02.3 Rubicon

Forty minutes passed. Franco Ruiz had not reached the hotel. He was about to make his mind to go and make that call when he saw the countess enter the bar in a glimpse of an eye. He glanced twice.

She was in utter mess. Her hair undone, her coat held together by the lapels, she got no shoes, no headpiece. She ordered a beer, lit a cigarette and walked out to the lounge.

He observed carefully. Something deep inside urged him to go and talk to that woman.

“Comtesse!” he approached the lady.

“Monsieur!” that was the gruffest voice he ever heard.

“I am Borys Jasinski,” he said, “mind if I sit down!”

“If you wish,” she extended her hand, “Claudine Cartier.” Her fingers were soft, arms were thin and a knee exposed under her black dress between the torn nylon.

“It doesn’t look like a good day!”

She smiled, “I’m in a mess, excuse me!”

“What happened to your face?” She had a bruise on her left eye, makeups rubbed off around the eyes.

“Oh!” she chuckled with a smile, flicked a tongue and said, “I bumped on the door.”

That was a lie and he knew it, “Was it the drink! It’s quite a blow!”

“No, no,” she gave that rasping gurgle. “I bit an Arab,” she made plentiful waves with her hands and fingers, blushing in a provoking and an arresting manner, “on his pork.” Those movements came to a stop in an awfulness as she flipped holding an elbow to show his size. A quietude.

He sat speechless to hear her speak like that and indiscreetly too liberal on a very first meet. He asked, “Who is this Arab?”

“He stays on your floor,” the countess beamed with a black eye, “The Diplomat Floor. You are a diplomat, aren’t you?”

Borys Jasinski knew to play this game as well, “Yes.”

“Do you travel a lot?”

“I do,” he said, “mostly to the States.”

“Florida!”

“New York.”

“Where are you from?”

“I am Polish. I live in Switzerland.”

“I’m French. I live in England, in Kent.”

“I heard you lost your luggage!”

“A bag,” she sighed rolling her eyes on a thin face, “nothing much to worry about.”

“Do you come here often?”

“I certainly do.”

“Have you been to the Falklands?”

“Falklands! No. Why?”

“It is a British colony, right?”

“A territory,” replied the countess, “but I prefer tropical islands. I’m supposed to go on a passenger liner.” She gave that chuckle and whispered, “I actually did not lose the bag. I made it up.”

“Why would you do such a thing?”

“I flew from Hawaii to Buenos Aires via Tahiti. I lied about the bag to cancel the cruise. I am delayed and it is not my fault.” She drew on her cigarette.

“What when they find out?”

“I’ll be gone,” she said, “with the Arab.”

“You live life at the fullest!”

“Life is tough, Mr Jasinski. I have to go somewhere and vanish for a while.” There she wore that nervous smile, twitching lips, “Why don’t we go out for a ride?”

“Certainly, that is what we should do,” he was drawn in.

“Then I must change,” she stubbed out her cigarette, “I will come to your room. That way it’ll be safe.”

“Fine. It’s Four-Six-Four. I will wait.”

She flung on her feet revealing a wide gash in the pantyhose. She pulled the lapels together, “Monsieur!” nodded at him and left the bar, walking on toes.

Borys Jasinski played the game well. He did not care whether all that she told were lies. He went to his suite. The hallways were empty and silent. He checked the time; ten-twenty in the morning. The air-conditioning was turned off and the bed done. Housekeeping attended his room already.

In this game, in order to keep one step ahead, he got few tricks up his sleeve. Jasinski turned on the AC and ran to the bedroom. He pulled out a luggage piece and opened. Inside this suitcase, there were several tiny enigmatic items – electronics.

This was not a chance he would want to miss. She was beautiful. She was coquettish. Rolling eyes and there was something hidden in her smile. His hands were shaking. He had crossed the line to cheat on his wife on several occasions while overseas. Who’d know! He was fifty-four. Two of his sons married and raising kids. A long marriage to spend his entire life with one woman. One secret he kept from his wife was a packet of tablets – sildenafil.

He pulled it out from the bottom of the case and very secretly, holding it in his palm, ran to the bathroom. He knew this room was wired and hidden cameras turned on him. He swallowed a 50 mg tablet and quickly stashed away the suitcase.