She wondered how much blood could flow in the bath.
How great would the relief be when all the bad was out?
Carlos Sangrenegra, with his Spanish accent and his odd English, his tight jeans and the mustache that he cultivated with such care. The little gold crucifix on a fine chain around his neck, the one thing he kept on in bed, although they weren?t actually in the bed much. ?Doggie, conchita, Carlos likes doggie.? He would stand with feet planted wide apart on the floor; she would be bent over the edge of the bed. From the start he was different. He was like a child. Everything excited him. Her breasts, her hair color, her eyes, her body, her shaven pubic hair.
He would come in and undress, ready and erect, and he wouldn?t want to chat first. He was never uncomfortable.
?Don?t you want to talk first??
?Carlos does not pay five hundred rand for talking. That he can get free anywhere.?
She liked him, those first few times, perhaps because he enjoyed her so intensely, and was so verbal about it. Also, he brought flowers, sometimes a small gift, and left a little extra when he went. It was her perception that it was a South-American custom, this generosity, since she had never had a Latin-American client before. Germans and Englishmen, Irishmen (usually drunk), Americans, Hollanders (always found something to complain about) and Scandinavians (possibly the best lovers overall). But Carlos was a first. A Colombian.
That origin meant nothing to her, just a vaguely remembered orange patch on a school atlas.
?What do you do?? After his theatrical orgasm, he was lying with his head between her breasts.
?What does Carlos do? You don?t know??
?No.?
?Everybody knows what Carlos do.?
?Oh.?
?Carlos is a professional lover. World heavyweight love champion. Every fuck is a knockout. You should know that, conchita.?
She could only laugh.
He showered and dressed and took extra notes from his wallet and put them on the bedside cupboard saying: ?Carlos gives you a little extra.? In that rising tone, as if it were a question, but she was used to that. Then he put his hand back in his jeans pocket and said: ?You don?t know what Carlos does??
?No.?
?You don?t know what the number one export of Colombia is??
?No.?
?Ah, conchita, you are so innocent,? he said, and he brought out a little transparent plastic packet in his hand, filled with fine white powder. ?Do you know what this is??
She made a gesture with her hand to show she was guessing. ?Cocaine??
?Yes, it is cocaine, of course it is cocaine. Colombia is the biggest cocaine producer in the world, conchita.?
?Oh!?
?You want?? He held the packet up towards her.
?No, thanks.?
That made him laugh uproariously. ?You don?t want A-grade, super special number one uncut Colombian snow??
?I don?t take drugs,? she said, a bit embarrassed, as if it were an insult to his national pride.
Suddenly he was serious. ?Yes, Carlos?s conchita is clean.?
She ascribed the early signs to his Latin blood, just another characteristic that was refreshingly different.
He would ring and say: ?Carlos is coming over.?
?Now??
?Of course
Carlos misses his conchita.?
?I miss you, too, but I can only see you at three o?clock.?
?
o?clock??
?I have other clients too, you know.?
He said a word in Spanish, two cutting syllables.
?Carlo-o-o-o-s,? she stretched it out soothingly.
?How much they paying you??
?The same.?
?They bring you flowers??
