Don Winslow - The Power of the Dog
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- Название:The Power of the Dog
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“I don’t think so,” Pilar tells Fabian. “Oh, I think he would kill you, but then I think he would yell and cry and forgive me.”
She says it almost sadly.
She doesn’t want to be forgiven.
She wants to burn.
Nevertheless, she says, “Nothing can ever happen between us.”
Fabian agrees. In his words. In his head, he is thinking, Yes, it can. Yes, it will. It’s my job, my task, my assignment: Seduce Guero’s wife. Take her away with you.
He starts with the magic words, What if.
The two most powerful words in any language.
What if we’d met each other first? What if we were free? What if we could travel together-Paris, Rio, Rome? What if we ran away? What if we took enough money with us to start a new life?
What if, what if, what if.
They’re like two children playing a game. (What if these rocks were gold?) They start imagining the details of their escape-when they would go, how, what they would take with them. How could they get away without Guero knowing? What about his bodyguards? Where could they meet? What about her children? She wouldn’t leave them behind. Could never leave them behind.
All this shared fantasy done in snatches of conversations, moments stolen from Guero-she’s already unfaithful to Guero in her mind and her heart. And in the bedroom-when he’s on top of her, she’s thinking about Fabian. Guero is so pleased with himself when she screams out her orgasm (this is new, this is fresh), but she’s thinking about Fabian. She’s started stealing even that from him.
The infidelity is complete-all that remain are the physical details.
Possibility shifts to fantasy, fantasy becomes speculation, speculation turns to planning. It’s delicious, planning this new life. They go after it in minute detail. Each of them a clotheshorse, they spend entire precious minutes discussing what they will pack, what they can buy there (“there” being, variously, Paris, Rome or Rio).
Or more serious details: Should we leave Guero a note? Or just disappear? Should we go together or meet somewhere? If we rendezvous, where? Or maybe we can go separately, on the same flight. Exchange meaningful looks across the aisle-a long, sexually torturous overnight flight, then put the children to bed and meet in his room in a Paris hotel.
Rabiar.
No, I couldn’t wait, she tells him. I will go to the washroom on the plane. You will follow. The door will be unlocked. No, they will meet in a bar in Rio. Pretend they are strangers. He’ll follow her into an alley, shove her against a fence.
Rabiar.
Will you hurt me?
If you want.
Yes.
Then I’ll hurt you.
He’s everything that Guero isn’t: sophisticated, handsome, well dressed, stylish, sexy. And charming. So charming.
She’s ready.
She asks him when.
“Soon,” he says. “I want to run away with you, but…”
But.
The terrible counterweight to What if. The intrusion of reality. In this case…
“We’ll need money,” he says. “I have some money, but not enough to hide us for as long as we’ll need to hide.”
He knows this is delicate. This is the fragile moment in which the bubble could burst. It floats now on the light air of romance, but the mundane, gross financial details could pop it in a flash. He puts on his face a mask of sensitivity, mixed with a dash of shame, and looks down at the ground as he says, “We will have to wait until I can make more money.”
“How long will that be?” she asks. She sounds hurt, disappointed, on the verge of tears.
He has to be careful. So careful. “Not long,” he says. “A year. Maybe two.”
“That’s too long!”
“I’m sorry. What can I do?”
He leaves the question in the air as if there is no other answer. She provides the response that he wants and expects. “I have money.”
“No,” he says firmly. “Never.”
“But two years-”
“It’s out of the question.”
Just as their flirting was once out of the question, just as their kissing was out of the question, just as their running away…
“How much would we need?” she asks.
“Millions,” he says. “That’s why it will take-”
“I can withdraw that much from the bank.”
“I couldn’t.”
“You’re just thinking of yourself,” she says. “Your male pride. Your machismo. How could you be so selfish?”
And that’s the key, Fabian thinks. It’s a done deal now that he’s flipped the equation. Now that his taking her money would be an act of generosity and unselfishness on his part. Now that he loves her so much he would sacrifice his pride, his machismo.
“You don’t love me,” she pouts.
“I love you more than life.”
“You don’t love me enough to-”
“Yes,” he says. “I do.”
She throws her arms around him.
When he goes back to Tijuana he finds Raul and tells him it’s a done deal.
It’s taken months, but the Shark’s about to feed.
It’s good timing, Raul thinks.
Because it’s time to start the war with Guero Mendez.
Pilar carefully folds and packs a little black dress.
Along with black brassieres and panties and other lingerie.
Fabian likes her in black.
She wants to please him. She wants it to be perfect, her first time with him. Pues, a menos que la fantasia sea mejor que e acto-well, unless the fantasy is better than the actual fuck. But she doesn’t think it will be. No man can talk the way he does, use the words he uses, have the ideas he has, and not be able to back up at least some of them. He makes her wet talking to her-what will he do when he has her in his arms?
I’ll let him do anything he wants to me, she thinks.
I want him to do anything he wants.
Will you hurt me?
If you want.
Yes.
Then I’ll hurt you.
She hopes so, she hopes he means it, that he won’t be intimidated by her beauty and lose his nerve.
About any of it-because she wants a new life, away from this Sinaloan backwater with her husband and his hillbilly friends. She wants a better life for her children-a good education, some culture, some sense that the world is wider and better than a grotesque fortress tucked away on the outskirts of an isolated mountain town.
And Fabian has that sense-they’ve talked about it. He’s talked to her about making friendships outside the narrow circle of narcotraficantes, about creating relationships with bankers, investors, even artists and writers.
She wants that for herself.
She wants that for her children.
So when, at breakfast, Guero had excused himself and Fabian had leaned over and whispered, “Today,” she’d felt a thrill that fluttered her heart. It was almost like a little orgasm.
“Today?” she whispered back.
“Guero is going out into the countryside,” Fabian said, “to inspect his fields.”
“Yes.”
“So when I go to the airport, you will go with me. I’ve booked us a flight to Bogota.”
“And the children?”
“Of course,” Fabian said. “Can you pack a few things? Quickly?”
Now she hears Guero coming down the hall. She slips the suitcase under the bed.
He sees the clothes scattered around. “What are you doing?”
“I’m thinking of getting rid of a few of these old things,” she says. “I will bring them to the church.”
“Then go shopping?” he asks, smiling, teasing her. He likes when she goes shopping. Likes it when she spends money. He encourages it.
“Probably.”
“I’m going,” he says. “I’ll be gone all day. I might even stay overnight.”
She kisses him warmly. “I will miss you.”
“I will miss you,” he says. “Maybe I will grab una nena to keep me warm.”
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