02.2 Rubicon

Jasinski sat down for breakfast at the restaurant downstairs. A waiter brought him a note in a golden tray. It read that the manager would see him after breakfast.

After breakfast, he was steered to the directorio. Janitor held the door open to let him in. The lady from the fourth floor stubbed her cigarette in a large black ashtray and got on her feet. He overheard her say, “Three days is unacceptable! I missed the cruise!”

“Comtesse!” the manager got up, “I will find it. I will check Papeete, Hawaii, LA…” She gathered her coat and walked out of the door brusquely and the manager followed. Here it was hectic. Not so tidy like he observed at the restaurants and the bars. The manager looked like a mess – in a disorderly fashion.

The manager returned, “Señor!”

“Jasinski, Borys Jasinski…” he began.

“You lost your passport!”

“Not precisely…”

“Señora lost her bag!” he flung an arm, “Problems! Problems everywhere!”

“I’m sorry, sir,” expressed Jasinski.

The manager rubbed his face, “What is your problem?”

“An officer from the immigration…”

“Took away your passport! And you are Polish, right!”

“Yes sir.”

“Sit!” he waved his hand ushering him to sit on the left side of the table. Few seconds ago, that lady sat on the right side close to the manager. Jasinski took the furthest seat.

“He said he will bring them in an hour but I have not heard from him.”

The manager grabbed the telephone on the table and dialled rashly. Then he began to speak in Spanish to someone on line.

He dropped the receiver and said, “You know, today is Saturday, tomorrow is Sunday. Nobody is there.”

“Impossible! Someone must be there at the Swiss embassy!”

“Sí, sí!” he got up from his chair, “I have the comisario. I will call. Give me one second. I come right now,” and he stepped out through the door that led to the directorio.

Jasinski glanced around. It was fairly a tiny room with highly polished oaken wainscotings and linen walls, picture frames and curtains in gilt. A conference table with a pinewood top, fenced by black-leather upholstery chairs. There were two telephones on the table and a television by the wall facing him.

He decided against making a call from here because he knew too well that all the lines would be bugged. And there he grew aware of the television turned on and focused into a suite. A large bed in its focal view and from a moderate angle, a bright and spacious interior with glossy wallpaper in shades of brown and gold.

Suddenly, he was drawn in utter shock when two figures appeared on the screen. A man in Arab clothes held the countess by the wrists and she was trying to get free. He was a tall guy and she was tiny. She could not shake him off. They reached the bed. She spat on his face and he slapped her abruptly. That was a loud blow. There wasn’t a sound that he could hear. She was in awful pain, super stressed. He dropped her in bed, grabbed her ankle as she lifted a thin leg in ankle heel boots. She wore the same black dress and beige overcoat that she wore a moment ago.

Shockingly, he tore her dress. A breast came uncovered. He drove a hand between her legs. That face told everything. She swore on top her voice. Jasinski could feel the intensity of her cries.

And again, she spat on his face. Threw saliva in surplus. This Arab grabbed her throat and pinned her in bed. His hand in her groin, tore down the pantyhose.

Jasinski sat staring at this weird scene unfolding on the television screen. The door opened and Mendez sauntered in to find the television going on. He switched it off immediately. “Did you make a call?” he asked irately and sweating.

Jasinski shook his head in utter shock.

“Call!” he stepped up to the phone and picked it, “I’m very occupied now. I will call the comisario and let you know in the afternoon.” He dropped it.

Jasinski got up from the chair nodding his head as if he understood. He did not want to ask what was going on. Mendez tumbled to open the door for him.

The call came right in time. A girl at the counter alerted, “Mister Jasinski! Here is a call for you!”

A call from the bank, “Buenos dias! How do you do? I am Franco Ruiz.”

“Fine, fine,” shattered Borys Jasinski, “I honestly don’t know what to do, where to go, whom to call!”

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“Yes. They retain my passports!”

“That’s odd,” said Franco Ruiz, “Ask at the conserjeria. I am on my way. I’ll be there in few minutes. All the directors are out of town. A meeting could be arranged on Monday, or Tuesday perhaps. You have a couple of days to relax.”

“Well, I will wait at the rooftop bar.”

At the Avenue Roof Bar, it was pretty quiet in the morning hour. He sat down with a drink still blown in his mind feeling uneasy to cope with what he saw. It was a shameless act of violence – rape. Jasinski totally forgot to go out and make that call to the embassy.