It was completely wrong to be riding in the front seat next to Raúl. It was inappropriate. Perhaps improper was a better term due to their statuary differences.
Surely, Marty had not had the slightest opportunity to sit anywhere else. Amil had opened the back door for Elena, and she had graciously entered and slid sideways to the opposite window as elegantly as she could. Amil did not even give Raúl the chance to step out of the car to open the left door for Elena, the only door that should have been opened for her. After Elena entered the car, it was obvious that Amil would sit next to her. Despite the dimensions of the Audi, it was indisputable that the three of them could sit together.
Amil did not know anything about good manners or, most probably, did not care. How could it be that with a soul modeled in the best private English academies, he was able to oversee such an unambiguous rule of courtesy? When a gentleman opens the car door for a lady and plans to sit next to her, he is the one who should enter first to spare her pristine garments the shame of sweeping the whole length of the back seat. Amil may have been born in the heart of Knightsbridge, but some particle in his ancestral Indian blood was maneuvering his bad memory. Raúl instead, as the gentleman in uniform he was, with his unobtrusive wisdom, had let Amil play the role of the efficient knight and take care of their only damsel, who was not in distress but exuberantly delighted at the prospect of the luxury shopping center inauguration, a project that Marty had supervised and financed, Amil was still promoting and of which Elena had taken possession as the executive director of commercial real estate management.
Raúl dove into the traffic and Marty looked straight into the magma of lights and noise that this contradictory city in the southern hemisphere was able to amass every late afternoon. Even when the building they were about to see in all its majesty was barely five miles away, Marty was sure that it would take Raúl almost forty-five minutes to reach their destination. Marty was not supposed to look at their chauffeur for the whole duration of the trip. Raúl was a serious employee used to the eccentricities and secrets of all these high-rank ex-pats who came to the developing country chasing a good chunk of money and an inflated reputation.
Two blocks and five irresponsible pedestrians later, Marty decided to turn his head back to say some triviality about the traffic. He did not do it. Amil had started his incoherent chants about how Anika, his Swedish girlfriend for the last three years, had left their apartment two weeks ago never to return. Amil had found out through the inebriated indiscretion of a friend that the whitish blond he thought he would marry had hopped on a last-minute flight back to Oslo grabbing by the elbow a tall French instructor who for the last six months had offered to teach her Spanish for free. Amil had recounted the story endlessly for ten days, at the office, at the bars, and at the golf tournament. It was getting very difficult to swallow anymore. Marty was convinced that his younger coworker was doing it to impress Elena with his manly sorrows. His seductive reasoning being that if Don Quixote had almost cried in the presence of Dulcinea, why not poor, gentle Amil, in an intimate car ride, for the entertainment and possibly the compassion of the tempting woman sitting so strategically next to him?
Raúl braked inches away–centimeters here, Marty thought–from a car that was miraculously still able to move. He finally turned and looked directly at Elena, her eyes lost beyond the havoc of the insane avenue, her ironic smile respectfully hidden from Amil, her thick Spanish accent about to come out at any moment from her poorly sealed lips. Marty was carelessly admiring her unavoidable, perfect knees when she turned her gaze to him.
“Marty, do you think we will get to see the President?”
“That would be interesting,” Amil intercepted. “I wonder if he is as ugly and short in real life as he looks on TV.”
“Dr. Sacerdote told me the other day that the President assured him in person that he would be there. I cannot believe he would miss such a chance to blab about how the country is improving thanks to his brave policies.” Marty stated.
“The head of your bank talks directly to the President?” asked Amil incredulously.
“Of course!” Elena laughed. “Who do you think is the guy who really runs this country? It’s not us, for sure, nor the presidential monkey! Mr. Head of the Bank is! Isn’t it true, Marty?”
Marty did not like it when Elena replied for him, giving away his theories as if they belonged to her. Marty’s wife did the same the very few times she expressed any interesting opinions and when he complained she shielded her appropriations with the excuse that women only repeat the words of men they admire.
“I am not going to wait for the President. It’s Erich’s fifth birthday tomorrow and we have early plans,” said Marty in a defensive way.
“Your son is already five?” Amil gasped. Marty did not reply. Elena went back to stare at the insurmountable traffic and did not pay any more attention to the men until they arrived. This time Amil recovered his British composure and went around the car to open the left door for Elena and to protect her from the upcoming vehicles that were trying to find a safe spot to deliver their sophisticated occupants.
The building was an imposing palace from the beginning of the twentieth century that had served as the city’s central market for seventy years and had been abandoned to its corrosive luck when the economy and the mores of the citizens had drowned in the throat of extreme socialism. Marty’s deed had been to awaken this brick-and-mortar cyclops with the tender milk of political change propelled by the inelegant President. The exterior looked again as regal as it had in its origins, when a mythical singer from the times of Rudolph Valentino used to sell his mother’s vegetables and dreamt of becoming the star he got to be. Inside, the shopping center was a hymn to capitalism and the fresh hopes of becoming a first-world country again. Bathed by the creamy radiance of light and music, Elena entered through the cast-iron portico holding the arm of Amil, while Marty made sure that he would be able to find Raúl and the car in the next thirty minutes or whenever he decided that his mandatory presence was enough.
Elena and Amil walked ahead, greeting people, accepting champagne glasses, and choosing between caviar canapés or obscene chocolate strawberries served in almond praline replicas of the dome over their heads. Marty observed the couple from behind, nodding to the puppetry aristocracy of the poor country and wondering if Elena could really surrender to Amil’s dandy arts. The three of them reunited at the doors of the unfinished multi-theater space on the third level that had been Marty’s shrewd idea. Amil was telling the story of his spiteful heart to one of the bank’s senior investors. Marty whispered in Elena’s ear:
“Come with me. I don’t think we are allowed in the theaters but I know how to get in from the side. You won’t believe the new technology.”
Elena beamed with the sudden possibility of mischief and stepped ceremonially into the carpeted space declaring with her broken accent that she was the very first and most beautiful person to enter the cinema from that moment until the end of time. Marty looked toward the dead screen and knew it was time to go.
Amil had finished his lamentation when he saw them exiting the theater through the velvet doors.
“They say the President is visiting the stores before his speech. Shall we go and hunt for him? I need to check the Hermès suits and maybe a pair of Pradas anyway.”
“I will see you tomorrow. Try to behave, Amil. Remember that you are the one selling this shit.”
Elena looked up at Marty, disoriented. He was not going to wait to see the President. He moved away from her and Amil as smoothly as the crowd allowed him and turned in front of the descending escalator to send Elena a mocking salute that she could not interpret.
“Back home, Mr. Carman?” asked Raúl when Marty settled in the back seat as it should be.
“Just give me some minutes, Raúl. Let’s wait. My plans for the evening are more open. They are not waiting for me at home until much later. I need to rest my eyes.
Raúl did not reply. Deep respect is better expressed with silence. The calmer traffic set a suspended mood. Raúl continued reading a mystery novel that had more romance than murder, just as he liked them.
“Raúl, open the door!” Elena was yelling from the other side of the locked door where Marty was leaning his head.
Raúl reacted immediately, unlocked the door, closed his book, and turned the car on. Marty started dragging himself sideways helped by the firm pressure of Elena’s hip.
“Raúl, look what I brought you. Dripping chocolate strawberries in a praline cup! I ate four of them already. Aren’t they perfect for an evening of eternal love and desire?”
“To your apartment, Señorita?” Raúl stated more than asked.
“To our secret nest, Raúl. And you can go home after leaving us. I have very serious business matters to discuss with Mr. Carman. Isn’t that right, Marty?”
Marty smiled while kissing her. He liked this country, with its blasts of dust, Raúl’s discretion, almond praline cups, and Elena’s broken accent ready to assault him through her poorly sealed lips.