IT HAD IRRITATED HIM AT first, but now the fact that she has delivered Perugia to him has become another of his victories, a prize. It’s obvious to everyone, he thinks, that she’s not with him for his looks but rather for something else, most likely his money. But he likes the arrangement, it’s like wearing a good suit or having a diamond in one’s ring—even if people have the wrong idea. And it’s not because of that, even if he still doesn’t know why it is, even if his attempts to stop seeing her have quietly failed.
And on this day, Valérie is radiant. Her gossamer white dress, a sea of lace, hugs her form. Her necklace sparkles in her cleavage, glinting as it moves with her. She wears a wide-brimmed hat and insouciantly perches a pale pink parasol on her shoulder. Her jet black hair is full and lustrous. Valfierno knows that they envy him, then it suddenly occurs to him that they might instead see him with scorn: another middle-aged man caught in the trap. The idea upsets him.
“Eduardo, listen.”
Valfierno looks at her and tries to think of something else. He tells himself he’s done a good job with her. He has taught Valérie to hide that vulgar side he finds so exciting so she can be the kind of young lady one can take out occasionally to a place like the Chantilly Hippodrome. Though she still sticks her nose in where it’s not wanted:
“Eduardo, I have to ask you a favor.”
Valfierno looks around him, imagining all the elegant men and women looking at him. It’s occurs to him often, this idea that he is under scrutiny, that he must present himself as if he were on stage. Just in case, he decides to attempt some gallantry.
“Apart from my name and a ring, everything I have is yours.”
“Anything real?” she replies, and she smiles with those teeth and everything falls apart. She just doesn’t know, can’t manage it, and she goes on talking as if she were the same person she was a moment ago, that glorious picture.
“You, I suppose. The only real thing, my dear, is you,” he says, playing the fool.
“If that were true we wouldn’t keep on seeing each other,” she replies, and Valfierno hates her then: she could at least be grateful. It doesn’t have to be love, or tenderness, just a little gratitude. Gratitude for supporting her, for taking her out, for playing the fool with her. Why couldn’t she play the fool, too? After all, he thinks, that’s what arrangements like these are all about—playing the fool together. Valérie passes her tongue slowly across her red lips, pink on red; she knows he can’t resist this.
“Really, Eduardo, I want you to keep Perugia out of this whole business. He’s too stupid.”
At least she doesn’t say Vincenzo, he thinks. She’s trying to be careful.
“Now you tell me.”
“I’ve always said that, Valfierno.”
“What do you mean you’ve always said that? You’ve always said the opposite!”
“Never mind, don’t complicate things. I want you to leave him out of it. He’s a fool, he’ll wreck the whole thing.”
“I didn’t realize you were so in love with that imbecile,” says Valfierno, his voice becoming sharp. In contrast, Valérie replies in a throaty whisper:
“Me, in love? Who do you think I am, darling?”
A sea of people advances toward the grandstand as the starting bell rings. Valérie and Valfierno remain by the course, holding on to the rail. The horses’ hooves thunder past them on the turf.
“I had a friend who fell in love once. You have no idea what a fool she turned into, or what stupid things she did. I could tell you…Make no mistake, I’m serious—if you go ahead with the Italian he’ll ruin everything.”
“Valérie, you know that without him the whole thing is impossible.”
“No, Marqués, I don’t know that. Or have you forgotten that you haven’t told me a single detail?”
“Why do you want to know details?”
“Because, Marqués, without me none of this could have happened.”
“I know that, my dear, and you will be rewarded.”
The horses come into the straightaway and the roar of the crowd suddenly swells. Valfierno marvels at how wonderful it must be to have enough money to be able to gamble on something as uncontrollable as some horse’s pace. A luxury he will one day allow himself. Perhaps very soon. Yes, very soon.
“Marqués, I insist. That poor guy is a dolt; he’ll ruin everything. You have to replace him.”
“I don’t want us to talk about this anymore, my dear, but take my word for it: without him, this whole thing is impossible. It’s that simple. It can’t be done without him.”
“It can. We just have to find another way.”
She speaks to him—she always does this—as if she knew something he didn’t. How to handle a man, for example.
“We have to? Valérie, the person who needs to be out of this once and for all is you. All the more so if you don’t have faith in your Italian. Think: if he falls, you can fall, too. He knows everything about you: where you live, where you work—everything.”
“And not about you?”
“He knows nothing about me. We’ve met here and there a couple of times. He doesn’t know my name, he doesn’t know anything. You, on the other hand…”
“Yes, of course he knows about me. But don’t forget—I know everything about you. Absolutely everything.”
Valfierno thinks she might be right, though it doesn’t matter. But tells her anyway that there is no way, to forget it.
“Whatever you say. But just remember: if he gets caught, you will, too. I’ll make sure of it.”
“Who’s going to believe a whore?”
“A what?” screams Valérie. He is already regretting it, but it’s late for that.