Chapter 10
“The world is like a caviar canapé,” said Edmundo Gutierrez while he heaped Iranian Beluga on a tiny cracker. “You see these precious sturgeon eggs? Too many for the cracker, just as there are too many people on the planet.” The caviar and the cracker disappeared in his mouth. “Natural resources sooner or later will run out. Sooner, rather than later. Population increases in China, India and Brazil translate into millions of new consumers. We are now more than 7 billion. In the past wars, mainly world wars, brought down the numbers. As did epidemics and plagues.”
He gulped down the shot of vodka that had been placed next to the bowl of fresh, unpasteurized caviar.
“What is your opinion, Michael?”
“What you say is quite true. I also think we need to explore ways to develop new approaches and new energy sources.”
“Oh, so you are on the side of the ecologists… We picked the wrong man for the right project.”
Gutierrez laughed, but in a forced way. Michael sipped his champagne.
“Jokes aside, my way of thinking is shared by many at the highest levels of the oil industry. You know, as well as I do, that Exxon, Shell, BP and others have made heavy investments in finding new energy sources, in developing techniques for the extraction of oil and natural gas and converting water into hydrogen. Who would have imagined twenty years ago that more than 10 percent of each gallon of gas we put in our tanks would be made from bio fuels or grain derived ethanol? It is absurd to believe, as any many ecologists do, that fossil fuels can be completely replaced. But developing complementary solutions on the other hand could be highly profitable.”
Edmundo Gutierrez studied the handsome blond man in front of him who spoke in perfect English, while occasionally inserting a few sentences in acceptable Spanish thanks to his knowledge of Italian.
“Listen, Mr. Bardi. You fly back to the US tomorrow. I am leaving now for Mexico City on my private Falcon. I have a morning appointment with the President. So, take the envelope and the check. I hope to receive a positive answer from you, accompanied by a report on what is going on with our lobbyists.”
Gutierrez shook Michael’s hand and with a grimace stood up with the help of his “niece” She had not said a word throughout, but had limited herself to looking away whenever Michael happened to glance at her. Michael sat down and called over the headwaiter who rushed to the table.
“I’d like to listen a few Mariachi songs, if at all possible.”
“They are finished for the night, but anything is possible, Mr. Bardi,” he said with a smile as he poured another flute of exquisite French champagne. Ten minutes later the three musicians were ready to perform again.
“What would you like to hear?” asked the bandleader.
“’Sabor a me’ and then ‘El Reloj’. Then you pick whatever you wish.”
A fresh ocean breeze ruffled the patio’s white linen ceiling drapes. The trio’s romantic music played in the background. After his second glass of champagne, Michael got up and left two one hundred dollar bills on the table. He went over to the musicians, shook their hands and headed towards his cottage. Once there, he used his key card to enter. The ac was still set at maximum strength. The room was as cold as the North Pole, so Michael adjusted the thermostat. He had had too much to drink. He stripped naked and got into bed, his left arm under the pillow assigned to a missing bed partner. And he fell into a deep sleep punctuated by flashes of dreams.
Flash: Dad was always smiling when he returned home. It was so good to be with him. Dad knew so much and explained everything so well. When away at boarding school in Switzerland he missed him terribly. They had not spent enough time together before his death, but the memories were vivid. It is his 13th birthday and he feels all grown up. He is in his room in Milan and Dad, on his way to the airport on one of his many trips, had snuck in to give him a kiss. His father is surprised to see that Michael is crying, overcome by typical adolescent angst and worries about his future. His father sits on the bed, hugs him and asks, “What’s bothering you?”
“I don’t know, Daddy. I am sad and I feel useless.”
“You’re thirteen and you feel useless? You will accomplish much in life Michael because you are talented and ambitious. I am sure of it. Listen to me. I love you and would never lie to you.”
Michael feels reassured and confident that all will go well with his father at his side.
Flash: One of his mother’s old school mates has come to visit her. Dad is away on a trip. Michael notices that his mother is all excited and has doused herself with perfume. Michael is 16 and on school break at home in Milan for a few days before going back to boarding school in Switzerland. He goes to his room, puts on headphones and listens to the Bee Gees. He is thirsty and goes to the kitchen to get a Coke. On his way back to his room he glimpses through the slightly ajar door of the living room and sees his mother and the friend kissing passionately. The friend’s hands are caressing her thighs. Michael is dismayed. For some time he has had the feeling that his parents’ marriage was in trouble, despite everything wonderful when in public, with lots of exchanges of “sweetheart” and “honey.” It is just a show and even Michael knows it. But catching his mother in the act makes him sick to his stomach. Michael rushes to the bathroom and throws up.
Flash: Photos of his father’s car crash on a dangerous curve in Stelvio Pass. The police determine the cause of the accident. His father was driving at a fast speed when on the curve a tractor-trailer had swerved into his lane. The abrupt stomping on the breaks was not enough to avoid the collision. The Alfa Romeo Duetto bounced against the guardrail and catapulted the car 100 meters off the side of the mountain. Rescuers were faced with a horrifying scene of scattered body and car parts.
Flash: His father’s funeral cortege. People faking sorrow: among them work colleagues ready to take his place. His mother playing the part of the tearful, but not overly distraught widow as is appropriate for people of her social standing. Her old school mate is by her side all the way to the Basilica of Saint Ambrose. God, how he hates them.
Flash: The blond Olivia met at the Tuscan View Farm in Virginia. Then another Olivia: the “niece” with green eyes and black hair.
Flash: He is caressing a goddess. He can smell her perfume. He feels her lips on his face and nipples.
“God, you are so handsome. I like you so much!” says the woman in his bed. Michael’s hangover is gone. He rolls over on his side and is pleased to see Olivia. She is naked and perfect: a beautiful combination of the Capitoline Venus and Canova’s sculpture of Pauline Bonaparte.
“Are you crazy? How did you get in? If you are discovered…”
“I said I felt ill and didn’t want to go to Mexico City. Aren’t you happy to see me? I have been thinking a lot about you since we met in Virginia.”
“Olivia, I can’t believe you are here.” Michael feels totally happy. It is the kind of happiness he felt as a child when his father would give him a long desired present.
“Don’t talk. I want you in me. Now.”
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Chapter 11
The secretary knocked on the office door. “Come in!” said attorney Rachel O’Hara.
“I have the Hon. Gutierrez calling from Mexico City on line 3.”
“Put him on… What a pleasure to hear your voice.”
“How is the loveliest attorney in town doing?”
“Overwhelmed with work – mainly for you and your friends. But everything is proceeding…”
“Listen, I’m calling to tell you that Michael Bardi is coming to see you. He is a very well prepared young man and I want you to treat him as my personal assistant.”
“It will be a pleasure.”
“I don’t doubt it. All the best.”
Rachel O’Hara: attorney, very attractive and very aware of it. She is also very aware of the fact that both male and female gossips attribute her success to her looks and her willingness to exploit them.
But the rumor mongering and false morality of lesser beings that would give anything to enjoy her favors at least once does not bother Rachel O’Hara. These lesser beings, in her estimation, also include rabid feminists who deem all men to be rapists as well as any lesbians she may have turned away.
Women in general were burdened by ever increasing responsibilities. Now almost all of them had to work: either to supplement their husbands’ paycheck or because they were divorced and/or single mothers. Female servitude just never ended. The only lucky women were the ones with the gift of a great body and a great mind and who knew what to do with them. So thought Rachel O’Hara. For these reasons she had given up courtroom work and become a lobbyist. It was a career change where thanks to her looks, personality and brains she had made it to the top. “Fight fire with fire” was her motto and she knew which weapons to use and when. The idea of resorting to claims of sexual harassment never crossed her mind. She heard someone knock of the door of her windowed, luxuriously appointed corner office.
Michael Bardi entered. Rachel O’Hara duly noted his dazzling smile, blond hair with a $300 haircut, and his 6 feet tall athletic body clad in an Armani suit.
“Christ!” she thought. “He is gorgeous.” Rachel stood up and shook his hand.
“Are you Michael Bardi, fresh from Hollywood?”
Rachel and Michael exchanged a deep look. Then Rachel gave a warm peal of laughter and the ice was broken. A few minutes later, still enveloped by a reciprocal feeling of pleasure at having met, they were already talking business.
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Chapter 12
“Should we go?” she asked. “Where?” “To the Italian Embassy. I was invited to a seminar on Kosher food. Even though I am non-practicing, I am of Jewish and Irish origin and I thought it could be interesting. What do you think?”
Michael stretched. They had been concentrating for hours on Rachel’s work for her biggest client, the Hon. Edmundo Gutierrez.
“Anything to get out of this room.”
“Tell me, what religion are you?” asked Rachel.
“I was brought up a Catholic, but I am a non-believer.”
Rachel put the documents they had been working on in her safe and then locked the door to her office as they left. Michael followed her, with his sleeves still rolled up and carrying his jacket. They took the elevator to the parking garage and got in Rachel’s Smart car – one of the few to be seen on the streets of Washington. It must have been quite a sight to see the beautiful red head driving around in her mini car. From K Street on to 15th Street and then Massachusetts Avenue towards the Embassy.
“Do you know the history of the Italian Embassy?” asked Rachel, while at a stoplight.
“Not in any detail,” Michael lied, to be polite.
“The Embassy used to be on Fuller Street. A once prestigious area it had gone downhill and until fairly recently was unsafe. Imagine this: the police used to hide in the Embassy’s front garden to watch and catch drug dealers. At some point it was decided to build an imposing new embassy on Whitehaven Street off Massachusetts Avenue, right down the street from where the Clintons have a house.”
As she was turning left onto Whitehaven, Rachel continued her story.
“Here you see this parallelepiped shaped building? According to the designs of the architect Sartogo who won the international competition for the job, the inspiration is supposedly a Tuscan Renaissance fortress. I don’t know what to say. In any event as you can tell, the building is divided into two parts. In the middle there is a large covered area, called the piazza Italia, used for exhibits and concerts. The embassy has become a tourist attraction.”
Rachel parked and they walked over to the security gate. Before going through the metal detector Michael had to take out his cell phone, wallet, keys and Beretta. The security officer on duty examined the gun carefully and said, “We will hold on to this until you leave.” Michael nodded in agreement. Once under the embassy’s large dome, Michael admired the antique paintings placed on vividly colored walls. Then Michael and Rachel headed towards the 200-seat auditorium.
The seminar started, after a brief introductory greeting by the Ambassador. The speakers were a rabbi, a marketing expert and the young CEO of a company that imported Kosher products. The rabbi spoke at length on how Kosher food rules were dictated by the Bible and gave detailed examples ranging from meat, to coffee to candies. He stressed the fact that Kosher meat was in increasing demand throughout the U.S.
“It’s difficult if not impossible to invite an orthodox Jewish person for dinner unless you can guarantee a completely Kosher meal,” Rachel whispered in Michael’s ear. “As for me, no problems, you can invite me whenever and wherever you want,” she added.
At the end of the lengthy presentations, Michael and Rachel followed the other guests to piazza Italia to taste samples from a buffet of Kosher foods. “The most interesting thing,” Michael commented, “is that Jews and Muslims agree on this one point. Millions of Muslims in the U.S. buy Kosher food when they don’t have access to “halal” products as the process is basically identical.”
“Whatever. How about coming to my house for some pasta?” Rachel said with a smile.
Rachel O’Hara’s apartment was in a luxury condo building on Wisconsin Avenue a few minutes by car from the Embassy. They parked in the building’s private garage and took the elevator to the 10th floor. Rachel lived in a studio apartment with a kitchen, large bathroom and sleeping alcove.
“How about giving me a hand? Since you’re Italian I’m sure you know how to make good pasta.”
Michael got to work. In due time he had cooked pasta for two, garnished with butter and freshly grated Parmigiano cheese, and set the plates on the small dining table. Rachel meanwhile had showered and come out of the bathroom wrapped in a multi-colored pareo. The two sat down to their meal. They ate and drank a bottle of Morellino di Scansano, and laughed about the prowess of Italian men who come to America and capture the hearts of women thanks in no small part to their skill with pots and pans. It’s a talent that is much appreciated by those American women who hate to cook.
Rachel stood up and took an old LP from a shelf.
“Michael, I have gone back to vinyl. I’m sure you remember this Sarah Vaughan album.”
She gestured towards Michael in invitation. To the accompaniment of “The Nearness of You” Michael nuzzled Rachel’s neck. He breathed in her intense personal scent with its hint of Arpege perfume. He heard her soft moan and felt her press against his erection. Rachel was living up to the reputation held by redheads. She moved against time in time with the music.
Then she dropped her pareo and uncovered her beautiful, curvaceous body. Her nipples were aroused, her hips round, her legs long and shapely. She knelt down, unzipped his pants and pressed her face to his erect penis.
“It is so lovely,” she whispered again and again. She delicately took hold of him, as if handling a precious reliquary, and rubbed his penis over her face and chest. Then she began to flick her tongue as if to prolong and increase his tormented excitement. Michael exploded all over her face, while she fingered herself in ecstasy.
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"Take care not to make grandma angry. I will come see you this weekend. But you have to promise me that you are getting all A grades.”
Rachel was whispering, but the sound of her voice woke Michael.
“I was talking to my daughter Sarah. It’s the old story of two silly young students who get married and split bitterly shortly thereafter. Get up and shower. We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us.”
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Copyright © 2012 by Oscar Bartoli
New Academia Publishing/SCARITH Books, 2013
Translated from W.D.C. Sotto traccia, © 2012, Betti Editrice Translator, Maria Enrico
All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America
Library of Congress Control Number:
2013930329 ISBN 978-0-9860216-8-8 paperback (alk. paper)All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
An imprint of New Academia Publishing P.O. Box 27420, Washington, DC 20038-7420
info@newacademia.com www.newacademia.com
