

Albert Foudre

by

Bolesław Lutosławski

Copyright 2010 by Bolesław Lutosławski

Albert Foudre

Bolesław Lutosławski 2010

All rights reserved

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Chapters:

1 **Orleans**

2 **Otterlo**

3 **Park in Kröller-Müller**

4 **Amsterdam**

5 **Cambridge**

6 **Berlin**

7 **Milan**

8 **Naples**

9 **Venice**

10 **Moissac and Ronda**

11 **Paris**

12 **Paris, Trocadéro**

13 **Sierra Leone**

Orleans

I watched Madeline's closed eyes, sensual face. I listened to her even breathing and felt a sudden urge to kiss Madeline's hand, which rested on her breast. She opened eyes for a moment, touched my face with fingertips, and cuddled into me.

But the street was calling with the warmth of a summer morning, so I slipped out of bed, touched Madeline's smooth, fiery hair scattered on the white cover of the pillow, and she stretched: 'No. Don't get up.' 'I'm hot' she added, and slipped the thin cover off her body. As she was still asleep, I went out.

I started my exploration from a brassiere round the corner, where I ordered freshly pressed juice, black coffee and two croissants. A very young, maybe sixteen year old girl, probably the owner's daughter, brought them to me.

I was sitting next to a large window, watching girls walking by: girls in jeans, girls in skirts, girls refreshing their make-up, girls with long hair, girls with short hair, girls with hair tied in the back, girls with pony tails, girls with pig-tails, girls with fashionable handbags and such a vast diversity of shoes that I wouldn't have the words to describe them.

Then I realised I missed Martha, even more than I had thought. I called her, and she picked up the phone immediately, as she just got up to make breakfast for her sons. We were chatting - Martha – from her home with three boys talking around the table, me – sitting alone in a French brassiere. Martha – with her phone locked between her arm and her ear, pouring milk into bowls of some currently popular cereals; me – with a cup of espresso, sitting at a widow overlooking a baroque church; Martha – dressed in her white bath robe; me – also dressed in white. The conversation was relaxed and flowed naturally, and after a dozen of minutes or so Martha said: come to visit us as soon as possible, today if you can!

I agreed – I should be in your place by the late afternoon – I said.

The city, pulsating with the gentle excitement of summer, enveloped by its smells – those from the nearby bakery, and colours from the street market a few yards away. I bought a couple of apples there and eating the first one, I stopped in front of a window display of a tiny shop with posters of the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, Edith Piaf and Barbara Streisand. I walked in to check what it was all about. The small space was filled to the ceiling with old vinyls. A large man with a thick beard and tortoise-shell glasses, dressed in white trainers, black trousers on red suspenders, violet shirt, topped with a flat hat was sitting in this treasure throve of currently silent melodies.

\- Do you have Marlene Dietrich? – I asked standing on the threshold, as there was no space to walk between the shelves and look on my own.

\- I've got Nina Simone – the man informed me in an indifferent tone and handed me the vinyl, so I took it. I paid and made my way. At first I walked so that my shadow overtook me, then – so that it marched along on my left side until I reached a playground surrounded by a fence, where I sat on a bench under a purple maple tree to eat the rest of the apples bought on the market.

The morning was gorgeous, just like the day before, when I walked out of the hotel, run down the stairs onto a small square, and then turned into a cul-de-sac a dozen steps later, only because I was intrigued by a woman with a shock of red hair, dressed in a green jumpsuit. She was putting together an iron installation in the shape of an open hand.

Naturally, I came over to help her. She thanked me with a smile and shaded her eyes from the sun with her hand. After a minute or so she said in a deep voice:

\- Madeline – and extended her hand to shake mine.

\- Madeline? I used to love a girl with this beautiful name in the kindergarten!

\- And what's your name?

\- Albert.

\- I'm sorry, but I never used to love an Albert! Maybe because you're the first Albert I've ever met!

\- An answer with a promise...what's going on here?

\- We are organising an exhibition of José Rodrigo Dupuye. An amazing sculptor from Chile.

There were some fifteen other hands around.

\- Is this art? - I asked.

\- These are palm-shaped candlesticks.

\- Are candlesticks art? Is anything missing here?

\- No, no, nothing's missing here. This is art. The candlesticks are like bones, and when we wrap them with a body, energy will flow out of the fingers.

\- So the flame will symbolize the energy of existence?

\- Yes.

\- And what will the body be made of?

\- It will be made of transparent ice, adorned by José with embedded colourful stashes and precious stones.

\- It will be a very transient exhibition then. It will be gone soon after you have opened it; it will melt in the fever of existence.

\- Does it really matter?

\- Actually, not. A bit like with life.

\- Exactly.

\- I like the idea. Because our hands are beautiful and important.

\- Yes. Our hands are creative.

\- In our hands we hold hands of those who need us.

\- We write letters with our hands.

\- We open the doors to the unknown with our hands.

\- We make coffee at the start of a day.

\- We wash children's hands with our hands.

\- We love with our hands.

\- We wipe tears off our eyes with our hands.

\- You are a beautiful man – said Madeline.

She looked charming, and I felt the danger of desire was...close at hand.

\- Is José your husband?

\- No. José is an artist...and that's all.

\- It must be an interesting relationship.

\- Absolutely. This is precisely why I am organising his exhibition. We are going to open it tomorrow night. And now, I would like to eat something.

\- Can I invite you for a lunch?

\- That would be lovely.

We went to one of those restaurants that pour out into the street with their tables. We ate tuna in some intricate sauce, washing it down with Pinot Noir from Côte de Nuits, Chambolle-Musigny! The wine caressed our mouths like velvet. And for the desert, we shared a paper-thin crêpe with maple syrup and a coffee.

\- Do you like good food? - I asked, as if that wasn't obvious.

- Oh, of course! We are what we eat, after all!

\- When I look at you I can clearly see you must eat the most alluring dishes in the world!

\- Food is a sensual experience. You shouldn't forget about it.

Madeline took me to her place, outside Orleans. I spend a few hours with her on a garden swing the size of a sofa, wrapped in a soft, black blanket with a pattern of white crosses.

Madeline (dressed for the afternoon in a black, cashmere dress, which looked like an existential sweater of the highest quality, and silk tights in the same colour) slipped the velvety-black flats off her feet and seductively propped them against my thighs, asking for a foot massage without saying a word. Madeline's thoughts hid in the mass of her fiery hair. Her earrings made of gold, ruby droplets and some jet-black material I did not know, twinkled flirtingly from time to time, to the rhythm of the swing.

We were sitting immersed in the intimate atmosphere of the warm afternoon, on a swing overlooking a fairy-tale garden. Madeline told me about her life, when she used to perform all around the world: from Carnegie Hall in New York to Sydney opera, Milan and Moscow, playing double acts on the piano with her sister Lillian; playing Brahms, Gershwin, Bizet, Ravel, Fauré, Dworzak, Czajkowski, Manuel de Falla, Lutosławski and a few others. The music was their world; the stage – their home, the rest – was of no importance. It lasted for a while, until Lillian collapsed into pieces and went back to live with their parents.

I looked with confusion at Madeline.

- Lillian was my inspiration. Without her I was...well, I was nobody.

I wanted to deny it but she stopped me with her hand.

\- They stuffed Lillian with drugs, saying it's only a bipolar disorder, that it can be cured, that there are medicines for that. I felt like laughing about it. It was too cruel to cry.

I rocked our swing lightly without saying anything. There was no point.

\- And that was it. The end of beauty, end of the dream I lived for a few years. I didn't want to believe in anything anymore. I felt old, ugly, tired of life. Unwanted.

I moved my hand down her leg, from her thigh, her knee, down to her toes...

\- Ohhh yess...- Madeline purred and stretched like a cat.

Right after the sunset we went back to Orleans for a quick dinner. We spent the night in my hotel room overlooking the cathedral. Just to think this happened only a few hours ago...

When I was pulling the third apple out of the paper bag, a young girl with a sharp look in her eye suddenly appeared in front of me. She asked what I was doing there and I answered that I was eating a fruit.

\- It's a place for children with their nannies – the girl informed me and pointed to an elderly lady who was sitting on the other side of the square, reading something. Probably a book, but what did I know.

\- And can't I just sit here and rest after morning toil?

\- OK – The girl jumped into a sandbox, scooped some sand in her tiny hands and put it on the edge of the sandbox, a small wall. Then she rushed with a children's watering tin can to fill it with water from the fountain.

This intrigued me.

The girl returned, poured the cold water over the hot sand and formed a shape of a little man lying on the edge of the sandbox. After a moment of consideration, the girl picked up a few twigs, two flowers from the lawn, a few pebbles and a feather blown by the wind from whoever knows where.

I looked at her creativity in awe, even though I was pretending I wasn't looking at her at all. And anyway, she probably wasn't paying any attention to me.

The girl stood on the edge of the sandbox, jumped up and down a few times (I didn't know what for) and quickly adorned the sandman with the extra elements. And he, as if alive, was like a happy person ready to jump too and to play with her.

I felt it was time for me to go, so I stood up from the bench, and waved the girl goodbye. She waved back – and so did her grandma.

After leaving the park I went to Pierre Lartigue's shop, where I bought a dark, deep gray jacket for myself and an orange silk scarf with a golden pattern for Madeline. I also bought a pink, goblet-shaped flower on the street market. Also for her.

Then I went to the gallery to say goodbye to Madeline. She was talking to a client, so I put the flower and the scarf in a turquoise box on the window still. Madeline blew me a kiss and so we parted for God knows how long...

While travelling through France, I was thinking about the goldmine in Pebble, on the Iliamna Lake in Alaska, where I will be working this autumn, but since thoughts about work did not correspond to the view outside the window, I let Chet Baker with his 'White Blues' keep me company instead.

Otterlo

Martha was waiting for me on the wall. There were two cats sleeping on the doorstep of her house. We walked into the dining room and I flopped into a comfortable, burgundy armchair with wide armrests. Martha gave me a deep glass of cognac and sat right opposite me, on a sofa with an abstract pattern. I had not visited this house for a number of years – and so long I did not see Martha, but our hearts were still beating in sync.

\- Oh, how good it feels to be with you – I said, and Martha smiled at me, swirled her glass, but did not take a drink.

After a minute or so, as if awakening from a moment of being lost deep in thought, she asked:

\- When was the last time you saw Conrad?

I was surprised she asked about Conrad straight away, as if that was most important for her.

- A long time ago. Years ago. I don't remember. And you?

\- He came to visit me on my birthday four years ago.

\- Has anything else happened?

\- I don't know yet.

\- Who is he for you, Martha?

- An important person. A true friend; just like you - Martha took a sip of cognac.

I stroked her cheek.

\- And my first man. I know it's nothing after so many years, and we were teenage lovers for only a couple of months.

\- You are so sweet...

\- No, I'm not sweet. Conrad had not loved me for a long time, even though he was close for years, and my husband loved me until he found another woman. You know after all....

\- Muuuuuuum! – A child's voice reached us.

\- Have a rest, mother's duty calls...

I stayed in Otterlo for a while. The longer I was staying there, the more I felt like a part of this little family's everyday rhythm; I walked the boys to school together with Martha and then we went on bikes to Kröller-Müller Museum, where she disappeared into her office, and I into a huge park; or I walked around the museum rooms, inhabited by fascinating personalities. The elegant Eva Calinska-Cartagi from Fantin-Latour's portrait. A woman from a Paris café, spotted by Renoir. A person in motion, sculpted by Umberto Boccioni.

For lunch we used to meet at the museum's restaurant, and I sometimes stayed longer with a glass of Riesling from Finger Lakes, or walked and thought about Martha, or talked to some randomly met person about the sculptures this place was so full of.

Martha for me was someone...surprising. Yes, I've never met an equally natural woman. After returning home, she cooked a quick dinner for her ever-hungry sons, Kees, Bart and Philip, while I was telling them about wild adventures I made up on the spot.

Then, they would go to bed, and we, adults, went on to preparing the supper – starting from a glass of cold wine from Gascoigne and a fresh green salad, and ending much later on conversations about events that have happened since our childhoods till then. Martha talked about growing up on the west coast of Ireland, about her grandma, who brought her up, about her school, where she learnt to dance to Irish music in a green dress embroidered with a thick thread creating a Celtic pattern.

Even though I knew a lot of these stories, it was nice to listen to them again.

\- Paris? How did that happen?

\- I turned eighteen year old, I felt grown-up, and so I left for Paris, where I had met your family.

- Destiny. Then Conrad came to visit me

\- Of course! It was perfect! I was insanely in love with Conrad.

\- And he with you.

\- Yes, but I was asked to return to dancing.

\- Conrad went to study medicine in Poland.

\- And you began to enjoy an independent life.

\- And the plait of our lives parted into three separate ways...

\- Yes ...

\- Have you ever returned to each other as...lovers.

Martha did not reply immediately. She looked at me thoughtfully for a moment, and then said:

\- A year later I became a solo dancer in an Irish dance group, I was travelling a lot around America and Europe.

\- Did you feel good about it?

- Very good. It was supposed to be so. The world is rich and you should touch it every day, at least out of curiosity. While we were touring Belgium, I was getting a bunch of flowers every evening, but they were different flowers each time and each time they were beautiful in magical ways. My girlfriends used to laugh I had a secret admirer, who fell in love with me, because they used to come with a small note: 'For M from K'.

\- Has this 'K' come to see you eventually one evening?

\- He couldn't. He was married then. Only a year later, when we were performing in New York. He blew my mind, so I left the man I was with at that time immediately and I moved with Karol to Friesland, where his family had a huge flower field. We got married after two months, a year later I gave birth to Kees, two years later to Bard, then to Philip – six years ago. Five years ago Karol went to Frankfurt, where he met Eva, a pretty young girl from Prague. I was left on my own. Then we had an acrimonious divorce.

Martha finished her wine, I offered to pour her some more, but she declined.

\- And then you came here?

\- No. I arrived in Otterlo with the boys via London, after a few bad romances.

\- And you're fine here, aren't you?

\- I feel at home in Holland and that's a...relief. At the same time I don't feel conflicted, I don't miss the hustle and bustle of a big city, you know. Give me some wine. Literally a sip.

\- It must be hard to bring up three young boys on your own.

\- They are wonderful, and we live in a great place for children. And besides, Karol takes them to his place every two weeks, so they do have a father, and I can do what I want for a few days. But I start missing them almost immediately!

I saw the courage of a real woman in her eyes.

Yes, this was the Martha I used to know, a friend I care so much for.

And then, she added:

\- Yes. During the divorce, when I felt like a doormat, Conrad came to visit, embraced me, and we made love once. Literally once.

After a few minutes of silence Martha asked me, what happened with Beatrix?

For a moment I was trying to remember whom she was talking about and then a beautiful girl with dark ringlets of hair emerged out of the abyss of forgotten memories. Beatrix, hmm.... Beatrix either demanded sex, or read best-selling, romantic books in bed, which she pushed over the edge to the floor once they were finished, or she was silent, or she wanted to go to Galleries Lafayette to buy blouses, bras and shoes.

\- Until...

\- You know.

\- Until you realised, this isn't love, this is something you created yourself; you missed being in love so you made it all up – Martha said, and for a moment I just looked at her attractive face peeping out of a curtain of auburn hair, lit up by the amber flame of the candle.

I nodded.

\- Until it started to chafe, to suffocate you, her naked body did not attract you anymore, and you couldn't kiss her lips any longer. You couldn't fall asleep in bed next to her, you couldn't understand how, not that long ago, you were completely immobilized by her voice, her figure and her seductive eyes. And she, as if sensing your reluctance, insisted even more: to be caressed, to be intimate with you...

- Yes. That's true. I thought I would go mad.

\- Maybe that's the reason why you've been avoiding long-term relationships with women since then.

- Maybe. And you?

\- Well, I don't know. I simply exist. Besides, I have three boys and there is simply no time or space for that. At least for now.

\- Are you OK with it?

\- Yes. Because I can spend the whole evening talking with you, without having to explain myself to anyone.

\- I see.

\- Albert, a month ago I got a parcel from Conrad. I would like you to tell me what you think about it.

Martha brought a grey box to the table and took two numbered letters out of it. She kissed me on the forehead and said:

\- Extinguish the candles before you go to bed, OK?

\- Sure.

I looked at the Martha's name on the envelopes for a while, which Conrad wrote with his characteristic handwriting.

Then I opened the first letter:

My dear Martha,

This is the description of my last journey into the unknown. A lot can happen now, so I would like this to wait for me at your place.

Recently I travelled to Norway. The great philanthropist, Olaf Nekvist, who sponsors a hospital in Africa, in which I work, invited me there. So I flew in to Oslo and then I took a train to Bergen through a breathtaking, wonderful landscape. I moved to the dining cart almost immediately, as I had not managed to drink my first coffee yet and thought that in just a few hours I was going to meet a man who created ON Africa, an organisation which was funding hospitals in most deprived, isolated places. In doing so it gave an opportunity to dozens of enthusiastic doctors from around the world to save the lives of strangers from crippling disability or death from illnesses, that could be easily cured in Europe and America, to give vaccines to children, who would otherwise suffer from the nightmare of tuberculosis or malaria, to treat their wounds, before they were infected with gangrene.

The mist outside blocked the view from the window for a while, so I took out a letter from Olaf: "For years my ships called into ports around the world, bringing me fortune, until one day, in the middle of the winter, I read 'The heart of darkness' by Joseph Conrad. When I put down the book I realised that even though I am not able to undo the wrongs done to Africa, I can share what I have with people who struggle with everyday life on this amazing continent. Let's meet in my house in Bergen, so I can thank you personally..."

And that was why I was travelling to Bergen. Also because I wanted to bring with me one medicine, which ... didn't feel right. We finally left the mist behind. I was drinking third black coffee and eating a delicious croissant with apricot jam. The crystal-clear snow, which covered the ground there throughout the year, reflected the sunrays. We stopped at some small station and the skiers got off the train. I jumped out as well for a moment to dip my hands in the fluffy snow, so different from the hot sands of Sahara. A moment later we were already pacing on and on through this white landscape, until we've reached green fields, thick forests full of majestic pine trees, mountain brooks, waterfalls and Viking churches. The passengers joining us now were already dressed in summer clothes. I was just about to finish a dish of colourful vegetables, when we finally stopped at the station in Bergen. Olaf was waiting there for me. I recognised him immediately as he attached a photo of himself to the invitation. Olaf was a tall man dressed in a light suit and blue shirt, and his eyes beamed with the joy of life.

\- How was your journey?

\- Excellent! Nice to meet you.

\- Can I call you Conrad?

\- Sure, great. Where are we going?

\- Are you hungry?

\- No...I was eating on the train all the time...and admiring Norway.

\- I love my country. Beautiful landscapes, aren't they?

\- Yes, it's mesmerizing.

\- Maybe you'd fancy a walk in Bergen?

\- Brilliant idea!

I threw the suitcase into the car and we drove to the city centre. Soon we were walking along the port, a scenic route overlooking centuries-old Hanseatic houses made of wood, sailing boats, the sea, Norwegian flags, the fishermen...a world unknown to me so far.

We stopped in a small café where I drank a refreshing glass of some fruit juice. An hour or so later we drove to a spacious, wooden house, which was built a hundred years ago on a hill, with a view of the port. The house belonged to Olaf and his beautiful wife Kristina, who showed me into a room where I put my suitcase and refreshed myself so I could join my hosts, who were preparing the dinner downstairs.

Within a short time I was part of a feast: a blue bowl with king prawns, a deep-red bowl with young potatoes sprinkled with chives, a glass bowl with lettuce mixed with nuts, wine glasses on high stems in the shape of spiral columns with cool Riesling from New Zealand, whose quality matched that of the original, on the steep banks of the Rheine. The girl in the white jacket was sitting next to me. She was telling me about New York, from which she returned the day before yesterday, after a few months' karate training. And about Olaf's and Kristina's plans to throw a big party to celebrate their 25th wedding anniversary.

\- It's impressive, isn't it?- Oona said.

\- Indeed, I'd say unique, even!

The last rays of the setting sun were now filling the space of the room.

The dessert was served – that is, I got crème brûlée, because Olaf thought that I would like it. I suddenly felt embarrassed by the lightness of my being. I was sitting between these beautiful people, who lived in affluence, and could choose whatever they wanted from the surrounding riches. I knew it didn't make sense to look at it with disdain, for were it not for their generosity towards the disadvantaged people, the world would be by far worse, a more horrid place. I suddenly became acutely aware of the difference between Africa, were people were dying on my hopeless hands, and this place where we were so carelessly enjoying our lives. Oona, who was sitting next to me, put a hand on my hand, and I realised that I was crying.

I smiled at these good people and raised a silent toast (my throat was so tight from emotion I couldn't say a thing) with the semi-sweet Muscat from Beaumes-de-Venise, while my companions replied with a nod of the head and clinking of the glasses.

The next day I spent calmly wondering around Bergen and in the afternoon, I went to the western porch to bid farewell to the view of the port in Bergen as I was leaving soon. Olaf soon joined me and offered a cigar, which I did not decline. We were standing there for a long while immersed in our own thoughts, leaning on the wooden balustrade, and the smoke was filling the space between us, drawing intricate patterns in the air.

\- I am upset that even though we give our patients the best medicines, their effectiveness on sick people in our hospital in Africa is still several times lower than elsewhere. A lot of people die, even though they should survive – I said as an introduction.

\- That's true. _I've been thinking about it myself. Do you know where this is coming from? - Olaf asked, showing his interest._

\- I don't know. It seems quite obvious that the lower quality of food or even downright lack of it plays a significant role. There is also a problem with water. But anyway, the medicines I was giving to these poor people should suffice to save them. In any other place they wouldn't die of malaria, AIDS or any other infection, and there...it was often the end. I even thought it would be a good idea to check if the packages contained the drugs they said they did. Maybe it's nonsense, but I want to be sure.

\- It would be a great tragedy if your suspicions proved right – Olaf inhaled the smoke, even though this was how you smoke a cigarette, not a cigar.

\- Yes, an enormous tragedy. It keeps me awake at night.

That same day I left for London, where I stayed with Nicolas, a friend from university. He became a plastic surgeon specialising in breast implants and was earning more in a day than I in a year. I decided to ask him to check these medicines, which I was using in Africa.

That was the end of the first letter. The second one was about London.

London.

\- I have just talked to Tom – Nicolas informed me. – I have the test results of your pills. The packaging is almost identical, but the medicine is not.

I looked at him aghast.

\- What are you talking about?!

\- A skilful forger counterfeited these pills on an industrial scale. Great try, an excellent sham, but that's it.

\- But it's impossible...

- Of course it's possible. People forge money, documents, cars; why wouldn't they forge drugs? It's even easier.

- But it's a crime! Do you know what you are talking about?

_\- Conrad...that's the truth. You won't change the facts or move the clock back._ It's happened. You can't do anything about it now.

- I can't believe it!

I turned to the window and felt sick.

I thought how surreal it was that I was now standing there, amidst all that luxury...as if I suddenly found myself in a world, where everything is different, strange, odd. Unreal.

I didn't want to listen to anything now. I needed silence. Nicolas understood this, as he didn't say anything, did not explain anything. I was grateful for that.

The same day I had a train to Brussels, from where I was flying back to Africa. Nicolas decided he would take me to the airport; he must have been frightened by my state. We left from St Pancras, London. The wheels of the carriage did not tap on the rails monotonously, the train moved silently as if it was gliding on a carpet. This was also surreal, almost unreal. We entered the tunnel under the English Channel. There was water above us, ships, maybe someone was fishing or smuggling something...I was trying to wrap my head around the words I've heard from Nicolas.

We reached Brussels. The restaurant we visited, even though it was next to the station, seemed civilised. Nicolas ordered skewers, and we washed them down with red wine smelling of tobacco leaves, herbs, and tanned leather.

\- Excellent Rioja, isn't it? I don't like mixes, but here the Tempranillo and Grenache work so well together.

\- Rioja reminds me of Spanish conquistadors from the 16th century and the looting of America.

\- One day I will invite you to Ronda in Andalusia and we will drink Rioja, from a vinery on the edge of a precipice.

\- I am feeling as if I am falling into one...

\- I understand, my friend. I really do understand and I am sorry for you - Nicolas put his hand on my arm.

\- I was treating people with sawdust and sewage. And they had trusted me! And were dying, holding my hands...and I was feeding them a lie, a terrible fraud, as I was checking their waning pulse on their famished wrists...I can't think about it.

I felt as if someone had pierced my body and was sipping at my blood now.

I put the dramatic letter down and took a package with a blister of tablets. Two were missing. It must have been the ones that were tested.

I looked at them for a while, extinguished the candles and went to bed.

Park in Kröller-Müller

Friday was a day full of surprises. It all started from the breakfast, brought by Martha straight to my bed. She kissed me good morning and opened the curtains, so that the sun could say hello to me as well.

\- We'll talk later, OK? I don't have the time now – and she run down the stairs. When I also finally went down, I met there a tall man with a nice smile and a strong handshake.

I immediately realised I had just met Karol, who came to take the boys to Friesland. We talked a little about the flowers that Karol imported from Senegal.

At noon Martha announced she was taking me to the opening of a very important exhibition – a centenary of abstract art in Kröller-Müller. I had little interest in abstract art, and when it comes to the centenary – it was definitely a bit of an exaggeration – a marketing gimmick. Nonetheless, Martha decided I should learn about the secrets of her job, so I listened. Later, when Martha went to work, I was left on my own on a bench, at the end of the garden, next to three large ferns. I was thinking about how I could get in touch with Conrad, but it wasn't that easy at all. Maybe Olaf Nekvist could help? If I could only find his address or phone number now!

In the late afternoon Martha came back to change for the opening of the exhibition. But first she invited me to her room, to ask if liked women in blue dresses, like those from Vermeer's paintings? I said, indeed, very much, in fact. So, she put one on. And I stayed, sitting in the rocking chair and watching Martha doing her make-up, choosing shoes, a shawl.....

Martha looked stunning, but nevertheless, she asked my opinion.

\- I've never seen such a beautiful woman in my life - I said. And I meant it.

The opening of the exhibition was amazingly busy. Every few minutes Martha was introducing me to some famous painters and sculptors I was completely unfamiliar with; which didn't matter at all anyway. I was much more interested in watching the guests who were (just like me) mesmerized by Martha's beauty.

I did not want to disturb her, so, holding a glass of Pinot Noir from Côte de Beaune in Burgundy, I stopped opposite a large, glass wall, overlooking a park lit with the moonlight, with green spaces, the trees and sculptures – of a running woman, a woman lost in thought, and a woman squatting on the ground.

\- Beautiful, aren't they? – Upon saying these words, a petite Japanese woman in a perfectly cut, grey tunic bowed and pressed her hands together in greeting.

\- Asami Togukawa – She added, and pointed to the wall covered in two large, blue paintings with intersections of red lines.

\- Albert Foudre – I replied and bowed like her.

\- Do you like them? – She asked in a somewhat awkward way and smiled charmingly.

\- Yes. They are interesting...I wonder who painted them?

\- The author's standing over there – she said and pointed her head towards a man in a brown suit, with a scarf wrapped around his neck. He was standing with his back towards us.

\- It's Ruggiero Betancourt.

As she was saying this name, Asami Togukawa bowed again with particular reverence. A moment later, she left to talk to another guest.

A few years ago I met a man with the same name. We were organising a charity action to save a small village in Amazonia. There were a few families from the Kuikuro tribe living there then, and the lumberjacks were slashing the enormous, centuries-old trees with their merciless chainsaws all around them. Within the next few days spent there we lived in the same hut, under the same sky. Every night we used to talk until late about women, stars, about the brook rustling nearby...

I came closer to see if it was my old companion from that time, and he, turning in my direction that very moment, exclaimed joyfully - Albert! – And greeted me with a friendly embrace.

- Ruggiero! Are you a painter? I didn't know! How are you?

\- I don't paint, I think only about the power of the jungle, about the energy flowing out of the sky and translucent light passing through the leaves, onto rainbow feathers, bouncing off the shiny skin of lizards and the half-closed eyes of jaguars, to descend into the dark earth, and the paint is flowing on the canvas by itself. What about you?

\- You know, this time in the Amazon...beautiful experience, wasn't it? What's happened with Kuikuro?

\- I persuaded one of my clients from New York to buy them land, which belonged to them anyway, as they had been living there for centuries, and it's OK now. Money can change a lot. I was there recently, actually. They were asking about you. Especially Nanu, who clearly fancied you then. Wouldn't you like to marry a beautiful Indian girl?

\- Well, actually I'm moving to Alaska in a few months, so I don't think it's a good time to start a family now.

\- Which Alaska? The one with snow, caribou and wolves?

\- I got a contract in Bristol Bay for a few years, well, actually in Iliamna. They are building an enormous gold mine there, which will ruin the natural environment and kill off the moose.

\- And what will you be doing there?

\- The Environment Department has hired me to manage a team of scientist, who will investigate the geographical layers and the underground rivers at risk of contamination...- I started, but then Ruggiero put his hand on my arm as Martha joined us.

\- Do you know each other already? - Martha said that somewhat differently from what I had expected, and Ruggiero kissed her in the lips. She then turned her head away, as if not wanting me to see her eyes.

\- Yes. We met in a jungle, under a roof, which proved to be the nest of tarantula spiders – Ruggiero smiled carelessly and adjusted his scarf.

A journalist then interrupted us, asking Ruggiero about Belo Horizonte and his studio in that city.

Martha, presumably in an apologetic gesture, touched my lips with her fingertips and quickly drew away to introduce someone to somebody.

I was left on my own again.

I stopped in front of a painting by Betancourt and then realised that what seemed to be a red line from the distance, turned out to be a rainbow in close-up, twisted in the shape of a flame.

Made me think about shifting sands of what is real and what is a phantom of our imagination. Is it naïve to trust in what could be an illusion, just because we believe in it?

I was about to go to Jackson Pollock's room, when Ruggiero suddenly stopped me:

- We need to meet. Absolutely. I am opening an exhibition in Venice in about two weeks. If you can't come there, please stay in touch - He handed me an invitation on which he wrote his telephone number.

\- Of course, Ruggiero. Life's is too short to let friendships slip through our fingers.

We shook hands.

I decided to go to the garden to...well, just for a walk. The trees, lit with the moonlight, were casting shadows on the grass in a pattern of an abstract mosaic. When I stopped at a small lake with a sculpture floating in it, Martha came over and wrapped her arms around me in a tender embrace. When we returned home that night we made love in her room, and then in the morning, we prepared breakfast together - strong black coffee with delicious chocolate croissants.

This unforgettable day belonged only to us.

A day of mature love.

A day when the hours were measured by single sentences.

A day of magic crafted with touch and kisses.

Time of love.

At dusk, when the night has fallen, we were lovers with a rich past, which since the night before turned into one shared story.

In the morning I woke up alone. Martha wasn't in bed, but the bed on her side was still warm from her body. I put the hands under my head thinking I will stay there for a while, but in the end I got up and went downstairs, to the kitchen. Martha was curled up, sitting at the kitchen table. She was drinking black coffee and didn't say anything. I poured some coffee from the metal coffee maker to a cup made of thin, white china. I sat next to her and stroked her hair.

When she finally looked at me, there were tears in her eyes.

\- What's happened? – I asked, deeply moved by the sight of her crying.

\- Albert...it was wonderful...but...your friendship is more important than...- and she became silent.

\- I'm afraid we will ruin something that is...- she resumed and I nodded my head.

\- I understand.

\- I think I don't, but this is how I feel...I love you Albert...but in a different way than the man who could be my lover. I don't want this to be just another affair that will come to an end...forever.

- Yes, Martha. I'm sure you are right. I live in a rather chaotic way...

Martha wrapped herself even more tightly in her dressing gown. She was looking at me with attention for a longer while and then finally said:

\- I can't live like that. It really scared me.

Deep in my heart I knew she was right, but at the same time I felt it's a pity...that if...and I gently stroked her head without saying anything anymore.

Martha prepared some fresh grapefruit juice and handed me a full glass; then asked me about the letters from Conrad.

\- There's something truly menacing in them. I have to get in touch with him quickly. I arranged a meeting with a friend in Amsterdam, who has some really good connections. Maybe Gerard can help.

\- It's unsettling...I don't know myself.

After that we didn't talk much. Soon Martha gave me a lift to the station. I hugged her on the platform and noticed there were tears in her eyes again.

I jumped on the train.

\- I think everything's going to be all right. I'll let you know.

The door parted us, Martha waved goodbye and I moved on to look for our friend.

Amsterdam

Gerard was sitting on a windowsill in his house, on Herengracht, playing flamenco on the guitar. Barbara, his girlfriend, made us strong coffee, introduced me to a canary and showed me a collection of chrysanthemums. Barbara talked about flowers in a scientific way and then asked very politely

\- What's been going on with you lately?

\- I've been travelling the world, and the world was travelling with me.

\- How are your parents?

- They are also travelling. Only more comfortably, living in embassies and drinking wine at the cost of French taxpayers.

\- Clever – Gerard butted in.

\- Send them my love, will you?

\- Sure. They also always ask about you whenever I call them...once a month.

The conversation took a very interesting turn then, and we found ourselves talking about the passage of time. About what exactly, I don't remember, even though it was so nice and pleasant, just like Barbara, with whom I never ever talked about anything unpleasant. Soon, Barbara went to a yoga class and we stayed sitting at the window and watching the street, talking about diamonds, as Gerard had been dealing with them for the past couple of years.

\- Do you know that the word diamond comes from the Greek word Adamas?

\- Fascinating – I said, watching a girl with straight, shoulder-length black hair and a perfect figure. She was dressed in a green dress and had golden, gladiator sandals with spaghetti straps going all the way up to her knees. Maybe she was from Brazil? I've never slept with a Brazilian girl.

\- Diamonds have always accompanied the most important events in the history of human civilisation, beginning from the oldest Indian cultures.

\- I see.

The Brazilian girl run onto the bridge and was now hugging some bearded guy in ripped jeans.

\- Diamonds are the hardest material in nature. Are you still with me?

\- All the time, my dear, all the time. Nothing's more important than what you are saying. Can you pour me some more coffee?

\- You've got two hands, help yourself. I'm going for a cigarette.

Later, the two of us went for a dinner. Gerard studied the menu, while I was looking around our favourite Zeppo restaurant. I liked this place because it had the atmosphere of Parisian Montmartre from the time of Modigliani, Picasso, Soutine, but you could also sense the spirit of the Dutch from the 17th century. Gerard was murmuring the names of the dishes on the menu under his breath, as well as the wines, asking me what I thought, even though he knew I would let him choose for me.

\- Red wine from the south of California, where the tiny, dark-purple grapes ripen in the warm climate, hiding under their thick skin secrets we will then taste in the delightful Cabernet Sauvignon. What do you reckon?

\- For sure, my dear friend, for sure.

Gerard ordered the wine. Five minutes later the waiter opened the bottle in front of us, poured some of the liquid into one glass first, Gerard gently sloshed the wine around the glass, dipped his large nose into it, took a sip and nodded in approval. Only then did we get half of the glass each.

\- It's so good you exist! - I said, raising the glass.

\- And you!

We clinked our glasses, which – like magic bells – answered with a clear tone. After the initial wine tasting Gerard informed me that we would eat a Dutch dish with an intricate name and that he would tell me about Lolita.

- Lolita? And who's that?

\- Lolita was my true love.

\- I did not know anything about it.

\- Because I wasn't telling anyone about her.

\- When did that happen?

\- Ten years ago. It didn't last very long...only a couple of months. You were in Brazil then.

\- Oh...a wonderful place – I started feeling dreamy just from thinking about it again.

The waiter brought a mushroom salad for starters and poured us some more wine.

\- Lolita lives in New York now, but not that long ago I spent an amazing afternoon with her in Chelsea, London, as she returned to Europe for a visit.

\- How did it all start?

\- We met at her ex-husband's party in Toronto. A week later we were already in Tahiti together, then we flew to Martinique and Japan, where we lived for a month studying zazen. And then finally one day we moved to Pimlico in the heart of London.

\- And did Lolita like all this travelling with you?

\- I was convinced she did...well, Lolita is blind, so she was experiencing the world around us in a different way than me.

\- Maybe that's the reason why your experiences together were so rich?

\- Yes, it was fascinating, amazing, and at the same time so real, her world was.

\- You surely understood a lot thanks to her.

- Oh, yes. Unfortunately, it all fell apart in London.

\- Why?

\- I've had other women, at that time too. Lolita couldn't accept that. So she went back to the US.

\- Did it surprise you?

- Well...how can I put it...it was a habit of mine. I did not think about consequences. When Lolita left me, my heart sank.

\- Was it the end?

\- Yes, it was the end of our relationship. I have recently met Lolita again at a party of some friends, I've just told you.

Gerard became silent, and I did not want to break this silence.

The glasses were empty, so I poured some more wine. Meanwhile, Gerard returned to his story.

\- We sat next to each other at that party and talked about what had happened since we broke up. We both knew that our relationship was much more than amazing love, more than precious friendship.... it was a perfection, which I shuttered to pieces with my own hands.... But we didn't talk about the end, not about that....

We were silent for a while.

\- You know what, something wonderful happened between us again at that party too. Lolita said she feels the presence of the moments from the years gone by, that she inhales the smells of the leaves rustling in the park on the other side of the street, hears the rhythm of the feet stamping on the floor of our flat; the murmur of breath and the clasp of hands coming together. It was very moving, both real and unique. Those moments were so ..... beautifully precocious? So close to the essence of living. Towards the end of the party Lolita asked me to bring her a glass of Zinfandel, so I went to the other room, and when I returned, she wasn't there anymore.

\- I thought so.

- Exactly. You could expect that. I fell into an abyss as I lost Lolita for good in that moment. I know, it was because of my stupidity, but as I was standing there amidst the hustle and bustle of a party, I felt completely helpless and lonely.

\- You are like a cat – I said

\- Cats at least don't moan as I do...I didn't give Lolita the happiness she deserved; she trusted me completely and gave herself up to me. And I...botched it all so recklessly. Fortunately, destiny gave me a wonderful woman, Barbara. Would you like to talk about your things now? - Asked Gerard.

- Not yet. I would rather go for a walk.

We wandered down narrow streets in an unknown direction, and I was thinking that you couldn't define important things in life with a simplistic template, some Good and Bad division.

Drunken men were hanging out in the area, as we unintentionally ended up in a brothel district. The prostitutes, dressed in pathetically skimpy clothes, were sitting in the windows, and some dodgy-looking men were inviting us into the clubs, praising the erotic performances happening inside. We turned towards the university and soon entered a pub with a tall bar and lamps hanging low. The floor was made of dark oak, and the square tables were covered in patterned burgundy-coloured rugs. We sat at one of the round tables in the corner of the pub, right in front of a small stage. The waitress brought us a pint each and said we've picked a great place.

\- Why? - I asked, but she was gone.

\- It's a bit like in an old apartment here, isn't it? - Said Gerard and pointed to a sofa someone forgot to fix about fifteen years ago. Above the sofa, there were posters of John Wayne, James Dean, Marilyn Monroe, Clint Eastwood, Steve McQueen, Elizabeth Taylor, Homer Simpson and James Bond (one of his latest incarnations), looking blankly into the space. In the very centre of this gallery there was a reproduction of Pablo Picasso's painting from his blue period, and a signed photograph of Pablo Neruda.

- Interesting vibe. I like it here. Once people get used to something, they do not want to live in a different way. They want everything around them to be familiar, and only then do they feel safe. They do not like opening their sleepy eyes in the morning, before work, to see something that would surprise them, something unsettlingly unfamiliar, something that would make them think.

\- I've moved so many times in my life, I don't even know what you are talking about – said Gerard after a while.

A few people emerged from behind a heavy curtain and settled in our 'quiet corner'. They were arranging their equipment up on the stage, switching the lights on, and a large, stodgy man in a black suit, white shirt, felt hat and crocodile skin leather shoes sat at the piano. He didn't pay any attention to us; only checked if the instrument was fit to play on it. The piano was a little out of tune, but the tuning would not help much, as the pianist was no virtuoso himself. However he seemed not to care much about it, and without further ado, he took his hat off and put it on our table. Then he lit a small lamp with a green lampshade, so that its light could show off his fat fingers, and a moment later was playing "Straight, No Chaser" by Thelonious Monk. For the next half of an hour we listened to some pretty decent jazz, we drank beer, and I felt that I am sinking into the atmosphere of Amsterdam more and more, Amsterdam, which was like an amber washed out of the sea, shining against the green-blue landscape.

At the other end of the room, there was a couple kissing. A girl in a Greek mask and in a white dress was walking around the pub, handing out flyers about "The Oresteia", a trilogy of Greek tragedies by Aeschylus, which were to be performed next week in Voldenpark. A tall man with a guitar hung across his back was talking to an elderly lady. They were standing next to a window, she got angry, hit him in the arm in a chastising gesture, and left; he sat down and began to tune the instrument.

A middle-aged man at the table behind us, in a straw-hat on his head, was drinking vodka with a woman with long, straight black hair and eyes of the colour of mountain lakes.

I looked at Gerard, and he nodded his head, so I told him about Conrad and about the contents of the letters I read at Martha's place. Gerard asked if he could see them, as, who knows, maybe I missed something important?

I gave him the letters and he started reading them immediately, while I focused on a Roma girl in a colourful dress, who was walking with a basket of flowers from table to table. The boy, who stopped kissing his girlfriend a good while ago, bought a bunch for her. When the gypsy approached our table, Gerard bought a bunch as well and gave it to a woman with the lake-blue eyes, who was sitting next to us drinking vodka.

\- I'm tired – I said.

\- Me too.

\- Did you ask me about anything?

- Nevermind. Let's talk about it later.

We left the pub. The gypsy girl wanted to sell us another bunch of flowers, but we wouldn't have anyone to give them to, apart from a prostitute, maybe. We went straight ahead, over the bridge. A boat with four people sitting at a small table covered with a red-and-white chequered cloth, was just about to go under the bridge. The candles were burning, the dinner was being served, and a man was pouring dark, red wine into glasses.

We reached the house. As he was opening the door, Gerard said the matter was very serious.

\- Yes – I replied.

I stood by the window, looking at the passers-by, boats floating in the canal, the leaves of the tree growing straight in front of the window. I then heard the phone ring. Barbara picked it up.

\- It's for you, Albert.

\- For me? Strange... - I walked across the room to take the call. An unfamiliar male voice greeted me at the other end.

\- My name is Sebastian Trowe. I'm a musician. You must be Conrad Boznański's friend, is that right?

\- Yes. Has anything happened? Who gave you my number?

\- I got it from Martha Hobbema.

\- And her number?

\- From Conrad; he gave it to me the last time he was in Europe. We met recently, through mutual friends. I have sad news for you: Conrad is dead.

I leaned on the table for support.

\- That is awful. Terrible ....When did that happen?.....

\- Yesterday. He was kidnapped a few days ago, and they shot him yesterday.

- I can't believe it! And Martha? Why didn't she call me?

\- Martha's in hospital with one of her boys. He fell off the bike and twisted his ankle. I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry. Conrad was such a good person...I know. I will send you an email; this phone call is very expensive. I am in Africa, calling from a sat phone.

I gave him my email address and we said goodbye. I could not see the view from the window anymore. My eyes were brimming with tears. The email from Trowe came soon afterwards:

Some teenagers, sixteen-year old boys, kidnapped Conrad while he was performing a caesarean section at the hospital. They immediately demanded money to let him go. It was cruel, heartless and strange from the very beginning; or, I'd even say, downright stupid. The ransom was suspiciously low, only a few thousand dollars. Moreover, the kidnappers were boys from the nearby village, and everyone knew them. People thought they were trying to take advantage of a visit of the philanthropist, Olaf, to take the money off him. For Conrad did not have anything anyway, and besides, he had been living there for a long time, in a house next to the hospital, so it would have been easier to kidnap him at a different time, and in less dramatic circumstances. When Olaf Nekvist went to talk to them, the leader of the gang raised his AK-47, but Olaf's bodyguards shot him immediately. Chaos and fight broke out. All the kidnappers were shot in the gunfire. Unfortunately, the bullets did not spare Conrad either.

I tried to call Martha, but she didn't pick up. In a few minutes I received a message that Bart was being examined, so she couldn't talk. She told me she would manage all right, but didn't have the strength to talk. She would call tomorrow or when she feels better. And that I should take utmost care.

Gerard put his hand on my arm. I only nodded and went to bed.

I couldn't sleep very well that night. Something was going on in the street all the time. I had very tiring dreams about a street market in Ferrara, where I was buying a pair of wellies made in China and a Rolex watch, probably stolen the day before. I got up at eight and quickly went out into the streets of the just-awaken city (it was Sunday), while my hosts were still fast asleep. I was walking hastily, thinking about Conrad all the time. I finally stopped in a narrow street without a canal, right in front of a bathtub fixed to the wall, hanging some 20 inches above the ground; in the bathtub, on a bed of sand, there was a dummy of a woman with a bunch of fresh flowers in her hand. I stood and looked at the indifferent plastic face, the hands frozen in motion...it was a body without a heart and without a breath, whose future could be decided by anybody's whim. A boy on a bike passed by, screaming 'Ho! Ho! This also did not make sense.

There was a small café on the other side of the street, and the pavement outside was filling with metal chairs and wonky tables.

\- Coffee please. Strong – I ordered.

\- Well, actually, we haven't opened yet...- a young waiter explained – but I can make you coffee...

\- Excellent!

I sat outside, at a table with a view of the soulless lady in a bathtub. A pigeon joined me briefly on a chair next to mine, but it soon decided not to keep me company after all.

I was thinking about Martha.

Somewhere on the third floor, a woman in a bra opened the window and lit a cigarette.

A coffee was served, and as I was drinking it, a man around fifty sat at the next table. He ordered an omelette (the café has been officially opened now) and spread a newspaper on the table. I didn't pay attention to what he was reading. He probably wanted to know, what had happened the day before.

A girl in a grey, silk dress left the building. Her décolletage was adorned with red and black flowers, arranged in a geometrical pattern around the neckline with a pale blue shawl around her waist.

As she walked by in her purple shoes, the girl spoke to us in Flemish:

\- Amsterdam was designed to rest on powerful undercurrents of all kinds, wasn't it? – And smiled, as if to herself.

I thought it was time to understand the reasons behind Conrad's death. I decided that the best place to think about it would be on a boat floating through the maze of Amsterdam's channels. I first got on a tram to Leidseplein – you need to cross the city centre first – and then, right opposite Vondelpark, I changed to a tourist boat, where I ordered a large glass of cool Gewürztraminer from Alsace in order to quench my thirst.

We entered Singelgracht, a space of bridges, trees lining the banks of canals, slow motion on the calm water, houses with huge windows and streets full with people, who are busy with their own businesses.

I decided to recreate in my mind the story of Conrad's abduction from Trowe's letter. So far I knew not much: I knew that Conrad was performing a caesarean section at the time when the young men interrupted him. Maybe he even attended those boys in a hospital before, as they were from a nearby village. A few days later, they were all dead. One could think it was a failed blackmail attempt. They were naïve, and Olaf's people were surely professionals. The boys, who decided to play gangsters for a few days, did not have a chance to come out alive. The story was full of chaotic haste, nonsense, and cruel stupidity. So Sebastian was probably right it had something to do with Olaf's visit. Only what?

I decided to stop the train of my thoughts for a moment; I closed my eyes and savoured the wine, listening to the murmur of the boats on the river and the hustle and bustle of the street. I opened my eyes from time to time to confront my visions with the reality. Sometimes, they matched, sometimes they didn't.

The journey was coming to the end, and I still needed time to think, so I went the same way again, with another glass of Gewürztraminer. Equally chilly. It was better than the previous one, but maybe it was just my impression.

I felt that there must be some method in this madness of the hapless abduction and murder, some secret agenda, some bigger picture. And that someone had a clear objective, which was to kill Conrad, while hiding behind the smokescreen of improvised thuggery. In a few words: that it wasn't idiotic, but a clever game indeed.

Conrad surely knew about the fake medicines, and that was the reason why he had to die before he told...only whom? This is probably why Conrad left the letters and the drugs at Martha's place; he felt danger. It was obvious that this trip to London with the fake drugs frightened somebody, who was making big money from it. Maybe the fraudsters who sold dust as a cure for horrendous illness were worried that Conrad would unmask their practices and the money well will dry up?

But they could have just shot him, without asking for ransom. Simple as that.

Perhaps they wanted to scare or confuse people? But, whom?

No, that didn't make any sense either.

And why was the hospital still operating? Didn't the doctors talk to Conrad about it? Or maybe he did not manage to share his discovery before he lost his life? Or maybe his death was supposed to be a warning for others?

Actually, who shot my friend – the kidnappers, or Olaf's people? There was no information about it anywhere in the news, and there won't be, as Conrad has surely been buried now and nobody is conducting any inquest; questioning witnesses or investigating, who murdered Conrad. It's happened, and that's it.

I disembarked, still without any conclusion, as I was near Herengracht. Fifteen minutes later I was already drinking black coffee with Gerard in his house.

He had something important to tell me.

\- I don't know if you remember, but back in Bergen Conrad was on the porch with Olaf, talking about his suspicions about these pills... - He said.

\- Well, yes? – I wasn't sure what Gerard was getting at.

\- They were smoking cigars.

\- That I remember.

Without another word, Gerard took Conrad's letter to Martha and read a fragment:

The next day I spent calmly wondering around Bergen and in the afternoon, I went to the western porch to bid farewell to the view of the port in Bergen as I was leaving soon. Olaf soon joined me and offered a cigar, which I did not decline. We were standing there for a long while immersed in our own thoughts, leaning on the wooden balustrade, and the smoke was filling the space between us, drawing intricate patterns in the air.

\- I am upset that even though we give our patients the best medicines, their effectiveness on sick people in our hospital in Africa is still several times lower than elsewhere. A lot of people die, even though they should survive – I said as an introduction.

\- That's true. I've been thinking about it myself. Do you know where this is coming from? - Olaf asked, showing his interest.

\- I don't know. It seems quite obvious that the lower quality of food or even downright lack of it thereof plays a significant role. There is also a problem with water. But anyway, the medicines I was giving to these poor people should suffice to save them. In any other place they wouldn't die of malaria, AIDS or any other infection, and there...it was often the end. I even thought it would be a good idea to check if the packages contained the drugs they said they did. Maybe it's nonsense, but I want to be sure.

\- It would be a great tragedy if your suspicions proved right – Olaf inhaled the smoke, even though this was how you smoke a cigarette, not a cigar.

\- Yes, an enormous tragedy. It keeps me awake at night

\- Well, seems perfectly normal. Are you suspecting anything? – I asked in surprise.

\- Think about this particular situation.

\- Does it have anything to do with smoking cigars? Do you mean they are bad for your health?

\- You know Albert, I have no proof, but a good cigar smoker would not inhale the smoke during an interesting conversation.

- Olaf? Maybe he choked on something? Maybe he was moved by that story? All seems to show that Olaf is a man of high personal culture. You can rule him out from your suspect list.

\- Olaf is a very intelligent person. I'm sure he understood the consequences of this conversation in no time.

- That's sure. That's why he mentioned it was a tragedy. He was simply upset. Very upset, I think.

\- Oh, yes... and very alarmed for selfish reasons.

\- What do you mean? Who is behind it!? Do you know anything else about it?

\- I am pretty convinced that for Olaf it was not a surprise at all. I believe that he had known about the medicines being worthless, but while smoking cigars with your friend he realised also, that Conrad would reveal the whole scam. By doing so Conrad had issued a death warrant for himself, especially that he left Bergen for London soon, to test the dodgy pills. So Olaf didn't know, whether the drugs were being tested, or whether Conrad had them with himself. In other words, murdering Conrad in Bergen on the very same day would have been too risky for Olaf.

\- You are inventing some cobwebs, Gerard!!!

\- Olaf is by no means the charming philanthropist he pretends to be. He's a criminal on the grand scale.

\- Details?

\- OK, Albert. For years, Olaf has been making inconceivable amount of money distributing crude oil from Niger Delta to official clients. And he's still doing it. But at the same time, the ships were being filled with oil to be sold on the black market, to anonymous dealers.

\- So he's no better than thousands of people who do the same thing in other countries. But this does not yet mean that he's a murderer.

\- This is a vast, financial business, Albert, which functions in a dark sphere, outside any banking systems.

- Right, so how do they pay him for that stolen oil?

\- In cash, deals, minerals of all kinds, uranium, cobalt, gold, diamonds, whatever Olaf can exchange for clean money later on or launder them through the accounts of one of his charities... buying the medicines for example. Medicine is always expensive; it is easy to hide the transactions in the volume of other bank transfers.

\- This is too much for me, Gerard. I cannot take it.

\- Yes, I understand. First of all check those pills and let me know, what do you wish to do next.

After a good while, I called a friend who could help me with this. It meant a trip to Cambridge tomorrow.

Cambridge

I arrived from Stansted Airport to Hotel du Vin in the centre of Cambridge in less than an hour, and checked into a nice room with a pleasant view over the area. After a quick shower and change of clothes I went down to the restaurant, where I found a table at the window. The waiter appeared almost immediately, and recommended mussels steamed with white wine, cream, shallots and garlic for starters plus lemon sole lightly pan-fried, a caper & parsley beurre noisette as the main dish. I agreed without further ado. I stopped only on the wines, but not for long, as I heard:

\- Riesling, sir?

\- Where is it from?

\- Bernkastel, sir.

\- Good – I answered.

\- Would you like an avocado in a dressing for the starter?

\- Great idea.

A man with short, grey hair, in a white shirt, black jacket and smart jeans entered the room. He had a scarlet-red scarf wrapped around his neck. He was holding a bunch of pink roses, and immediately approached a fascinating woman in a long, pale blue dress, who was reading the menu.

\- I'm sorry for being late, Grazia! Have you ordered yet? – And he handed her the flowers. The waitress brought a tall glass jar with water, where Grazia put her roses.

\- No yet, I'm still thinking. I think that the 'Atlantic halibut with young potatoes' may be delicious – she said.

\- Wine?

\- That's your world.

The man put on glasses to study the menu.

I looked through the window at the beautiful city of international fame and the size of a provincial town, whose magnificent university buildings set amongst lush greenery were basking in the afternoon sun. After the meal I went out for a walk on the river Cam. I spent a lot of time on its bank watching the boats, and then the Chinese tourists, who were taking pictures of themselves right in front of King's College. I was almost knocked down by a man rushing down a narrow lane on a bike, while I was admiring the sun clock above Gonville & Caius College. Finally, I sat down on a bench under a large chestnut tree, next to a 3-D model of the city map. Evening was upon us; the bells of Saint Mary's church informed me it was time to go back to the hotel and sleep off the fatigue.

While walking back to Hotel du Vin, I thought that Gerard was possibly right about Olaf. Maybe even more than possibly?

The next day Yves, a friend of Adam's from the time he was a student at Sorbonne, took me outside of town, to a medical laboratory in Hixton. I met an American named Lee Chau there. He was sitting on a high chair next to the window, with a long tuft of grass sticking out of his mouth in a funny way.

After exchanging some common courtesies Lee Chau (whose family emigrated from Shanghai to the United States in the 20th century) walked us through his kingdom, told us a few blood-freezing stories, which I'd rather not have heard, and then led us to a country pub, where the atmosphere became more relaxed after a few beers. We talked about the New York, Pacific, Honolulu, Tahiti, Nepal, peonies, rhododendrons, and archers from the kingdom of Bhutan, pandas, the Silk Trail, Mongolian invasion, the Great Wall, the Yellow River and a method of fishing using ducks on leashes (!). While bidding me farewell, Lee Chau said:

- Tomorrow I will let you know about the results.

\- Brilliant – and we shook hands.

Yves drove me back to Cambridge. We ate in the Free Press pub, and Yves was telling me about tennis, as he was playing the so-called 'real tennis' from the times of Luis XVI. After a hunter's stew, washed down by ale from some old brewery, we both said 'See you tomorrow" next to Judge's Institute, a few steps away from my hotel.

But I was still being restless so an hour later– after coffee at my place – I went for another walk through the city. On the way, somewhere next to the Fitzbillies, I met a slim woman of mesmerising beauty, in a very smart light coat. She asked about Hotel du Vin, and I showed her the way.

In the city centre, young people in black gowns and hats on their heads were strolling with their very well dressed parents. It was the graduation day in the Senate house. I watched them with a smile – their eyes, their gestures, their whole beings beamed with joy, which is the most wonderful infectious disease on Earth!

I then browsed the books they were selling on the market square, I bought the 'Catharsis' by Andrzej Szczeklik, a book about true medicine, I drunk fresh mango juice, and joined a group of people on a punt along the colleges and university gardens. I ate strawberry ice cream, entered a green space next to the river lock and sat on a bench. Eventually, I returned to the hotel to read a chapter of the book I had just purchased; maybe the one about the Chimera? I took the key from the reception and peeped into the restaurant to see whether there were any free tables, as I suddenly felt hungry. A waiter nodded at one next to the window. Someone was waving at me. A slim woman was sitting at the table by the window with a view on the Fitzwilliam Museum. I recognised her immediately. It was the same woman I gave directions to the hotel. She was smiling, or even beaming with sincere optimism. That was what I needed, so I came over. It wasn't five minutes before we were talking like old friends.

Helena was a woman brimming with honest excitement – and this joy of life manifested itself in a particularly charming and direct way. As if she had never been affected by the filth of narrow-mindedness and the poison of malignancy. I was all the more surprised by her story about herself – which I am going to talk about in a moment. But first we ordered our dinner.

\- I'd recommend the Atlantic halibut.

- Halibut? Why? Maybe swordfish? \- She looked at me questioningly.

\- Maybe – I smiled.

- No! I prefer zucchini pate for starters. What about you?

\- OK.

\- It's far too late for spinach omelette. Strange they have it in the evening menu – and she gave the waiter a chastising look – Yeeees, I don't feel like having duck in breadcrumbs, unless you do – but I wouldn't recommend it. Maybe we should have ravioli stuffed with ricotta & spinach? What do you think?

\- Delightful!

- You don't know yet, but it's good you are saying that. Wine? This should be your turn, so to say, shouldn't it? -Helena smiled, in a coy, but at the same time somewhat telling way.

The waiter approached our table.

\- Are you ready? – He looked at us with professional politeness.

\- Yes. For the starters: zucchini pate and asparagus salad, for the main course, ravioli stuffed with ricotta & spinach, twice, and for the desert, muffins with Gruyere cheese. I like them hot. By the way, the omelette should be removed from the evening menu – Helena gave her orders.

\- Would you like some wine as well? - The waiter looked at me.

\- Still water first, not too cold, no ice; and then Primitivo from Sicily. It's my fatherland – Helena spoke and then smiled at us both under her half-closed eyes rimmed with long eyelashes.

Helena told me about her childhood in an Italian family, which had been running a store as if taken out of Palermo right into the centre of Edinburgh in Scotland. And when we were drinking water from some mountain range Helena asked me, what I was doing every day. After I told her that I was a troublemaker, she simply greeted this confession with a nod of the head and said she had been working in prisons with girls, who were convicted for violent crimes.

Finally, over the main course, Helena asked me:

\- Where's your wife?

- I'm single – and I put the creche handkerchief on my lap, as starters arrived just then.

\- Why?

\- That's how it turned out. What about yourself, Helena?

\- Well, in Italian families it's hard to avoid marriage, whether you like it or not. A year after the wedding, when I was nineteen, I gave birth to twins and discovered that my husband is a chauvinist, who thinks he's always right only because he's a man. Moreover, when my friends were flirting with boys, I was at home changing nappies, half-awake from sleep deprivation. Everyone was lecturing me how to be a good mother and my husband was going crazy with jealousy when I was breastfeeding in front of the family. Idiot! Fortunately, I've been alone for the past couple of years, but for the two teenagers.

Helena just finished her asparagus and closed her eyes in delight.

- Mhm...delicious.

\- Someone has told me this was an aphrodysiac.

\- After I've had the twins it put me off sex for a few years. Do you like the wine?

\- I can taste your fiery country in it.

- Indeed! I am about to go there. Tomorrow this time I will be in Sicily already, on a hill with a view of the beautiful sea, in Taormina! Ha! Toast! To the sunny world!

And we raised the glasses, which looked like tulips.

\- The world is a strange place. Tragedies, dramas on each step. But there are also plenty of good people out there.

\- But you're doing well, aren't you?

\- Undoubtedly. Although at the moment, for several reasons, I don't really feel like talking about the 'wonder of life'. What about you?

\- I am free. My marriage is over... !!!!!

\- Was your divorce so liberating?

\- Indeed! I can breathe again...only then once I finally looked around, thinking it was time to renew friendship with my old girlfriends, I realised that all of them were falling pregnant, or were pushing prams and talking about baby food. So I am alone again.

- You have children. You're not alone.

\- It's easier to live with raging lynxes than with a bunch of teenagers.

\- Is that the reason why you're escaping to Sicily?

\- Only for two weeks, to visit family I hardly know. But to be honest, I'm going there to find myself, because I got married far too early; I did not have time to explore myself as a woman.

\- You are an amazing woman! - I said amused by what she was saying.

\- You don't understand anything. I was a wife, I am a mother, but I'm not a woman, since I have never really been with a man I could love and respect. Women want to be properly loved and admired. I have never experienced that.

\- You don't look like someone who would have trouble finding love.

\- And that's exactly what is so annoying about you. Men always think that if a woman has a man, then it's always love. Quite the opposite. Really loving a man means something more than cooking dinner for him, sleeping with him, bearing his children, bickering with the mother-in-law and picking up on him for everything – Helena went on, while the waiter was serving us the hot cheese muffins.

\- A love affair is also something different – Helena added immediately.

After the coffee, which I didn't want, but I got anyway, we went to Helena's room, where we made love till dawn. The sex was exotic.

I woke up a few hours later with Australian-style espresso (flat white) in hand. Helena, dressed, ready to go, sat on the bed and said:

\- Don't escort me to the airport.

\- Well...you are...Helena, stunningly wonderful.

\- Please, don't waste your time for sweet nothings, Albert. Fall in love with a real woman, and she will give you real love.

I kissed her hand.

Right after eleven Yves came to the hotel.

\- Your suspicions proved true, but I will tell you more in the Botanic Garden.

\- Why in the Botanic Garden?

\- Because we have a meeting there.

As we were walking there, I was thinking what secrets I would discover and how it would affect my understanding of Conrad's death. I was more and more convinced that Olaf was behind it all, because the kidnap story made sense in the light of events in Bergen.

In the greenhouse with cacti we met an elderly man in an old-fashioned jacket. He had his hair combed to the back. Not my style.

\- Where are these fake medicines from?

\- Why are you asking?

\- Because it's important.

\- For whom?

\- Albert, no worries – Yves butted in – James Stewart is a representative of the pharmaceutical company which produced the medicines someone has been forging. It's as important for them as for you to resolve this issue.

\- Couldn't we have started from that? It would have been nicer – I said.

We entered an open space overlooking a pond, and the voracious ducks flew in expecting crumbs of bread.

\- You probably realise that if the medication is packed in boxes labelled with a specific name of a world-recognised pharmaceutical company it won't cross any doctor's mind they could be fake. Medicine, like everything else, relies on trust for practical reasons. Societies would cease to exist if we questioned and analyze everything without end.

\- But when you're crossing the road you still look both ways even when the light is green, you don't just pace ahead like a stupid sheep – I said

\- You're annoying me, Albert – remarked Yves.

\- The blind belief in the suppliers' honesty resulted in the real medicines being replaced with fake ones, which in consequence led to...

\- We are doing our best to supply our products to all hospitals, otherwise we would face dramatic losses - James Stuart added.

\- Oh well, the worst thing is that it hits your wallets, isn't it? - I noted – We could add that it does not save the lives of ill people.

\- You don't need to be so sarcastic. However you want see it, we all want to eliminate fraudsters. And that's what James Stuart is trying to do at the moment? – Yves replied.

- OK.

\- So? – James Stuart asked in a somewhat more friendly tone.

\- There is a saying: Scratch my back and I will scratch yours. The drugs came from a hospital in Africa. Now I'd like to know, if you have someone on your radar yet.

The men looked at each other in silence for a longer while, so I departed on my own towards a large cedar tree. I sat on a bench under the tree and near a fountain, which was surrounded by young mothers attending small babies and chatting profusely. The atmosphere resembled that of a country market.

Yves and James came over and sat next to me. Yves answered my question:

\- A Mexican gangster, but living in Europe. He's been producing fake medicines for the past couple of years and distributing them in Africa and in India. Only last year he had a factory on the border of Montenegro and Croatia, but he's recently moved to the jungle in Guatemala. It's impossible to find him there.

- Name? – I added.

James smiled in a telling way.

\- This package comes from the ON Africa charity hospital in Sierra Leone. I suppose it is in our mutual interest that I know the name of that gangster as well. Firstly, because I'm now in true danger. Secondly, maybe I come across this guy and help you get him arrested. I have an impression he's fooling you at the moment, and not the other way round; is that right? – I said.

\- Arturo Garcia Zurbaran – James Stewart finally announced.

\- Do you know anything about him? Do you have a plan how to nail him? Characteristic features? The mistakes he makes? Does he have a blog? Does he stammer? Or maybe he always walks in disguise like Zorro? Does he have wife and kids? Does he murder in the morning, at night or in the afternoon? What are his weaknesses? Does he keep money in his back pocket? Or maybe he spends it recklessly under another name, the money he earned so hard at the cost of other people's lives? Does he like fast cars? Fast women? Fast alcohol? Does he have a lot of evil brothers and a sister so ugly nobody wants to marry her, so Arturo Garcia Zurbaran is setting a small fortune aside for her dowry? Is he squandering his money in Las Vegas? In Macao? Does he want to fly to the moon, but it's too expensive? – I said.

Silence. I offered Havana cigars, as it's nice to smoke in an open space. We cut the ends with a small guillotine I provided. James gave us the light, he had branded matches from a hotel in Calcutta, and the atmosphere improved instantly. This is probably the reason why the Red Indians smoked the peace pipe.

\- Arturo Garcia Zurbaran grew up in a family of criminals and he was being groomed for this job since childhood. When his father was jailed for tax offences, his mother left with their two sons to her family in Brazil. They lived in a favela, somewhere in Rio de Janeiro for a while. There, at the age of around thirteen, Arturo killed a man for the first time. A few years later the whole, extended family moved back to Mexico, where they thrived on criminal activity. Young Arturo worked for his elder brother and cousins, organising murders of the enemies of his Family. One sunny day the Colombian mafia had finished off almost everyone and only Arturo managed to escape to Europe, disguised as a woman. He found his hiding place in Albania at first. There, he worked for various Central European mafias, until he finally became independent. He was trading in consumer electronics, for which the demand was growing in the Horn of Africa, and then he cooperated with the pirates of Somalia.

\- And now?

\- While he was in Africa, Arturo Garcia Zurbaran realised that medicines for AIDS are expensive and that, as a consequence, hardly anyone in the poor countries can afford them.

\- So there was demand, because the product did not exist at an acceptable price – Yves added.

\- In other words, if pharmaceutical companies valued people's health above their own profits, there wouldn't be a problem – I noted.

\- The money is needed for research – James Stewart corrected me.

\- OK. Let's not argue – Yves stepped into mediator's role – we know that this thug has a good hand for business and that he is probably making various investments, which is where he can eventually stumble.

\- Do you want to arrest him for being a businessman who often eats dinner in expensive restaurants and driving a Rolls Royce?

\- Why not? After all, Al Capone was not the first and not the last one to be put behind the bars for tax fraud.

- I presume it's not easy.

\- It isn't. But it's not as difficult as you think either. Arturo Garcia Zurbaran invests in real estate, shares, new technologies, and officially owns an art gallery in London. Right next to the Royal Academy.

\- Arturo Garcia Zurbaran invests in art?! Is he a connoisseur?

\- He needed something legal that would give him a financial anonymity. Also, he got a free gift from destiny with it, a beautiful woman. She now buys sculptures for her garden in Corsica, and apart from that: mosaics for a place on the Bahamas plus medieval books on painted parchment, antique gold jewellery from the Crimea and modern paintings from South America.

\- Strange combination.

\- Arturo Garcia Zurbaran has recently donated a large collection of Mexican masters from the beginning of the 20th century to his native country.

\- Philanthropist! How generous of him! - cried Yves.

\- What does he like now?

\- As far as I know, he's into volatile, bright paintings, but this is not my cup of tea – added James Stewart and exhaled the smoke through his nostrils like a real dragon. We found that very amusing.

Then James Stewart said that Arturo Garcia Zurbaran will visit Venice in a few days time, and will also attend an opening of a large exhibition of a Brazilian artist.

\- I wonder if it's not Ruggiero Betancourt by any chance - I said out loud.

\- I don't know, I only know Arturo Garcia Zurbaran invests only in famous artists.

\- How exactly do you know all of this?

\- One of his people works for our department in the US.

\- I see. I wander if he sees any difference how the business is done.

\- Is Olaf Nekvist the person running the ON Africa?

\- Possibly, but I'm not sure – I said evasively.

\- It was Olaf Nekvist who suggested that Arturo Garcia Zurbaran should start manufacturing fake drugs, when he met him at the airport in Djibouti. They had known each other for a few years, but it isn't clear how tied together their businesses are – added Yves.

So, Gerard was right – I thought, but didn't say anything.

James Stewart warned me that I have to be really cautious. So if I wanted to carry on with my life in a present form, I should keep this conversation to myself. But he thanked me for the confirmation that the fake medicines were used in Olaf's hospitals, because even for him it was a big step forward in developing the nets to catch the crooks.

We parted at the gates of the Botanical Garden; they drove away in a black Chevy, while I went on towards the city centre, to 'The Barristers' wine bar, where I sat next to the bar, with a candle stick covered in layers and layers of wax from the candles that had been burning for years on its top. Another candle was burning there now, with wax flowing slowly over its predecessors. I ordered port, savoury biscuits and a piece of Stilton cheese, and the grumpy bartender acknowledged my order with a nod. I looked at the busy junction outside through the big windows, I watched the buses, lorries and cars of all sorts, with a few random cyclists fumbling in between them, as if they didn't care about surviving to see the next day.

On the other side of the street, festively dressed wedding guests started gathering at the entrance to a large, neo-gothic church. A few young men broke out of the crowd, run across the street on the red light and stormed into the wine bar. They ordered a shot of vodka each, speaking with a Slavonic accent, and between each other they were talking in Polish. But before I formed a full sentence in my head, trying to remember something from my years in Cracow, they were already gone, as the limo with the soon-to-be married bride arrived.

The barman brought me a glass with a ruby-coloured liquid of intense smell and a wood tray with the food and a special sickle-shaped cheese knife. I paid without a word, as my mind was preoccupied with my task for now. I started from the most important, that is, taking revenge for the brutal murder of Conrad, for robbing my wonderful friend of his right to life. And even though I had not said that out loud, it was obvious that revenge meant only one thing: murdering Olaf. At the same time I knew that I couldn't, I wouldn't be able to just look Olaf in the eye and pull the trigger, even if I had him on the target.

The just-married couple was leaving the church. The guests were throwing rice and petals at them, which was really sweet. I remembered a fragment of Conrad's letter with the news about the oncoming Olaf and Kristina's 25th wedding anniversary. A wonderful date which requires a lot of emotional engagement. I was sure Olaf would not let his criminal activity interfere with an occasion like that, so if I put the celebrations of their wedding anniversary at risk, Olaf would need to react to that. This would be his soft spot.

I then had an idea that if I took away something without which the wedding anniversary would be meaningless, Olaf would do everything to get it back so as to make Kristina happy.

The bride stood on the stairs and threw a bouquet of flowers, which was instantly snatched mid-air by a young bachelorette. Everyone clapped with delectation. What a nice scene to watch!

I drank my port, ate my Stilton (delicious!), looked at the flame of the candle and realised that I had not collected all the facts yet, that a lot needs to happen yet for me to fill my plan with something specific.

But, I felt that it became much clearer now, so I asked for another glass of Port.

\- You seem so happy – noted the barman

\- Yes – I replied.

\- A woman?

\- In a sense...

\- Achilles' heel; aren't they. A woman is man's Achilles' heel – the barman informed me.

\- Judging by what you can see just outside the window, not everyone seems to share your opinion.

\- That's true, but this is my opinion. And besides, I have a lot of experience.

\- There are men who love their women and would do everything to make them happy. I am out on a hunt for one like that.

\- I wish you a fruitful hunt then – said the barman.

Berlin

On that same night, I returned to France, to Bordeaux, where I normally live. It was nice to be back in my room, my place overlooking the city, my armchair.

Gerard send me a message, asking for an urgent meeting in Berlin in two days time, in the morning, at nine o'clock sharp at the Brandenburg Gate. Needles to say, this was strictly confidential.

I left for the airport next day. When I was about to get through the revolving door into a hall, I bumped into a classmate from my primary school, Henri Focillon. He recognised me, I didn't recognize him, because Henri grew a thick beard and looked like Hells Angel.

\- Hey, Albert! What about your love life? – He asked straight away.

\- Perfect, as always. What are you doing here? And what do you do in general?

We walked into the departure lounge, so not to block the entrance, especially that Henri is a bulky man.

\- I play drums in a band called Enigma. I've travelled the whole world, and I've had so many girlfriends that I've stopped counting at some point. We are flying for a festival to Berlin. What about yourself?

\- I'm going to Berlin too!

\- Good days, mate! You are coming with us. That is the order. You will see a different world, very different than this smart, diplomatic world of yours, hehe –He gave me a powerful embrace – We've always been good friends, haven't we!

That is true. I used to do his homework, and he would beat up boys who messed up with me. Sometime later, Henri Focillon started his adult life from robbing a few shops, for which he landed up in prison. After a few years he left with a Chinese dragon tattooed on his back, a penchant for playing the drums and a new friend he met there, a musician, who decided it would be better to start a band than to sell heroine, like he did so far. At that stage we lost touch with each other; I already lived in Paris and studied law at Sorbonne, while Henri moved to Marseilles, as his girlfriend gave birth to their daughter in a car, while they were driving across Provence.

\- OK. But I need to rebook my flight.

He appeared awfully amused by this statement, took my ticket to Berlin out of my hand, tore it to pieces and said:

\- You're invited. You don't need to pay for anything, my friend. We have a private jet.

I soon got to know the rest of his chaotic band, which, accompanied by a group of girls, was boarding the plane with 'Enigmatic World Tour' written on the side. A heavy rain started to pour down, which added charm to the whole trip.

The plane looked like a hotel with an excellent bar, wide armchairs upholstered with white leather and a fluffy carpet on the floor. Just before a take-off, a waitress with a divine figure, in a pink apron tied on top of a minuscule navy-blue uniform, handed us champagne, which Henri downed in one go. Then he asked for beer, but had to wait until we found ourselves above the clouds, as the plane was taxiing already with increasing speed to heave us off the ground a few seconds later. The girls were falling all over the place on purpose. I love the moment of raising to the sky, only that on that day I did not experience it on my own, as Roxana, Hermione, Juliette, or whatever her name was, was sitting on my knees and while giving me a stupid look, was gently stroking my ears.

We then cut through the thick clouds, were tossed around by the turbulences a bit, but the majority of girls managed to fall asleep on the Persian rugs.

At a small table next to the window two guys were snorting white powder they had divided with a blade first. They were then talking about something simultaneously, to which I did not pay any attention, as a slim man with a face of a boy and pretty eyes sat next to me. I met Jimmy Sage when we were boarding the plane.

\- Are you a musician? – He asked and put the guitar on his lap.

\- Nope.

\- There's madness in your eyes, so you must be a musician.

Jimmy raised the guitar and started playing. It seemed so natural. I listened, and the clouds outside changed their shape, while the waitress fed me champagne of delicious taste. We were far above the ground, moving further and further away from our earthly concerns...

Berlin was a fascinating city I will never really get to know well as the life's too short for that. Anyway, that night I did not have a free moment for sightseeing, as I was dragged into the vortex of the unknown. At dusk we went to a stadium, where different bands were playing on a huge stage fitted with wild lights, dense mist was coming from fluorescent tubes and the air vibrated with the mad music coming from the loudspeakers with the power of the jet-propulsion engines. Everything was exciting, fascinating, sensual and designed to the tiniest details.

The next day I briefly met Gerard. He insisted that we walk about, changing directions often and he talked quietly, while keeping an eye on what was going on around us.

\- The first instalment, that is the exchange of diamonds worth more or less three million dollars will take place in Andalusia, on a corrida arena, in a famous city on the edge of a precipice.

\- It must be Ronda.

- Yes.

\- Do you know the date?

\- Next Friday, at two p.m. The recipient will be an Indian girl in red sari with a black pattern.

\- Excellent.

\- I can see that you accepted Olaf's responsibility for Conrad's death.

\- Yes, Gerard.

\- What's interesting is that a really unique, blue and very precious diamond from South Africa, which Olaf ordered for his wife's ring, will be included in this handsome bunch of diamonds.

\- That can come in handy. My God, perfect!!! Makes me so happy! I will use this diamond to taunt Olaf.

\- I thought you might use it for this.

\- Awesome – I whispered.

\- We must split up now. Be very careful. They are monsters. Here is Olaf's personal, mobile phone number. Stay anonymous – and he wrote digits inside the palm of my hand.

We went our ways.

Milan

Straight from Berlin I was on the next step of my journey to the final destination, that is, the meeting with Olaf. Half an hour later I was en route to Milan in Maserati.

At first, I wanted to meet Veronica, with whom I had not slept since last summer. I called her from a phone booth – I decided that from then on I wouldn't be using my mobile phone again. We agreed to meet in Alchemy, where we met for the first time a few years earlier. On that day Veronica was interviewing Juan Castello, a writer from Argentina, who was persecuted in America for his leftist worldview. I listened to their conversation as they sat at the table next to mine and later on I invited Veronica on her own to a Lebanese restaurant. We continued getting to know each other, clubbing in the city, dancing till dawn on the roof of the skyscraper, where she worked for some press agency. We ended making love there, basking in the rays of the rising sun, with a glorious view of Milan below us.

I arrived in Alchemia at 9 p.m. with a red rose for Veronica. She looked gorgeous with short hair, in a white, low cut blouse, ash grey trousers, black sandals and a large black shawl with tassels.

\- Thanks for remembering – she kissed me on the cheek, and I noticed a tiny, golden cross hanging low, between her breasts. That was something new.

We ordered a carafe of Barolo. Veronica was checking out the menu, and I was looking at the flower I gave her, at a woman, who was a mystery for me, at a car someone parked clumsily on the pavement, at the colours of the city in the evening, a city I hardly knew.

\- I don't know what I want – said Veronica looking ahead, as if there was an open space in front of her.

\- Maybe a lentil salad and ...such things ...- I suggested

\- I'm getting married \- Veronica said suddenly.

\- To whom?!

- A man.

\- I can imagine, knowing you. Only...do you really want to have a husband?

\- And that's exactly the problem. I don't know what I want. That's what I've just said.

\- Have some salad, drink some wine, and let's talk about it seriously.

\- He's boring, but he loves me.

- I see. And you? Do you love him?

\- I think so. Fred is from San Francisco. A nice chap. He travels the world on yachts.

\- His own yachts?

\- And what do I know? Is it that important?

\- Shall we go to bed and you will tell me everything there?

- I can't today. Tomorrow?

\- Tomorrow I will be in Naples.

\- So never, in that case.

- Sounds dramatic. Operatic.

\- You know Albert; you're an interesting lover. I was happy with you.

\- On the roof of the skyscraper?

\- It was with you on the roof? Yes, on the roof as well. You know what, love, I'm in a hurry. Ciao.

I finished the lentil salad on my own. I didn't drink the Barolo though, as it was too cold to enjoy.

Naples

I love travelling in Italy. I simply love travelling through Italy. En route I stopped for coffee and delicious cannelloni at Urbino, so I reached Naples late afternoon. Soon I booked into the Vesuvius hotel, under a fake name, of course. That same evening I went to the house where I used to play with Luigi, a friend of mine from school, from the times when my father was sent to Naples on some diplomatic mission or other. We used to run through every nook and cranny with Luigi, we ate thick pizza sitting on a wall with others, we played football on the narrow streets, if someone gave us a cigarette, we would share it. Later, after I'd moved to Cracow, I would sometimes return to Naples, and I always used to go for a dinner with Luigi then. He graduated from a small thief to a real Mafioso, and finally took the lead of his own family gang.

In his house I found Luigi's mother, wife and two daughters with the eyes of girls from renaissance paintings.

\- Oh, Albert! – Exclaimed Angela, Luigi's mother, and invited me to the table, which was immediately set with lashings and lashings of spaghetti. They poured wine with delicious aroma for me and demanded stories about my wife (I didn't have), and my children (I knew nothing about.)

Everything was going great for them, the apartment looked like a palace, and Luigi's wife, Anna, could be easily confused with early Sophia Loren at the peak of her prime. Only the father was absent, as he was serving a 20-year prison sentence for tax fraud.

- I need help. Is Luigi around? – I asked.

\- He's not here, but he will find you in the morning.

\- I am staying in the Vesuvius hotel.

\- Wait for him there.

I said goodbye soon. When I was on the street I realised I still felt comfortable in this house, in this homely atmosphere, just as I felt in childhood.

Early in the morning, while I was drinking strong, black coffee, a young boy came to tell me, that someone was waiting for me. I walked outside; the day was beautiful and sunny. In front of the entrance, on the pavement, there was a black Ducati motorbike. A man was sitting on it astride in a red helmet with the face shield pulled down. I sat behind him, without a word being spoken and we drove away into the city with vehemence. We meandered through the narrow streets, squares, and short cuts, drove down the stone stairs, and finally stopped in front of some ordinary-looking house. I got off the motorbike and the driver vanished with a roar of the engine. The door opened and a frail man ushered me inside with a waiter's gesture. He walked me through a long kitchen to the other side of the building, to a café with round tables and chairs in Vienna style. The main door with glass windows opened to a square with a church.

The place was empty.

The man pointed to a table closest to the back door, so I sat down and in a few minutes there was a steaming hot Panini with ham and a salad with different vegetables, plus cappuccino on the table in front of me. All this happened without exchanging a word.

A half an hour later three men in felt fedoras entered the café, and sat next to the door without paying any attention to me whatsoever. But none of them was Luigi. They were sitting like that for some fifteen minutes or so without the coffee or Panini, or the salad, until Luigi finally arrived.

\- Albert, you old mate!

\- Luigi! You've got such a beautiful family! - I praised him, and he wagged his finger at me, probably thinking I was talking mainly about Anna's feminine beauty. After a short conversation about what I was doing, we moved on to the main point.

\- I need to ask you for a favour. I need to intercept a small parcel with diamonds, which will be handed over by the couriers next Friday, at two o'clock on the corrida arena in Ronda, Andalusia. The recipient will be an Indian girl in red sari with a black pattern. OK? The diamonds are yours. They are worth around three million dollars. But the blue diamond is mine.

\- Know what? The older you are, the more I like your ideas! Who's paying whom and why?

\- Someone is paying Olaf Nekvist from Bergen, for the stolen crude oil from Niger Delta, but I don't know the names.

\- I didn't know he switched to diamonds. So far he was paid mainly in gold or cobalt. Interesting. It's a bit inconvenient...we don't interfere with each other's business, but I have people in Cordoba, who would do it for me. What will you have out of it? Are you after that diamond because you are broke? What is it all about?

\- I intend to use this diamond as bait.

\- To do what?

\- I want to annoy Olaf, to lure, to entice him into an open place, on his own, without any protection. I want to destroy him. I want to kill Olaf Nekvist.

\- Albert.... I don't believe that you've ever killed a man...

\- No. He will be my first one and hopefully the last one. Olaf's responsible for the death of my best friend, Conrad.

\- Vendetta. Well, Albert, I am amazed, but I understand, because we are like brothers. And Conrad is like a brother to you too; you told me about him years ago. This is now my vendetta too. So listen to me carefully, as we have not much time: Olaf is an extraordinarily cautious, alert and observant boss of a perfectly organised criminal organisation. He senses danger everywhere. I have never met anybody more vigilant than Olaf. It won't be easy for you to take him out of his security net and drive against the wall to be murdered. From what I've heard about him, Olaf is thorough in his planning, his judgement is free of all errors, and his treatment of people, who put him at risk one way or another is ruthless. You are being naïve thinking that Olaf will expose himself to get a diamond. He would never do that. One diamond is nothing for him.

\- But I know that Olaf has one weakness: he is a man, who loves his woman, Kristina. Also, I know that they will celebrate 25th anniversary of their wedding soon and that special, blue diamond will be set in a ring for her on this occasion. If I can find a way to blackmail her, he may just open up for a brief moment.

\- That is perfect, Albert. Congratulations. But, leave Kristina out of it, because Olaf will hack you to death if you upset his wife. Give him an easy option, like playing a little, greedy robber, who will swap this diamond for a relatively small amount of cash, say less than one hundred thousand dollars, well under its value. Olaf will think that you are not very clever, so will not be on his guard too much. Don't blackmail Olaf with anything else, because he will be able to trace you. None of that stuff with illegal oil will do. But emotional blackmail is so unpredictable, that he may go along. Taunt him with brief messages. No more than fifteen seconds each time. And change places and phones often.

\- Thank you, Luigi. You are great.

\- I am not finished. You will not kill him, Albert. You don't even know how to pull a trigger. This is a job for a professional assassin, who has to be swift, accurate, perfectly brutal and without identity. That killer must not know you either. Otherwise vendetta will continue and you will be next. Giving up?

\- No.

\- You have to find the top assassin, who also has to murder for free as any payment would leave a trail either for police or Olaf's people or both. That is why you have to leave me out too. I will do those diamonds for you, but after that we must part our ways for a good while; unless you feel threaten with immediate danger.

\- Wonderful advice, Luigi.

\- How should I let you know what is going on with your diamond? As you can imagine, I won't be in Ronda, and the Spaniards don't know you.

\- I will be waiting on the New Bridge over the Guadalevín in Ronda. I will be dressed in white suit with a large, blue shawl on the shoulders.

\- Ciao, Albert.

\- Ciao, Luigi.

And the place became empty again.

I thought that childhood friendship is a beautiful thing and went on a walk down the main street, which cut through the centre of Naples like a gorge. Walking in the bright sun, I felt it was time to refresh my body with a glass of white wine. I entered a bar where all the guests looked like illegal immigrants from Burkina Faso, Mali, Chad or Niger. The radio blazed rap in a language that could be described as Anglo-French, but with a distinct African accent. The wine was fairly good. Where it came from I couldn't tell, as the bottle was completely naked, without any label.

A heavy thunderstorm erupted, flooding the street with intense rain. It was as if gods wanted to tell me something.

I ask for another glass of that nameless wine, which barman poured into the glass I was holding.

The streams of rain were lit by a powerful lighting very close by, electricity went off for a short while and I was thinking that Luigi was right saying that I have to find a real assassin, but I didn't know a single one...... apart of Arturo Garcia Zurbaran!!! Yes! Not only that: Arturo Garcia Zurbaran was a perfect assassin!

A group of soaking-wet American tourists run into the bar, holding newspapers above their heads as a flimsy protection from that deluge of cascading water. They looked so out of place, that it was funny..... but they were not smiling. Suddenly it clicked: if I can turn Arturo Garcia Zurbaran into my hired gun, Olaf would have no chances. However, simply employing Arturo Garcia Zurbaran was out of question. He wouldn't do it for money, as he had too much of that stuff. But if Arturo Garcia Zurbaran felt cornered, threaten with a snare, sniffing deadly danger, he would unleash his menacing dexterity upon anybody. So, if I managed to convince Arturo Garcia Zurbaran that his partner in business, Olaf Nekvist, was planning to debunk him, his natural reaction would be to destroy Olaf. That was for sure, because Arturo Garcia Zurbaran was a murderer first and only then a diplomat.... this was in his blood, in his upbringing not to trust anyone, as James Stewart told me about him in Cambridge. He was a very rough street boy at heart.

People like Arturo Garcia Zurbaran espouse devious thinking about their business partners as they depend on them, therefore feel threatened by them and suspect them of underhand scheming. I was also confident that it would be enough to stage a ploy to make Arturo Garcia Zurbaran suspicious about Olaf, for him to take the initiative upon himself to serve my purpose. It meant that all I have to do was to set a stage for the Olaf's execution.

Suddenly rain stopped, clouds parted like a curtain, the sky was above us and yet hail the size of small pebbles hit the street minutes later. It was so unexpected that we all laughed, even Americans laughed.

This was the end of a brief storm, the radio was blazing as before, I had another drink and started to work in my mind on a fable for my future henchman, Arturo Garcia Zurbaran. I also realised that I even had an opportunity to meet Arturo Garcia Zurbaran in person without exposing myself!

I called Ruggiero Betancourt immediately, and he confirmed that he does have a Mexican client with that name and that Arturo Garcia Zurbaran would most likely come to the opening of his exhibition in Venice.

\- Ruggiero, I am playing a certain game. I will come in disguise and under a fictitious name. Don't ask me why. Just get excited when you see me.

\- Of course. But be careful about this Mexican guy. I've heard he's dangerous, but it's none of my business. He always pays cash.

\- You're a gem! See you soon.

Venice

Torcolato is a sweet wine from dried grapes, with taste I knew from reading the diary of Giacomo Casanova, that most famous of lovers. So as soon as I walked to the left from the Rialto Bridge, I found a bar, where I drank a glass of Torcolato without sitting down. Its magnificent taste brought to my mind the Venetians of old times, aristocrats, musicians, adventurers who, under the mysterious portals in the nooks and crannies of Dorsoduro, were chatting up, embracing, kissing women in extraordinary masks and gowns with deep décolletages.

I slowly started looking for a hotel. I found one, which was bathed by the light of the setting sun, between the palaces of Grand Canal, with the full moon already peeping between the buildings. The gondolas, lit with lanterns, were rocking gently on the water like black swans in diamond tiaras.

The hotel's walls were decorated with pictures of Orson Wells, Federico Fellini, Akira Kurosawa, Roman Polański, Woody Allen and Steven Spielberg; it must have had some connection with the film festival, which takes place here every other year. There was a copy of the cityscape of Venice painted by Canaletto hundreds of years earlier.

Soon, I was asleep, so tired from planning my revenge.

In the morning I saw the same painting by Canaletto, only that the Giudecca Canal was now peppered with motorboats. Besides...everything was the same.

A quick coffee in front of the hotel and I was already on my way to Erberia, a vegetable market, and then to Pescheria, a fish market, where they were selling crabs with powerful pincers. The stalls were brimming with a cornucopia of flora and fauna. I was walking there and back through the narrow streets, absorbing smells, feeding my eyes with colours, and my lips were salty with the taste of the sea; the hubbub of people's conversations was surrounding me like a cocoon.

It was a place where I existed instinctively.

I got hungry, I ate another salad (it was different every time) made of fresh vegetables and fish, whose name I did not know, and I washed it all down with crystal clear water. I was sitting on a low, stone balustrade next to Grand Canal, while teenagers were waving at me from passing vaporetti boats, giggling joyfully at the same time. Later on, I crossed the river on the nearby Rialto Bridge and mixed with a dense crowd of tourists, which brought me as far as St Marco Square, to the Cathedral with galloping horses above the entrance. I avoided being pushed into the queue, which coiled like anaconda to disappear inside the dark church. I turned left not to look at the enormous ship filled with American tourists, berthing in front of the Ducal Palace.

I finally felt more relaxed, as the space behind St Marco Church was empty. I didn't have a clue where I was going, but it didn't matter as I was enjoying my meandering walk through the maze of passages, bridges, squares and pavements clinging tight to the walls. Suddenly, a space opened in front of me on the other side of a small bridge. To my amazement I was standing in front of a statue of the famous knight of 15th century Europe, condottieri Bartolommeo Colleoni, who was sitting proudly on a huge stallion right in a middle of Campo Santa Giovanni e Paolo. I sat at a table nearby, ordered a glass of the original Lambrusco and admired the statue of the master of sudden attack from behind, who used the artillery centuries before Napoleon did. That is why Bartolommeo Colleoni will forever remain the hero of high-class bodyguards.

I still had some time, so I returned via Ponte dell' Academia to Dorsoduro, where I found a restaurant on Campo Santa Margherita; someone told me that they serve the best calamari with chicory in town. And it was certainly true!

After the dinner I walked along San Trovaso, where I stopped by a small dockyard; a boat builder was putting a forcola, a support for the oar, into a new gondola. I thought that it look like a burning flame. On the other side of the water the sun was setting, which reminded me, it's time to refresh my body and to put on a mask for the evening masquerade. I returned to the hotel, had a hot shower and sat relaxing for a while on the balcony with a view of Santa Maria della Salute, so to transform my mind into a stranger's personality. I later brushed my hair back with brilliantine, put on a red shirt, green jacket, an orange shawl with blue stripes, velvet trousers, brown shoes on heels, hanged binoculars on a gold chain on my neck...and I was ready for my new role.

I left the hotel and went to Campo Santa Margherita, to an 18th century theatre, which has recently been converted into a trendy art gallery. Gondolas with well-off passengers were stopping in front of the entrance with bouncers on both sides. After having my invitation checked, I entered into a room, was greeted by petit Thai girls with silver trays and small shot glasses of sake. The Europeans with more traditional tastes could count on Ukrainian girls in folk dresses, with vodka and caviar, but I could not refuse ordinary champagne and prawns presented to me by a gorgeous lady in Yves Saint Laurent dress.

Three, large paintings were displayed in the middle of that space on a wooden structure with powerful lamps set above them. These lights were focused downwards, highlighting the rough surface of canvases. They were painted in different shades of green. All were slashed with a machete, creating scars, glistening with deep red paint. The machete was in front of the structure, placed on a Japanese-style, wooden stand for swords.

On all walls, from the ceiling to the floor, there were drawings, graphics, sketches.... Everything seemed to have been created in haste, but at the same time impeccably. I understood why Betancourt was famous; he wasn't only profoundly creative, but he was also a supreme showman.

I was fascinated by theatrical movements, with which the art connoisseurs prowled the open space of the gallery, interacted with food, alcohol, art and themselves. I also took part in this ballet; I put on my binoculars to read the titles, take them off and move back a few steps to savour the artists' images from a distance. And then, I danced on, repeating my performance towards Ruggiero.

\- A man in a blue jacket and golden tie. Tasteless. Be careful, Albert. He came with Professor – whispered Ruggiero while passing me by. I stopped him, so he added in a normal voice

\- I created these images in winter, in Canada, in a wooden house, in the middle of nowhere. The huge logs were burning in the fireplace all day long and maybe that's why...but what's the point in explaining everything?

- How interesting! - I exclaimed – Such an eruption of feelings in the middle of nowhere, amongst all the snow! Fascinating! Is it really for sale? Can one take these emotions away and hang them on the wall? What do you think? Let me introduce myself, Alfred Jarry-Kolomycky.

\- Alfred Jarry-Kolomycky? Aren't you that wonderful writer, poet!!...?? – Ruggiero spoke clearly and loudly.

- What an honour! Do you know my humble self then? Aww...

\- Of course. But if you let me...

\- But, of course. Beautiful art. Thank you...

I then talked to some arrogant millionaires from Ohio and a grumpy critic from São Paulo, a city I will never understand, until I stumbled, seemingly by chance, upon Arturo Garcia Zurbaran, the man in the blue jacket. As I bumped into him, he almost spilt the wine (Tempranillo, I think, judging by the smell) on his terribly ostentatious tie.

\- I'm sorry, really sorry. Alfred Jarry-Kolomycky, writer. Nice to meet you – and I extended my hand, while bowing low – I think I will buy these graphics on the spur of the moment, what do you think? Life's so short, you constantly need to give yourself pleasures, don't you think?

\- Is it what you were talking about with the famous painter, Ruggiero Betancourt?

\- Yes...an interesting person. I knew nothing about it, I live in the world of imagination...like in a cave...that's writer's plight...I don't know about anything and then suddenly someone calls and wants me to give him an interview. A Swede...no, a Norwegian from Bergen...or maybe not a Norwegian, what do I know...

\- A Norwegian from Bergen? – Asked Arturo Garcia Zurbaran, while a beautiful woman in a Venetian dress and coquettish mask poured him more wine (Pinot Noir, so he now had a completely random mixture in his glass)

\- A strange situation. This guy, a Norwegian or not, is a wonderful person, who spends all his money on hospitals in Africa. Just imagine, the sick people come, the doctors see them, scratch their heads, and give them medicines for free, as that most generous man pays for everything. The families can relax, assured that everything will be OK now.

Arturo Garcia Zurbaran drank all his wine during this short monologue. A good sign, even though it was obvious he knew nothing about wine.

\- Why are you telling us this? - Asked an intense looking man with a grizzly shock of hair, and piercing, deeply set, dark eyes.

\- I don't know myself. But isn't it tragic that these medicines were made of dust, probably cement collected on a beach in Montenegro or sawdust from the rainforests of Amazon. And they only seemed to be what it said on the label. Empty names. The sick people believed doctors, they believed they would conquer the disease, see a lot of sunrises and sunsets, their own grandchildren, maybe even their great-grandchildren. Instead they were dying in poverty, exhausted beyond all imagination, trapped in their own, fragile, decaying bodies. And this Norwegian wanted to tell me, who produced these fake medicines, so that this nasty person would die in a prison, behind bars, in some forgotten place, in a dungeon. Oh, I'm so sorry, I don't know what has come over me. We are here, taking part in this beautiful event, and now, I am telling you such horrid stories. I'm awful. I hope you will forgive me – and I wanted to turn away, as some exotic beauty with full lips and ears in the shape of the sea shells came over to pour me some Merlot, which I actually like quite a lot. But Professor stopped me.

- Fascinating. And when is it supposed to happen?

\- Sorry, what are you talking about? No, I haven't bought any of the graphics yet, so I don't know when and what, but I think I will, as soon as I find the agent...

\- I meant the story about the drugs. This Norwegian guy...do you remember his name? – Asked Professor.

\- Olaf...no, no, I shouldn't talk about it. We are going to meet in a week, and I don't even know when and where to be honest. But I think he's very brave, isn't he? What he's going to tell me is really important. Oh, yes.

\- That guy...he wants to tell you everything? - Arturo Garcia Zurbaran asked, while leaning towards me.

- 100%! Everything. Names, dates, places, contacts. Everything – I said without hesitation and asked for more wine, as I wanted to be attended to by that desirable lady again.

\- It must be pretty risky for that Olaf – noted Professor.

\- Naturally, but he is the most honest man, who feels profound responsibility for the people he provides care for...

\- And what next? - Asked Arturo Garcia Zurbaran, and I could sense anxiety in his voice.

\- I thought about press in the US – I know a few prominent journalists from New York. Maybe London, Paris, Berlin, Madrid, Toronto...that won't be difficult. A great story. A real scoop! All over the World!

\- As it happens, we could publish your story – said Arturo Garcia Zurbaran.

\- Any time – assessed Professor.

\- It would be excellent! – I smiled at them - I will let you know as soon as I have the recording!

\- I think it would be best if you hand it over immediately. The preparation for a publication can take a while.

\- Hm...that's right – I said – I think Olaf is somewhat shy, if you can put it this way, so I need to see him eye to eye. I think it's understandable.

\- Of course – Professor replied – but in theory, we could be a few yards away, you give us the recording, we do the rest. That would be most convenient for everyone, wouldn't it? You're a writer after all, not an errand boy to chase the journalists in newsrooms around the world. Your task is to create, while we do the paperwork.

\- In a sense...you're right...but...

\- We'll take care of everything. No problem at all. Only as far as I understood, you don't know when this very important meeting is supposed to take place...

- That's the point. Olaf promised to call me and that's it. It's a bit silly.

\- But it's easy to fix – said Professor and left to talk to a big guy in a black suit, with shaved head. Meanwhile, Arturo Garcia Zurbaran asked why Olaf contacted me, not someone else.

\- A year ago the patients in one of his hospitals in Kinszasa or Zanzibar or whatever were giving a performance of the 'Crime dealer', and Olaf went to see the play. Maybe that's why?

- The 'Crime dealer'? I've heard about it. Is it yours? Are you the author of that story - Asked Arturo Garcia Zurbaran.

\- I am embarrassed that you know – and I bowed low.

Professor returned with a business card depicting a mountain landscape with the monarch of the glen. There was no name on the card, only a telephone number.

\- Just call this number as soon as you know the date and place of the meeting. I wouldn't tell Olaf about it. What for, anyway.

\- OK – I said.

\- We need to have the details save in our hands, don't we? – Added Arturo Garcia Zurbaran.

\- Good idea.

When I was bidding my farewell (how much time one can waste on ordinary criminals), a young woman approached my interlocutors and, pointing at a picture showing a cascade of colour, spoke in the most seductive voice I've ever heard – Pure optimism, isn't it? - And realising I was standing next to them, added quickly – I am sorry to interrupt. Isabelle Gallieri from Castile.

\- Alfred Jarry-Kolomycky, writer –Professor introduced me, which I welcomed with a relief, as I wouldn't be able to utter that lie again.

- A creator! How interesting! What do you think about this painting? –Isabelle smiled and I...I was absorbing her as intensely as...I had never admired a woman yet.

Never...

Isabelle was dressed in a white blouse with a purple lace on the décolletage and long sleeves with golden threads, which ended in triangles covering her wrists. Her wavy hair was the colour of ripe barley, which she covered with a black, silk scarf, flowing down to her shoulders, covering her breasts, and went down even lower, down to her slender waist. Her femininity was so sensual, so compelling, and at the same time so ambiguous, so mysterious that the only thing I wanted to say was 'I fell in love with you!'

\- Are you interested in this painting? – Asked Isabelle once again.

\- Oh, very. Especially in the most beautiful, alive, true...like you – I said.

\- But I'm not a painting! – Exclaimed Isabelle, and Arturo Garcia Zurbaran butted in, that writers live in a different universe and that is how they seduce their listener, which Professor greeted with an outburst of laughter.

Professor added that I should remember to get in touch with them before meeting Olaf. He stressed the word 'before' and even filled this farewell sentence with something like a warning against danger, which I was now threatened with, even though he did not specify what he meant. They both expected me now to depart, but Isabelle took me to a painting she liked.

\- Call me Isabelle, Alfred – she informed me, and I felt like an idiot in disguise, in a green jacket, a red shirt and with binoculars hanging around my neck.

- I'm very happy, .... Isabelle... I'm very happy – and I kissed her hand, which was noted by Arturo Garcia Zurbaran.

\- Tell me what you think about that one – and she nodded in the direction of another painting.

\- I think it's about love, because it is thanks to love that the world becomes colourful.

\- So an artist who paints something like this must be in love. Is that right? – Asked Isabelle.

- I don't know. I've never experienced love. Until now. And you? – I surprised myself with this cheekiness.

\- No, until this evening I've never met a true love, one you would dream about - Isabelle looked me in the eye with her honey-coloured eyes, and I imagined her lips sending a kiss towards my lips.

Arturo Garcia Zurbaran approached us suddenly– I bought this painting for your apartment in Saint Tropez. We are going to return to the hotel now, as we are leaving early tomorrow.

We said goodbye again, Arturo Garcia Zurbaran blinked at me, but without a smile, while Professor reminded me about the phone call again and patted me on the back.

A quarter of an hour later I left into the cold night, and I took a bit of a detour to check if nobody was following me. I went along the Grand Canal in a gondola, got off next to the Academy, but since there was no one in sight, I threw the green jacket in a bin on the way back to the hotel. Half an hour later I was standing at the end of Dorsoduro and watched the bay in front of me, which was peppered with small islands, now completely invisible in the dark, with San Marco on the left, and a long but very narrow Lido island on the right.

Well, actually I did not think about this landscape, I thought only about Isabelle...maybe she was looking in the same direction...maybe she was looking at the same moon now...maybe she forgot my name already. But maybe not; maybe I became someone special for her.... I really wished so.

Moissac and Ronda

At the crack of dawn I left Venice on the train. I hired a Jaguar in Verona, in which I arrived in Moissac in Languedoc in the late afternoon. I'd never been there, I didn't know anything about that place, and I stopped only because the sun was shining straight into my eyes. I turned left to avoid this dazzling light; soon found a tiny hotel, in the town centre. Close by I found a restaurant. It wasn't a brilliant choice. I had to wait for a half an hour to be served simple ravioli and salad. I think that their wine was made of grapes, which were pressed the day before yesterday and tasted accordingly.

The morning started off slowly, from coffee and reading historical facts provided by the hotel like a story about the Cathars, who were fought by the Catholic church in a crusade which killed many people here. After quick shopping for the next part of the journey (delicious nougat) I went off – through the Pyrenees with the views from fairy-tales, through Castile, south of the Iberian Peninsula, to Ronda, a town in Andalusia, erected thousands of years ago on a high rock.

And then it was evening again. The sun was setting behind the mountaintops, when I ate the dinner in a restaurant, whose walls were covered in posters with toreadors killing bulls. The red wine poured from a steel barrel had a clear taste and went well with the steak. The meat, prepared in the traditional way, served with lightly toasted quarters of tomatoes with fried onion, button mushrooms and young potatoes was simply delicious!

The night went by in a flash, without any dreams. While stretching lazily in the king-sized bed, I realised that it was the day when the real mission was to begin. I thought that maybe, at the same time, Olaf was stretching in his bed, unsuspecting of the feast I was preparing for him. I wondered if he would like it?

I went to town, and while rambling around the Moorish quarter in quest of coffee, I saw a café on Maria Auxiliadora Square. It was located in a house full of books. I walked through the dark interior into a small terrace with railing on edge of a vertical cliff , with a mountain range far away.

\- A splendid view, gives some food for thought, doesn't it? It's like an eagle's nest – Said an elegant man with an appearance of an intellectual.

\- An amazing fortress, isn't it.

\- Can I offer you a game of chess? – Added the man, who turned out to be a philosopher named Joshua Cervantes.

I accepted his offer; we sat at the table made of teak and a chessboard as its top. A few minutes later the coffee appeared, next to our chessboard, on which we were setting our armies made of crystal pieces. While playing chess Joshua Cervantes talked about the role of saffron in the Persian kitchen since ancient times. He described the growing methods of Crocus sativus with purple petals, which you collect in autumn at sunrise, when flowers trustfully open their petals towards the sun. I said 'checkmate' then, but it turned out I made a mistake and didn't win but lost after all.

\- You have to pay attention to your game, my friend and not to a story - Joshua Cervantes spoke with a shrewd smile.

\- Are you a trader? – I asked.

\- Well, my friend, if people believe your story, they will trust you. And you will get what you want.

\- I suppose, this is what I am going to do very, very soon.

\- Here we go. One more time? – Asked Cervantes.

\- Of course.

\- Chess a simple game, but there are so many possible options...

\- Isn't it like that with everything in life?

\- Playing chess is a bit like playing poker, isn't it? – Noted Joshua.

\- Every person has different thoughts and this is beautiful.

\- But there are similarities as well, aren't there?

Later Joshua Cervantes asked me out for a dinner in a Moroccan restaurant, where we ate unknown to me dishes, smoked a pipe and Joshua told me about Umayyad prince, who conquered Spain for Islam well over a thousand years ago. Eventually, we parted close to the Palace of Marquis de Salvatierra, which has four figures of Azteques instead of columns. I was sorry about the obvious fact that I would never meet my new companion again.

I paid the bill in the hotel and then I went to the New Bridge. It was almost two, the timing of the swap of diamonds on the nearby corrida arena. And just like in corrida, where the naked sword in toreador's hand is a deathly weapon, every step brought me closer to the fight for life or death. A fight with an opponent I had not met yet.

In a few minutes there will be no return.

I stood between the old Muslim part of the city and the new, Christian one. A deep canyon was opening under my feet, and there was a river flowing at the bottom of the precipice. People were passing me by, walking over a bridge, as if it was a normal street; they were wondering around the shops, crossing the road with their kids, delivering goods to restaurants, and I was standing still, dressed in white, with a blue scarf wrapped around my neck; a statue of serenity amidst the hustle and bustle of the city.

I turned around, and standing on the edge of the precipice, I was admiring the same view, against which I played chess with Cervantes this morning. A blonde girl with wire-straight hair and dark glasses, which reflected the world around her, laid down a tiny diamond on the stone balustrade of the New Bridge in front of me.

- You're OK? - I asked.

\- OK. Greetings from Luigi. You will get the blue one in two days in Monte Carlo, on a square in front of the Casino, the one with the orchestra, around one o'clock in the afternoon. – And she gave the diamond a prick with her slender fingers with nails coated in red enamel, which send it flying, glimmering in the sunrays all the way towards the bottom of the precipice.

\- Thank you.

The woman pressed her finger against her lips, got into a Mercedes, which arrived to pick her up, and she was gone. Soon afterwards I set out too in a taxi, to Barcelona, a few hours' drive away. The Rolling Stones kept me company throughout, with the loud speakers behind me playing "Satisfaction" and "Wild Horses" in a loop.

The driver of the red Citroën DS limo was a man with the face of a Native American. He didn't know the way very well. Gonzales was a nice guy and smiled at me with special grim, like a man who really wants someone to like him. He was talking about Bolivia, where he came from, about his village, wife, children, and then he would take the wrong turn again. Sometimes I wanted to help him, but I didn't do it feeling it would hurt his pride – he maintained he was a descendant of the ancient Incas, which would not let him follow the orders from anybody else.

It was already quite late when we finally arrived in Barcelona, which didn't matter, as I was not planning to stay the night there. I said goodbye to my Bolivian chauffeur with a cordial handshake a la rapper from Bronx, and entered a street next to Picasso Museum. I was looking for a mobile phone from which I could call Olaf.

There were plenty of tourists wandering around, which was what I needed. Unfortunately, none of them was appropriate; they were either moving from one place to another in large flocks, or sitting in cafes and restaurants. I needed someone who was alone. I turned right into a tiny street and just behind the corner I found a man with the Union Jack painted on his face, wobbling out from a pub reverberating with loud music. Perfection! He was even talking on his mobile, evidently arranging to meet up with his mates for yet another beer.

I pushed him into the next doorway; with his face against the wall, he didn't let out a murmur; just shook with fear. I took the phone out of his hand, and dialled Olaf's number.

\- Who is it? – I heard.

- Hello? Is this Olaf Nekvist, the great philanthropist? – I asked in a squeaky voice.

\- What's the matter?

- I'm afraid the diamonds have changed their owner. The blue one too. Nice place, this Ronda, isn't it? - I added in a deep voice.

I crack the phone on the pavement, hit the owner of the phone in the hamstrings, and before he could react in any way, I was already out of his reach. An hour later I was already speeding on a night train in the direction of Nice. It was so comfortable, that I woke up only outside Cannes, and that was where I got off the train.

I was in Cannes only once, years before, during the film festival. I met André Visigoth then, a pensive film director from Buenos Aires, who taught me how to taste coffee. An unforgettable lesson!

But on that day I was planning to spend only a few hours in the city, so I went to my final destination, that is, Carlton Hotel. I ate a light breakfast and got to know two Swedish girls; each of them had a mobile phone in her purse. We talked about celebs for a while, who were sitting a few tables away, and then we went to the beach. My new friends took almost everything off and went for a swim in the sea, leaving all their belongings under my supervision.

I took Kirstin's phone first and dialled the number to Bergen.

\- Olaf? - I asked in a friendly voice.

\- Who are you actually?

\- It's a big question, dear. A Hamlet-worthy question.

\- What do you want?

\- A few pennies for a rainy day. Let's say, fifty thousand dollars you will give me for a beautiful diamond. An enviable gift to your lovely wife, isn't it? It's a real bargain you could say.

I put down the phone, and the girls waved at me to join them. Maybe they got bored without me? Maybe, jumping up and down in the waves of the Mediterranean Sea, they suddenly felt an urge to play with someone as eager to play as me?

I waved back and took out Ingrid's phone.

\- Olaf, darling, how are getting along with counting money?

\- Absurd... - he wanted to add something.

\- Would you rather .... Never mind.

I cut him off after this because the girls, all wet, were coming back to me (and their mobile phones), full of interesting ideas how to spend the next few hours. Unfortunately I escorted both Swedish girls to the hotel, said goodbye and disappeared. I then went on a drive along the Cote d'Azure in a rented Ferrari.

In the late afternoon I was in Monte Carlo. I found a splendid hotel in Monaco-Ville quickly; I even managed to eat a dinner in a restaurant overlooking the port and the sunset. That day I treated myself to a fried crab with mushrooms in salmoriglio sauce, to which I ordered (against all rules) champagne Laurent-Perrier Grand Siècle. With the flute of the golden liquid in my hand I was looking at the perfect view until late, at the dark blue sea and the lights of the ships, and I thought about Isabelle again.

The meeting with Isabelle took me completely by surprise. She was the only woman I could love entirely, unequivocally and forever. I knew it was something more than charm, infatuation, and desire.

I had no idea something like that was possible, and I surely did not believe in it. Now, since Isabelle was the woman of my life, there was nothing I wanted more than to be her man. At the same time I was aware that our relationship had little chance becoming reality. And that filled me with hopelessness I could not afford these days. Maybe that was the price of rambling the world and having a chilled-out lifestyle?

Busy with these thoughts, I drunk the rest of my Laurent-Perrier Grand Siècle, raising the toast to the moon.

The next day, which welcomed me after a lonely night, I started from a relaxed walk in Monte Carlo. I had come here once before, even visited a few casinos. But I am not a naïve risk-taker, so all I did at that time was to drink a glass of cold Krug in each of them, as I was watching the players, who were ruled by a silly greed. Then I went to the place, where the courier was coming to deliver my blue diamond.

I sat on a bench and was listing to the orchestra playing Vivaldi, Saint-Saëns, and Mozart, while my thoughts drifted around Olaf and his psyche. The clock struck one. A slim girl sat next to me, looked at me indifferently, and started to do her make-up. As she was busy with eye shadows, eyeliner, mascara, lipstick, she was spreading cosmetics on the bench, as if it was her dresser. I shifted a bit to give her more space. It didn't really help; she was taking up more and more of the bench, and finally dropped a pot with an anti-wrinkle cream to the floor. I picked it up, but I didn't give it back to her, as there was my name on the lid. I took it off and inside, cradled on the bed of the soft cream was a diamond with a blue soul.

The girl was packing her stuff already and left without a word. I stayed on until the orchestra finished playing Strauss' 'Wine, women and song', before I drove off in my new car (Aston Martin) along the Grand Prix Formula 1 route, to say goodbye to Monaco.

I decided to travel through Switzerland to Paris. I stopped en route only once, in Zurich, from where I called Olaf from a phone booth.

\- Your diamond, still crude, but already dazzling with its blue, gorgeous, magical charm, from the Culliman mine, oh no! I'm sorry, from Gauteng in South Africa, lies in my open hand now. You wanted to put this beauty in a golden frame, turn into a ring for your wife, as a present for your twenty-fifth anniversary, and now it's gone! But I like you and I am a kind person, so my offer is to swap this twenty-something carat stone for a few dollars.

Olaf was breathing hard, as if he had a cold. I did not ask him about his health though, I only whispered: 'Ciao!'

It was about three o'clock at night that I called Olaf from a 'borrowed' phone. I must have waked him up from a nervous sleep, as he was coughing, threatening me with some rubbish or other.

\- In two days, my love, at midday, you will bring me a present, that is sixty thousand dollars in a plastic bag, in exchange for your lovely stone. It will happen in a city of love: in Paris – I spoke gently.

Paris

Somewhat inadvertently I ended up in Bagnolet street, where Emilia, my girlfriend from college times, used to live. She inherited a large apartment after her aunt died and was buried across the road on Père Lachaise, a famous cemetery. I immediately found the house, even though I used to come there at night only. I pressed the button on the intercom next to a pink heart with the letter 'E' inside. After a longer while I heard the sleepy voice of my ex-lover:

\- Who is it?

- Albert. Can I come in? – I heard a click of the lock in response, so I climbed the stairs to the third floor and Emilia was waiting there wrapped in a pink blanket, her head was covered by a shock of tiny braids, with a cigarette on the edge of her lips.

\- You look lovely – I said, and she took me by the hand and led to the living room. On a large sofa there were two bold men hugging each other.

\- Do you want some coffee? - Emilia put on her glasses.

\- Yes, that would be lovely.

We left for the kitchen, where there always used to be a large table. I sat at it, while Emilia was struggling with the coffee maker, holding her cigarette between fingers at the same time.

\- What's up? – Emilia finally asked, when the water started to percolate and the space filled with the aroma of cheap coffee.

\- Oh well, you know, the usual thing, I keep roaming the world and wondering what will happen next week. What about yourself?

- Well, I don't know myself. I think they will kick me out of here, as I don't pay for anything.

\- I thought it was your place? You came into it after your aunt died?

\- It was, but I took out a mortgage when my husband wanted to open a restaurant.

\- I didn't know you got married. Is he here?

- No, he disappeared with the money a long time ago. Now I have to pay off his debts. I was stupid.

Emilia handed me the coffee – If you want sugar, I don't have any.

\- No, no sugar. As usual.

Lured by the smell of coffee, other residents of the apartment emerged from the corners, and I recognised a fellow student from university, Jean Peyre, among them. Jean kissed Emilia on the mouth; as she had inhaled the cigarette smoke just before, it was him who exhaled it. They were surely a couple. He did not recognise me, which has not surprised me at all, as he had been feeding on drugs with some exotic names for years. There was some terrible argument going on between those two men I saw earlier, so a girl in a t-shirt only, who was standing next to the cooker eating yoghurt with a plastic spoon, closed the door with her bare foot, shutting us off the palaver in the next room.

At eleven o'clock Emilia and I went to the nearby brassiere close to Notre Dame, on Île de la Cité, where we used to spend long afternoons years ago. Fifteen years ago, to be precise. She became more alert there, so for a while we could have a fairly sensible conversation. There was the street market with flowers nearby, so I bought a bunch of red roses and gave them to Emilia.

\- It feels nice today – said Emilia – I already forgot how nice it could be. And you...you are so...special...do you know what I'm talking about?

\- Does it matter?

\- Let's go to Trocadéro, shall we? I haven't been there for ages.

We took a bus to the 16th arondissement. On the way Emilia was telling me about dresses, girlfriends, her cat Philip, whether she should cut her hair, or dye it, until she finally stopped talking for a while.

\- Beautiful roses – she said, cradling their petals in her hands – the first flowers I was given in fifteen years – and she kissed me on the cheek.

We entered President Wilson's avenue, the windows we were passing by reflected the sun, Emilia was weeping quietly, and in the magic The Guimet Museum on Place d'Iéna a bronze sculpture of fierce Shiva, was dancing Tandava within a circle of flames.

I kissed Emilia on the hand; she smiled at me and said that everything would be all right and that she was happy.

We got off the bus at Place du Trocadéro and walked towards the terrace with an open view on Jardins du Trocadéro.

A couple of newly-weds with their family was being photographed against the backdrop of the Eiffel Tower. They were Japanese. An enormous black man was selling miniatures of the Eiffel tower, and his competitors were offering yin-yang pendants and small clay bears from Peru. At a safe distance, on the other side of the terrace, a slender Vietnamese girl was selling miniscule kites, which she was carrying on a tray. Emilia took my hand; we approached the wall, on which a young woman was sitting and breast-feeding her twins. We watched the fountains splurging water, the Seine, the filigreed Eiffel tower, the Champs de Mars, where I once met a friend who had just returned from war and did not have the sparkle of life in his eyes anymore.

A few metres below, boys were gaining speed on roller blades, to jump over the self-made hurdles; there was a break-dance performance in the corner of the stairs, and on the left there was a show of acrobats riding monocycles, on the right gypsy girls telling tourists fortunes. There were also a few guys from Senegal, playing djembe on a bench nearby.

\- Now I have finally understood why I used to like coming here. Everything can happen, but nobody will pay attention to the consequences of what is going on here. Everything will pass without leaving a trace behind, whether we like it or not - said Emilia philosophically.

This made me think; this could be a perfect stage for a shadowy murder nobody would notice. Yes, I will invite Olaf to meet me here!

\- Do you love me? – Emilia suddenly asked, looking straight into my eyes.

\- Forever since ever.

\- You're lying, but I like what you're saying.

\- Yes and no – I said, but Emilia didn't pay attention to me anymore, as she was now fascinated by a man dressed in a pyjama-like Pierrot's costume, with his face painted white, with black sockets around his eyes and red, permanently smiling lips. That clown was a tightrope walker, who was balancing perilously on a wire stretched between two trees, while playing Brel's songs on a violin. He looked particularly photogenic, so a crowd of people quickly collected around him, started taking pictures of him and putting coins into a top hat guarded by a black-and-white Scottish Shepherd.

Emilia went to listen to him, while I noticed something much more important from my perspective. There were three men standing on the terrace, putting up an info-stand about Virunga National Park in the Republic of Congo, where a family of mountain gorillas had recently been brutally slaughtered. I asked what they were doing there and a tall, slim Ngbobo, who moved in a charmingly nimble way, explained that poverty often forced people to exploit their natural environment, which humans share with those rare primates.

\- What does it mean?

\- People cut down trees as if there is no tomorrow, to produce charcoal for fuel.

- That doesn't make sense! Such an evident waste of resources! – I exclaimed.

\- If you lived in a refugee camp and the rain drenched the bed of your hungry child, you wouldn't think twice, would you? – Argued Ngobobo.

A tall man in a uniform, Kambale Kalibumba, a guard in the Virunga National Park, joined us, and added that the lack of money means lack of equipment, mobile phones, cars, thus lack of any control whatsoever so people can come to loot and destroy nature.

\- We are here not only to raise funds for protecting whatever's left on our planet, but also to draw attention to our liability towards those who do not have a voice on that matter – said a third man, Bruce Dowling, an Australian, professor of anthropology from the university of Tanzania. I took to them immediately.

\- Are you here everyday?

\- No. Only today and tomorrow. Our visas will expire soon.

\- If you come here tomorrow at just after four o'clock in the afternoon and wait for half an hour or so, I will send someone with money for you. It will be a lot of cash...

- We will be here for sure! – Exclaimed Bruce with clear enthusiasm.

\- Shall we issue a receipt? – Asked Ngobobo in a polite way.

\- No, that's not necessary. I simply like gorillas and I would like to help the charitable cause.

I found Emilia next to the fountain, wet from tears. A junkie tore a box of hash from her hand...a full one. I took her to a Thai restaurant, and she calmed down there, and even made plans for the future. Later, when we approached her home, we parted with a brief kiss, as Emilia was in a hurry to meet a dealer to buy a spoon of cocaine for which I gave her money.

Around twelve o'clock in the evening, I called Olaf. I think he was waiting for news from me.

\- My dear – I started off – if you want to give a ring with the love-enhancing blue diamond to your wife, I will be waiting for you twenty to five in Paris, under the Eiffel tower. You are to wear a white suit and a white hat, with the mandatory bag from Louvre Museum stuffed with banknotes worth eighty thousand dollars. Not a cent less.

\- So I'm supposed to be there at twenty to five, not twelve? – Olaf asked to make sure.

\- Yes. And please don't be late; otherwise the diamond will fly to some warm countries...

I put the receiver down knowing the shark has swallowed its bait. Nice. Only one more phonecall to Arturo Garcia Zurbaran. I apologised profusely that I was calling so late, but he did not pay any attention to this and immediately asked when I was meeting Olaf.

\- Tomorrow, just before five, in Paris, in front of Palais de Chaillot, Trocadéro, with the view of the Eiffel tower. I think we will go somewhere for a snack, you can remember things better over some exotic food...

\- Professor will be waiting for you; only he does not know the appearance...

\- Well, I will have a purple or .... maybe indigo or green jacket on ... What do you think?

\- I'm more interested in Olaf.

\- Hm...as far as I know he will be dressed in a white suite with matching white hat.

\- Anything else?

- No. Nothing. No bag or rucksack. He stressed he feels more comfortable that way.

\- And the folder with the information? Nothing?

\- No, these are just copies on a pendrive, they will be hidden in the jacket, in the cigar pocket. He told me that himself! In a cigar tube, to be precise. I'm sure it smells nice. He said he likes cigars. Especially from Havana...an interesting person. He will give me the pendrives during this meeting. I thought you knew each other?

\- I don't know such people.

\- Oh, that's obvious. How stupid of me! Writers clearly live in a cloud-coo coo land!

\- I understand! That's why we want to help...

- I'm greatful! Really, really greatful! Really...I'm touched....

\- OK – Arturo interrupted me.

\- And how's Isabelle?

\- Isabelle is sleeping next to me. Tired after the evening fun – Arturo Garcia Zurbaran disconnected the call.

His last words were like a strike in the stomach.

Paris, Trocadéro

It was raining in the morning, even though it was supposed to be sunny. I stretched lazily and didn't get up. It was nice and I wanted to rock in the warmth of sleep for a little longer. Finally, I started to yearn for a cup of good coffee. I left the hotel for good and in a nearby café all I had to do was to look the Moroccan waiter in the eye and he immediately understood I needed a double espresso.

With a croissant.

I browsed a newspaper someone left on the table. An incomprehensible story about the election in US, riots in India, ships being hijacked close to the Horn of Africa, shooting of the hostages...I had enough. I looked at the woman sitting at the table next to me. She had a beautiful profile...

The radio played Led Zeppelin, "Whole lotta love".

Twenty minutes later I started my day. First I went shopping in the discount store, Tati in Montmartre, where I purchased a dark coat, black shoes and a beret. I then bought a bottle of table wine, whose contents I immediately poured into the gutter and replaced with a particularly delicious wine from Valpolicelii, Vento. The day turned out sunny and the sky was almost cloudless. There was a feeling of positivity in the air, a perfect day for revenge. I had a light lunch near Sorbonne, paid a visit to Luxemburg Gardens, had a coffee in Rodin Museum, and then on to the stage of the main action. I had the box with the diamond in the pocket of my jacket, rocking lightly against my hip.

Around three I set myself on the wall with the great view on the Eiffel tower. People from the Virunga Park were already there, but they didn't recognize me. For them, I was just one of the old drunks, who eat old cheeses and drink wine that eventually gives them liver failure. Such people wouldn't spend a cent on gorillas, so it doesn't make any sense to waste time on a conversation about them.

New companions immediately joined me. They were led by a former Hollywood director, followed by a contemporary poet, a great painter, who surely will become famous after his death, and a few other persons with the faces like ploughed, muddy soil. As soon as we shook each other's hands, a discussion on the subject who would bring the next bottle started. That's what I call 'having a plan for the future!'

The time was passing by, and Lewis was telling us about famous actresses with whom he had plenty of sex, Karl was drawing comparisons between Rimbaud, Baudelaire and himself, but neither of them had a mobile phone, so I excused myself and went for a walk. As a result, I soon had three mobile phones on me: a Samsung, a LG, and an iPhone. I returned to my new friends with a new bottle, a plastic one again, and again I replaced the contents, but this time with Chivite, a delightful sweet wine from Navarra. This clearly surprised only Lewis. Obviously the rest were, well...only common drunks.

At thirty minutes past four o'clock I got up from the wall and moved to the part of the terrace with a view of the Eiffel tower, and I looked whether Olaf Nekvist had already decided to make the appearance. The tourists were swarming at the feet of the Eiffel tower, and I couldn't discern a single person.

A woman with the eyes of a tiger stopped in front of me and asked - I am looking for de Gaulle's square.

\- Étoile? – I asked in order to win some time.

\- General de Gaulle – she repeated and showed me a spot on the map. I thought she was a genuine tourist, not someone sent to kill me.

\- Straight down the Kléber Avenue, look – here – I said, moving my finger along the map.

\- Merci! - And she departed with the indifference of an adult cat.

I made a call from the LG.

\- Get on the bridge and walk along the fountain.

\- OK – Said Olaf

So he was there in good time.

A few minutes later I noticed a white spot on the left side of the square. I looked at him, and for the first time in my life I saw Olaf in person. He stopped being just a voice; he became a living and breathing man.

A gypsy woman stopped him on his way and it looked like Olaf was interested what she was going to tell him. But in a minute the gypsy run away and Olaf stood there for a moment, watching her.

I called from the Samsung.

\- Take the stairs to the terrace and give the bag to the people from the Virunga National Park.

\- And the blue diamond?

\- In a pot with Chanel cream, right next to a group of drunks – and I put the receiver down.

I noticed that two, nimble women were following Olaf. I called from the iPhone.

\- You are to be on your own. Otherwise I'm packing it all up.

Olaf stopped, had a word with the two women, then they turned back and walked towards Seine. How interesting of Olaf...taking girls as his bodyguards. Probably one of them, or maybe even both, killed Conrad. Maybe it was Oona, that charming girl Conrad had met in Bergen?

I returned to my company, sat on the wall and put the Chanel cream pot on it. We circulated the bottle between us.

Suddenly I saw Olaf, a tall, handsome, elegant man with bright eyes and an intensely intelligent face. He stopped briefly holding a bag from the Louvre Museum in his hand, looked around, noticed our group, and hanged his gaze for a moment on the pot with cream and the diamond inside. But, according to my instructions, he came over to Ngobobo first, gave him the money, they shook hands and exchanged smiles. Olaf was already heading in my direction, when four men in black suits suddenly surrounded him.

Nobody paid attention to that.

Another moment and the dark silhouettes of assassins dispersed in the crowd. A man in a white suit was lying on the paving stones, and a fountain of blood was bursting from his chest, staining his immaculate white shirt.

Deadly silence.

I could hear the watch on Olaf's wrist tick.

Someone had a panic attack.

I put the blue diamond in the pocket of my coat.

Sierra Leone

The journey from Europe to the hospital in Sierra Leone took a few dozen hours. It was time wasted; I had not experienced anything new whatsoever. As usual – the same wait, the same jostling, and hands extended for money. But I arrived and even managed to find a room. With bed bugs for company.

The next day in the hospital I asked what happened with Conrad's body, which clearly scared the nurses to death, as it immediately rendered them silent. Fortunately, an old doctor, a Scot from Glasgow, became interested and showed me a small cemetery next to the hospital. I found the grave of my friend there. Someone drove a wooden cross with a skewed name carved on it into the ground and tied a dried flower with a stash to it. I stood in front of the heap of the sand crying. After a while, I took out a letter Conrad wrote to me three years before out of my pocket; a letter he wrote when, as he said then, he was leaving Africa for the last time.

I left Khartoum early in the morning, for the desert; I climbed the dune to say goodbye to Africa there. The wind was gently moving the grains of the sand and whispering to me the memories of the few days and nights spent in the company of hippopotamus splashing around in the Mzima lakes, lazy walks around Lam and the beaches of Zanzibar, from which sailors set sail as if in the fairy tale of Sindbad the Sailor. Mauhidi holidays, when I was learning Swahili. The madness of clans fighting each other in Somalia. My guard, Ida Sindhu, who deserted me three months ago to look for diamonds in the mud of Sierra Leone. Aksum. The ritual dances of the Masai. The rapid love affair with Rachel in a small hotel on the Luangura River.

I slipped my hands in the ever more hot sand and thought about Johannesburg, a city of menacing contrasts and unsettling events, a raft on which we were crossing the river, when attacked by a young elephant, the conversations with the chimps in the jungles of Gabon, the petrifying sight of hyenas hunting on the banks of the almost-lifeless Namibia, of the lava trickling out of the Ertale volcano in Ethiopia, when – not that far away, by the lake in Abie, we saw goats grazing. In Dakar in Senegal, on the west bank of Sahel, one day I was saying goodbye to a group of young people, who – a few dozen days later – drowned together with their fragile boat en route to Canary Islands, where they were hoping to find their paradise, as they saw Europe then.

In the afternoon, Idriss drove me to his cousin Daoud, who lived in Omdurman, the Arabic district of Khartoum, on the west bank of the Nile. Daoud was trying to sell a camel on the street market, so I could listen to how he was haggling with the client, Amhara from Ethiopia. I was also watching the wrestlers from Nubia, who – just like ancient gladiators – were fighting on the sand arena. The women were selling hot tea and coffee to the audience.

In the evening I went to the Hamel al-Nil cemetery together with Idris. On Fridays, Sufi dervish were dancing there, entering a trance, and emanating with wild energy. When we were walking back in the middle of the night, we stumbled upon a small stall with fresh fruit. A lonely light bulb tore its contents out of the darkness, competing with millions of stars scattered across the velvet sky. We bought a fruit of an unknown name, sweet pulp and charming smell.

A lot has happened, I have been thinking a lot too.

I will call you in a few days.

Always yours,

Conrad

Maybe he did call, but I was living in Kyoto then for a few months, and by the time I returned, he had moved back to Sierra Leone. Either he could not live without Africa, or he could not live in Europe. Or both.

I squatted, touched the hot sand, and closed my eyes.

I felt Conrad's presence.

It was a very beautiful feeling.

On my way from the cemetery I noticed Tuareg warrior standing in a blue coat next to the gate, with a sword and a dagger at his belt. He was clearly waiting for me all that time, as he came over now.

\- Bugsari Ag Ibrahim – spoke a man whose face, apart from his nose and piercing eyes, were covered by an indigo-coloured turban.

\- Albert Foudre.

\- Are you a friend of the doctor? – I liked the fact that he used the present tense.

\- Yes. Did you know him?

\- I owe the life of my family to the doctor. He's a great man. But I did not manage to protect him from evil people.

When we were standing right in front of each other like that I felt that we were connected with the love for a man who wasn't with us anymore.

\- You came to tell him about what you have done, haven't you? – said Busari Ag Ibrahim.

\- Yeees - I was surprised by his intuition

\- Blood for blood? – Added Busari Ag Ibrahim.

\- Yes.

He then pulled out the dagger, encrusted with precious stones, and gave it to me. I accepted the gift without saying a word.

Maybe this meeting made my life different. In what way, I didn't know yet, but I already felt it has changed.

