the engine hum.

  “It’s OK, I like the cool air.”

  “Not far now. Just a few more minutes.”

  “You still live with your father, you said.”

/>   “Just for now. I need to keep an eye on him.”

  “He’s old?”

  “Getting old now, yes.”

  “And your sister. What’s she like?”

  I felt a little twinge in my gut and said nothing.

  “It will pass the time,” she said. “I don’t mean to pry. I like to get to know people.”

  “You like to get to know strangers who buy you things.”

  “I’m just making conversation. Why are you so touchy about your sister?” She shook her head.

  “I haven’t seen her in a while.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I don’t like her boyfriend, I mean, boyfriends.”

  “I see.”

  Her blonde hair whiplashed her cheeks and she tugged back the strands with two fingers.

  “You want to protect her, and you’ve failed, right? It’s a classic. You can’t control her life. Let it go. Let her go.”

  “I just wish she would control herself.”

  “She doesn’t want you interfering, that’s all. You probably wanted her to stay a virgin or something.”

  “I’m no prude,” I said. That was definitely something I was not.

  “Not everyone wants to settle down and have kids, you know. Some women are free spirits.”

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “You probably want her to be normal. It’s a funny thing to wish for a person. Why don’t you just let her be herself, someone unique?”

  “I’ll take unique,” I said, “but not reckless, not ungrateful.”

  “Come on, is she really that bad?”

  “Yes, she is. And she’s AWOL, right now. Last time I saw her she was living with some guy on his boat. Anyway, enough about her. What about you?”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “Like I said, I’m free.”

  “Totally?”

  She nodded.

  “So, you don’t belong to anyone, I mean.”

  “No.”

  We drove along a straight stretch of road and I was able to glance at her occasionally, analyze the skin tones. She kept looking the other way so she didn’t notice my eyes on her. She was beautiful, certainly, but it was beauty of an unusual category. There was something in her face that reminded me of Scarlet Johansson, although Valentina was more bony and rigid-looking. Her cheeks were sucked in. She bore a slight resemblance to my mother as well, a kind of grace, something in the movement of the hands, perhaps, her limp wrist. She had a way of looking at me as though I meant something. It was good that she looked at me that way, even though she was being paid for it. Or thought she was.

  We drove between two fields of gnarled olive trees and then along stretches of shadowed and sunlit road.

  “Not far now,” I said.

  “Now you sound like my father.”

  “What’s he like?” I asked.

  “I don’t feel much like talking about him. I’m into looking, right now, if you don’t mind, I just want to stare at the clouds. They make such cruel shapes, don’t you think?”

  I wondered what kind of cruel shapes she was imagining. I glanced up at the sky but saw nothing exceptional, just passing trails, some miserly tufts.

  We drove higher up the narrowing road. Now cypress trees curtained the car on either side. As we reached my driveway, the cypresses thinned out and gave way to the pine trees that framed the house and cast their shadows over the flat, white roof. The car’s tires churned the gravel path. The engine gave a final sob then fell silent as I turned and pulled out the key. She stroked her loose curls of hair back with the palm of her hand. I liked the way she touched her hair. Protective. I walked around the car to open the door for her, thinking it would be a gentlemanly act.

  “Nice place.” She uncramped herself out of her seat and squared up in the shade. She stood a couple of inches taller than me now. Those new boots.

  “Are you ready to meet my father?”

  “Is it such a big deal?”

  “Not really.”

  “Can I leave these here?” She turned and dropped her shoebox behind the seat.

  “If you like.”

  Classical music floated out of the windows of the house. He was listening to his Bach again.

  “You’ll have to excuse his ways,” I said.

  Our footsteps crunched in the gravel. In the afternoon heat, the grass made a constant, ticking noise. During the hours of sunlight, the cicadas chanted ceaselessly.

  My father did not hear us enter the kitchen. The music played on as he sat at the long oak table with his back turned, his collection of coins spread out on the table in front of him. His gray hair was scraped thin over his head.

  “Father,” I said.

  His shoulders did not budge.

  “Father.”

  I moved to the stereo and inched down the sound.

  He raised his head and turned to face us, his eyes sleepy.

  “Alex, is that you?”

  “I’m here. I’ve brought a friend.”

  He pushed his chair back and stood up with awkward slowness.

  “This is my father, John Melville,” I said.

  My father nodded.

  “This is….” I opened my palm.

  “... Valentina,” she said.

  “A friend of mine,” I said.

  “Pleased to meet you.” She stepped toward my father to shake his outstretched hand.

  “You brought home some real treasure this time, son,” he smiled.

  “Please. Don’t start.”

  She smothered a giggle. “It’s OK. What are all these coins?”

  “You should show her some of your collection,” I said. “I’m sure Valentina would like that.”

  My father pressed his fingers to the back of her spine and guided her to the table. He always had that ease with women, a debonair quality I lacked. He leaned toward her, smiling. “Now, Valentina, feast your eyes on this. It’s a Roman coin, a Quietus. The image is off-center, but can you see how the face is beautifully carved? Nobody is capable of such finesse nowadays. It’s all done by machines.”

  “To make our life easier,” I said.

  “To make our life hell,” he said.

  “Luddite.”

  Valentina swiveled. “What?”

  “Never mind my son.” He took her hand and placed the coin in the center of her palm. “Feel how cool it is. That’s copper alloy, hand-struck. Can you feel the weight of time?”

  The music came to an end and a wave of silence flowed into the room. Particles of dust sparkled in the sunbeams.

  “Will you excuse me for a while?” I turned away from them. “I’m going to make some coffee. I won’t be gone long, I promise.” I rubbed my hands on my jeans. “Dad, you look after her.”

  I strode into the kitchen and washed my hands a couple of times.

  The Lavazza machine was on the blink, so I had to make an old-fashioned Mocha. I screwed the silver jug together and heated it over the gas. While the coffee was brewing, I went quickly downstairs to the basement to check the room: a bed, no sharp objects, no windows, a heavy lock.

  Everything in good order.

  When I came back a few minutes later, holding a tray, my father was sitting down and looking out the window at the pine trees leaning in the sun. Valentina had her hands on her lap in a princess-like pose. They reminded me of two children, newly introduced, too shy to play together. My father turned his head toward me slowly with an odd expression in his eyes. I sensed what was coming, and my throat began to tighten.

  He said, “Aren’t you going to introduce me to this lovely friend of yours?”

  He smiled at Valentina in a neutral, unknowing way.

  “Valentina, this is ... my father, John Melville. Retired interpreter, amateur numismatist.”

  Valentina, to her credit, said nothing. She squeezed my father’s outstretched hand, looking at him with searching eyes.

  “What if,” I said, “we all had some coffee. It’s only a Mocha, I’m af
raid. My machine’s not working.”

  “Machines are overrated,” he said.

  Valentina whispered, “Thank you,” and took the tiny cup, one finger hooked through the hole. Her eyes asked me a question but I thought it indelicate to answer in front of him.

  “You should show her some of your coin collection,” I said. “I’m sure Valentina would like that.”

  I didn’t mind repeating myself. I was used to this: the repetition. But it was probably unsettling for Valentina right now.

  He moved toward the table to retrieve a coin and sat down on the sofa next to Valentina. His movements were calm, unhurried.

  “Open your hand,” he said, as he placed the coin in her upturned palm. “Feel the weight of time.”

  She looked down at her hand, turned over the coin in her fingers. “It looks old, Roman? Handmade?”

  He turned at me and grinned. “You really struck gold this time,” he said. “She understands the beauty of things.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” said Valentina. “But I can see the etching here is….”

  “Painstaking,” he said.

  “Beautiful,” she said.

  “Father, drink your coffee.”

  “No thanks, son. I think I had one already.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “I was out.”

  “I do like your girlfriend.” He admired her with keen eyes. “She has such peaceful hands. Haven’t you noticed?”

  Valentina blushed and handed him back the coin. “Here. Thank you for letting me see it.” Turning to me, she said, “You wanted to show me your collection?”

  I nodded. My heart started thumping but I tried to keep my face as mask-still as possible. “I think it’s time we went downstairs.” I spoke with more emphasis than I intended, my voice sounding a little scratchy. “This way.” I pointed to the corridor.

  She stood up and left the room.

  My father gripped my arm as I passed by. “Such a nice girl.” His eyes were dry and clear.

  “Get some rest,” I said. “Why don’t you go upstairs? It’s time for your siesta.”

  He squeezed my arm for a moment longer.

  “I need to go. She will be waiting.”

  “Nice,” he said, “girl.”

  “Rest.”