WHEN I OPENED the door and saw him standing there in his black-and-white-check imitation Faconnable shirt, I wished I were a draughts piece so I could run up and down his body. He immediately made me think of a game with some rules that could be more easily broken than others.
Rafael was as beautiful as a god. He had long, thick black hair which he gathered in a ponytail, and while he spoke he was constantly pushing rebellious strands behind his ears. His skin was dark olive, with a sheen that half the forty-year-old women who spend their lives sunning themselves on beaches around the world would die for.
Rafa was not bothered about the colour of his skin. Nor was I. But I have to admit that his origins did fascinate me from the start. His teeth gleamed like ivory, and for a second I felt as if I was on safari and had met an African elephant.
After he had told me his charges for acting as my tour guide for a few hours a day, and for taking some photos of the most interesting sights in Peru, I invited him for a wild weekend where his physical safety would be in great danger. He knew that, but I think he was willing to take the risk. I did not really need a guide, but hired him anyway.
I love the intensity of our encounters. Rafa makes me feel happy in a way he probably does not even suspect. He motivates and inspires me.
The first time we met, I wondered if his skin was salty or not. Later, I discovered it smelt of vanilla, like the pods used to add flavour in cooking.
When we made love this morning, he spoke to me in Spanish, not in Quechua. I think this shows a timidity he is careful to hide: by speaking in what is not his native tongue, he distances himself from the enormous urge he feels to have me; the sound of his words bounces off the walls of the room and attacks my body, which shrinks each time one of them enters my ears and tickles my Eustachian tubes, weakening my resolve. I can never say no to him. After we have made love, I am always stained in words, my mouth is filled with imaginary shreds of coca leaves the two of us have chewed together, and my hair shines like never before. So does his. During our love-making sessions, he always wears it loose, and as it touches my body it’s like a soft chamois leather.
I love how sensual his lips are, and while I am licking his big toe it excites me to watch how he reacts with pleasure, trying not to laugh, as his body wriggles on the spotless white bedsheets. I nibble at his heels, like a puppy playing with a slipper. The sound of the headboard against the wall must tell our next-door neighbour that we are indulging in reproductive activity most couples would be jealous of, but it’s not the wild noises of some animal possession like a Cro-Magnon man and his mate, but something much more subtle, which gives me goose bumps. I often find myself thinking of Roberto, my little fat friend.
Rafa often plays at covering my body in marmalade, because I have never liked it and we store the extra pots from breakfast in our minibar. First of all he licks me with his small, pointed tongue, then he puts it in my mouth. The warmth from his mouth contrasts with the cool marmalade. His skin is smoother than Italian marble, and this has been the first time I’ve had a completely hairless body at my mercy. I feel proud to have such a wonderful specimen in my bed.
Today, after all our foreplay and moments of delight, he took off his condom, which by now was full to bursting, and left it by the bedside. I suddenly remembered the mistake many men make when they leave their condoms in full view of anyone, but I forgave him this once. On the contrary, I smiled over at him for the gift of crystal-clear semen he was making me. I picked it up between two fingers and sniffed at the tiny bundle, hoping to find the typical smell of sea water and egg white, but the only odour I could detect was that of latex dusted with a substance called SK70, which, according to the publicity on the box, does wonders for sensitivity.
When I came out of the shower, I wrapped myself in a brand new electric blue towel, which unfortunately left little balls of material all over my body. As I stood to look at myself in the mirror, I observed with horror that several of them had even got into my most private parts. When he saw what had happened Rafa laughingly introduced his fingers into all my hidden corners, with all the assurance of a plastic surgeon changing my features completely. He picked off the bits of fluff as if he were taking out splinters. Today I felt like Fort Apache besieged by the Indians, whose chief was Sitting Bull.
‘You’re very beautiful, boss,’ he told me softly.
And you’re my very own totem pole, I thought.
It was night-time, and Rafa was driving me to the most dangerous hills surrounding Lima. When I asked him to take me there, he stared at me and said, ‘OK, boss, but on condition you put up your hair and hide it, so they won’t see you are a foreigner. And I’ll take a gun just in case, and we’ll keep the doors locked. Don’t even think of getting out of the car. Got it?’
‘Got it,’ I replied, looking serious.
I don’t like wearing my hair up. I never liked having ponytails, plaits, or anything like that. I have a complex about my ears. At primary school they used to call me Jumbo, because they stuck out even from my beautiful long hair. God knows, children can be cruel. Fortunately, when I was ten my mother noticed and had my ears pinned back. I spent a whole summer on the Côte d’Azur wearing a scarf that covered my head completely. Everybody would ask my mother if I had a fractured skull or was suffering from cancer. In reply, she would cross her fingers to ward off the possibility I might have to endure one or other of those dreadful traumas. Anyway, I don’t think the surgeon was particularly good, because my ears still look like cauliflowers, and I’m still embarrassed by them.
The road to the hills – if it could be called that – was covered in earth and showed there was heavy traffic along it. Our car was being thrown around like a ship in a storm, but I did not feel in the least bit frightened. On the contrary, I love it when the adrenalin kicks in. Besides, it excites me to know I have an armed man sitting next to me.
In the distance we saw the feeble lights of some shacks that seemed to be clinging to the top of the hill.
‘Stop the car!’ I ordered Rafa.
‘What?’ he said, slowing down and turning his head in my direction.
‘Stop the car here!’ I almost shouted at him. In the darkness I could not see how astonished he must look, but I could imagine it.
‘If I stop now, I’ll never get the car moving again, boss.’ Rafa tried to be as firm as possible.
‘We’ll push it.’
My solution did not seem to convince him, and he paid me no attention. So I grabbed the handbrake and pulled it up sharply, without worrying about the consequences of what I was doing.
‘You’re crazy, boss, we could have an accident!’ Rafa shouted at me. He pushed at my arm, preventing me from getting the brake fully on. The car came to a shuddering halt.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked me, almost angry at what I had dared to do.
‘I want you to make love to me right here.’
‘What?’ he said, his anger changing to laughter.
I could see he understood what I meant, but could not bring himself to believe I could be so crazy.
‘Make love to me here, in the middle of the road,’ I said, struggling to open the car door.
This was difficult because the car was on a slope, and it took me several attempts to actually get out. I leapt out as if I were somehow gravity-free, and stood in front of the headlights so that Rafa could see me all the better. Perhaps that would arouse his desire. The countryside had a rather hostile look, and to make things worse, there was complete silence. Not a sound. Not a bird singing anywhere. A few moments later, Rafa got out of the car as well, and came and stood behind me. He pushed me down against the car bonnet with one hand, and lifted my blouse. I could feel the tips of his fingers running up and down my back, drawing little figure-of-eight patterns. The sign of infinity. The language of bees. From time to time he moistened a finger with his tongue, and started to move further down my back. Impatient, he undid my jeans button, and they fell around my ankles. Then he used two hands to lift my buttocks to the height of his prick, which was erect in the darkness as if invoking the Almighty. At that very moment, images from a horror film I had seen at university flashed through my mind. It was called The Myth of Kzulu. It was the story of a monster with a huge member which raped all the virgins it came across. They all died impaled on this gigantic prick. We used to go and watch this kind of horror film before our exams, to relieve the pressure. Perhaps now deep down I was anxious, and that was why I wanted to provoke Rafa.
Rafa began thrusting away, and as I too began to groan, I could sense he was about to climax. I did not stop him. I liked the idea he couldn’t help himself. And he came. A few seconds later, I could feel myself coming too. I remembered how Cristian had become a shooting star, and thought of all the other men in my life, even those I had not met yet. I had never seen things so clearly. I let out a cry that they must have heard in all the silent shacks perched up on the top of the hill.
‘Take photos of me like this, with my jeans down.’
Rafa did not need asking twice. He used his powerful flash, and turned his third eye on me.
‘Smile,’ he said, coming up close.
I adopted different poses, happy to be a model for a night.
‘Let’s go!’ I told him when I had had enough.
We both got back into the car and, after revving the engine a few times, we managed to set off again. When we reached the tiny village on the top of the hill, we had a spectacular view of Lima. A swarm of kids surrounded the vehicle and ran after us. We came to a stop for a minute.
‘Take some photos of the city,’ I asked Rafa. ‘And of the kids, could you?’
‘Yes, boss. But you stay still, please! I don’t want any problems with these people. Can you see how they’re staring at us?’
More and more people were coming out of ramshackle wooden and cardboard bars, curious to discover who had strayed into this territory reserved especially for the poor, the have-nots.
I could see satellite dishes on some of the shacks.
‘How can they have TV dishes? I haven’t even got one at home in Spain!’ I felt completely bewildered.
‘The Government has supplied them with electricity and water. It may seen unbelievable, but it’s true. There are even buses that come up here. Private ones. So people can get up and down to the city for half a sol. A lot of the women sell fruit down in the city centre during the day, then come back up here at night.’ While he was explaining this, Rafa was taking pictures of the children all round us.
They were having a great time, grimacing and sticking out their tongues.
‘Take a photo, Rafa.’
‘That’s what I’m trying to do.’
At that very moment, I realized the flies on my jeans were still undone. I was struggling to do them up when I felt several tremendous blows on the sides of the car. Looking up, I realized that the hostile-looking crowd were trying to tip the vehicle over.
‘Hold on tight, boss, we’re getting out of here,’ shouted Rafa.
He threw the camera onto my lap and slammed the car into first gear.
The crowd pulled back, and soon all we could see in our rear-view mirror was the dust of the road.
‘Did you manage to get some photos?’ I finally asked, as we were drawing near the hotel.
‘Yes, boss. But just so you know it, it was complete madness to go up there. It could have ended very badly.’
‘Yes, Rafa, you’re right.’