Authors: Daniel Chavarria
Adios Muchachos (7 page)
Four months after discovering Alicia, Victor was still congratulating himself on his good luck (for having run into her) and his expert eye (for recognizing true genius). Their secret agreement was not only extremely satisfying for his personal sex life, but Alicia’s fresh and earthy manner was also a source of solace and refuge from the twenty-hour schedule he had set for himself to try to push through his old archeological tourism project.
Early in September, the Ministry of Tourism accepted his plan to set up a joint enterprise to prospect for sunken galleons in Cuban waters. A few days later, his boss, Rieks Groote, had carried the day in his first knock-down-dragout confrontation with his brother Vincent, who was opposed to the project from the start.
The brother had done a thorough job of lobbying the rest of the decision-making members of the Groote family to get them to trash what he called the “King Project.” Whether it was merely his lack of vision or his gut rejection of anything that smacked of daring and creativity—or perhaps just a mean desire to frustrate a new and grander success by his younger brother—Vincent Groote campaigned mercilessly from the very beginning against the “wild idea” of getting the Groote interests involved with Spanish galleons in the Caribbean. He labeled the plan the ill-conceived, ill-advised delirium of an opportunistic upstart and predicted that it had as much chance for success as the 8-track tape or the Edsel.
But for the last five years, the winds had been favorable to Rieks. Against the judgment of his late father (who was not convinced but did not oppose the idea) and his older brother Vincent (who opposed everything), Rieks had set up the Caribbean Division of the Groote Group and it had done nothing but make money ever since. Thanks to the momentum generated by the success of the Caribbean Division, Rieks was able to steam-roll this new idea past his brother’s opposition, winning the first round in the feud over the King Project.
A short time later, however, an unexpected crisis arose, driving a chilly wedge between Rieks and Victor.
On September 15, Victor had addressed a memo to the Board of Groote International Inc., demanding a commission of three percent on the net income accruing from all business activities stemming from, or in connection with, the King Project.
Rieks was outraged. He said his family would never even consider such a notion. This time Victor had gone too far. His ambition had gone to his head. He had lost touch with reality.
“They can take it or leave it,” Victor said, leaving no room for negotiation.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Vic!”
There were a few days of stubborn refusals and flaring tempers when the whole project seemed to be heading for a grave deeper than the galleons they hoped to exploit. Finally, Jan van Dongen, the gray eminence behind the company’s success, asked his boss to let him run a Financial Performance Evaluation Projection on the whole deal before the debate went any further because he suspected that Victor’s “ambition” might not be so ill-woven.
Rieks did not like the idea at all, but van Dongen had proven himself in combat and his acumen had garnered trust. He gave the order to proceed with the performance evaluation. In a month’s time, using the proprietary methodology and support software licensed by the consulting firm that had developed the FPEP, van Dongen came back with the unimpeachable verdict that Victor King would be a key player in the sustained success of the so-called King Project. Of course, he could be cut loose, but that would introduce a reliability variable with a potential financial impact that was unacceptable.
The van Dongen report to Groote International Inc. recommended two variants that could be offered to Mr. King: A) two percent of the net, plus stock options to be detailed subsequently, plus $250,000 per year deductible from future commissions; or, B) $1.5 million per year for ten years.
When the results were presented to him by van Dongen, Victor recognized that, while variant A could yield much more over time, variant B was a cold, tangible fifteen million with no risks. No brainer.
“But when Vincent finds out that we’re going to pay him three million every two years, he’s going to go through the roof!” Rieks objected.
Van Dongen explained that the project was either worth it or it wasn’t, and if it was worth it, two percent would cost the company much, much more than the flat rate Victor was settling for. It was up to Rieks to convince Vincent and the Board with the figures.
“But what if we don’t find anything under the goddamn water in the first two years?”
“That’s a possibility, Rieks. But what you have to keep in mind and try to make Vincent understand is that this has been thoroughly researched. The tourists will be flocking in to do the exploration at their own expense. We know the wrecks are down there, and we will have finder’s rights. Victor is the person who will be running the advertising and promotion campaigns to keep the tourists coming, and using his Mexican Spanish to keep contacts with the government loud, clear, and private … no translators. He’s the plexus of the whole operation.
“With moderate success, Groote International Inc.will net 400 million in the first ten years of operation. With variant A, Victor would be getting around twenty million and (Vincent will love this) he would own a piece of the company forever. Sorry for pressing the point.”
While the gods and their pit bulls were deciding his destiny, Victor took a few days off—to stay out of the way, he explained—but in actuality, to fuck himself into a therapeutic coma.
From the day that Alicia began to work for Victor and Mrs. Victor, she had been pulling down $3,300 a month, including her gasoline allowance of ten dollars a day. Everything had evolved without a hitch. Since the beginning of her contract to the middle of October, according to her own calculations, she had put on fifty-six shows with eleven different men, almost all of them chosen by Alicia herself. On only three occasions did Alicia have to carry out a “contract seduction” using descriptions and photographs given to her by Victor. And even they were good-looking. It was just like he had predicted: with her talents, the right clothes, and the perfect car, she had had no trouble getting them into the room with the pond.
Alicia no longer had to hunt for clients by the sweat of her brow, among other things, and she was being handsomely paid for going to bed with guys she liked. Yes, Alicia was convinced that this was certainly the best of times. Furthermore, Victor had told her that Elizabeth complimented her choice of partners, was satisfied with the frequency with which they were rotated, and was thrilled with the new inspiration that had come to their lovemaking. Not a cloud in the sky for as far as the eye could see. Everything seemed to indicate that the covenant was satisfactory for all parties involved and that Alicia was destined for a long, long run with star billing.
She had, in fact, kept her word about the absolute discretion that had to reign over the entire matter. It would not do for the unsuspecting men to detect what was going on. She had worked out a simple and convincing scenario with Victor (who was always present on the other side of the silvered screen): she was the official mistress of a powerful foreign banker, and it had to be clearly understood that, while he was abroad, they could have a handful of passionate, anonymous lovemaking sessions—only this and nothing more. On the two occasions that her partner seemed to take too much of an interest in the details of her life, she had cut him short. “Listen, did you come here to get laid or to research the life and times of me?”
One lovesick idiot, or perhaps a scam artist in his own right, who made the mistake of launching into dithyrambs about the depth of his love for her, got brushed off in no uncertain terms: “What! Are you out of your fucking mind? Do the math: Alicia loves millionaires, plus, you haven’t got a pot to shit in, equals, you haven’t got a fart’s chance in a windstorm.”
Elizabeth, who according to Victor was pathologically timid, never let herself be seen by Alicia. But as testimony to her approval of Alicia’s
ars amandi
, Elizabeth gave her a ninety-six-piece set of Sevres China, which pleased Alicia to no end because it was perfectly beautiful and capable of being converted into cash any time she wished. Then, on her return from a trip to Spain, Elizabeth brought Alicia a fine concert guitar that she was almost afraid to play.
Except for the brief interludes with her anonymous paramours, Alicia lived at home with her mother, and Victor lived in the house with the pond. No one in the company knew that Alicia existed.
In July and August, while Elizabeth was in New York, Victor made use of Alicia’s services for himself. That kind of arrangement soon came to be so natural that whenever Elizabeth was away from Cuba, Alicia would move into the house with the pond and stay there for weeks on end, with or without Victor.
From the beginning, the sex had been very satisfactory for both of them. They enjoyed each other and had a good time. And even though there was no audience and, consequently, no show during that time, he kept her allowance coming like clockwork on the first of each month. Victor was a spender, a real prince, exactly the kind of man Alicia adored. There was nothing cheap or calculating about him.
The convertible she had been assigned for her hunting was entirely at her disposal. This had allowed her to take her mother out a little, weekends in Varadero or Viñales, afternoons at Marina Hemingway, private dinners in good restaurants. They even rented a house out in Guanabo without having to suffer the vicissitudes of travelling to and fro via the decrepit public transportation system.
Victor had taken great pains to keep Alicia completely invisible to anyone and everyone related to Groote International Inc., and he had explained that the house with the pond was to be used exclusively by the men who were part of the covenant on official covenant dates. Any other casual lover, personal friend, relative, or acquaintance of Alicia’s was strictly barred from using, seeing, or even knowing about the house with the pond.
Alicia had recently met Fernando, another Argentine, with whom she locked herself away for three days in her own home in Miramar. On two occasions he invited over his friends, who were bewitched by the music and charm of the daughter and the culinary arts of the mother.
Yes, Alicia did not need to go out pedaling or to break the air conditioner or the Soviet refrigerator or her watch. She no longer needed to put on a show about painters who were blimps or bone heaps or midgets or geezers or ugly as fucking sin; nor did she have to strip on the couch in her living room to get things going with her new clients as quickly as possible. Now she could let relations develop at their own pace, without pushiness or humiliation. And now it was God’s honest truth that she did not accept invitations or presents. Now she was the one who treated, with her own money. Her enthralling charms, invigorated by money and a fine car, became lethally effective, practically without effort. The routine about “never offend me with gifts” and “our dignity is all we have left” had taken on the ring of devastating devotion to the cause. By the end of a week, the Johns were spending fortunes on her. That Fernando guy had even offered to take her to Buenos Aires.
A few days later, she got a firm marriage proposal with the immediate prospect of moving to a luxurious pre-war apartment on Madrid’s La Castellana Boulevard.
But Alicia was no longer in a hurry; she could afford to wait. With the stable situation she had with Victor and the new image of independent wealth she was projecting, she knew she could play out the game of lonely heart and love sincere. Accordingly, she had decided to be prudent. She would not accept the first Tom, Dick, or Harry with a few bucks to his name. The guy that was to take her away from all this would have to be a real millionaire, rolling in dough, re, mi.
Both the Argentine and the Spaniard were put on the back burner.
“You honor me with your proposal, but this is a big step …”
“You must let me think about it …”
Alicia had a well-rehearsed array of parries that invariably kept the Johns hotter than ever. And keeping the flame alive was precisely what she needed, because these guys were her strategic reserve, her escape hatch, just in case.
If they came back, fine, she would receive them in her home and treat them with the expertise of a geisha. But it was decided, and her mother supported her decision—they had to wait for a guy with real money to come along.