LITMIR.BIZ

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What was she going to do with all these photos, he wondered. A slideshow with Ástor Piazzolla’s ‘Libertango’ as accompaniment? Entertainment for her husband? They called each other every day, Mr. and Mrs. Bo Xiang. Intercontinentally, sometimes for half an hour at a time. They laughed together. What were they saying in that filthy Chinese of theirs? Were they talking about him? What were they plotting?

      Mrs. Bo Xiang noticed Tony’s awkwardness. She let her Sigma drop and looked him in the eyes, tenderly, it seemed. It wouldn’t have taken much for her to climb up on the gravestone, too, pinch his cheek between her thumb and forefinger and softly shake it back and forth.

      One of these days, Tony thought, I’ll wipe that smile off her porcelain face.

      ◆ ◆ ◆

      Things turned out differently. By the end of the week, Mrs. Bo Xiang had even persuaded him to fuck her. No pain, no gain.

      Tony had stopped resisting and given in. It had been on the cards for long enough. At a certain point, refusing became more dangerous than consenting. That was another thing he’d learned on the cruise ships he’d served on. Protecting your job security, and in some cases your hide, could take all kinds of forms. Love was the least objectionable. Love is always good, even if it’s rotten to the core.

      During their walk, he and Mrs. Bo Xiang had discovered San Telmo and taken it into their hearts. The antiques shops and the charming covered vegetable market in crumbling art-deco style certainly had something to do with that. Fading glory lends itself more to romance than new buildings.

      Mrs. Bo Xiang, in particular, radiated joie de vivre once again. For anyone living in the lap of luxury, being confronted with deprivation is an unbeatable aphrodisiac. They instantly swapped the Hilton for a bed and breakfast in a ramshackle town house, cheerfully renovated on a tight budget in daring colours, and just by the Plaza Dorrego, the navel of San Telmo. This was the plaza where beggars and musicians held court from early in the morning, where every afternoon a flea market uncoiled, and where every evening an amateur dance display took place among the terrace tables of the many cafes and restaurants. Tango, tango—el amor!

      Their own mating dance, on the second floor of the mansion, began staidly. In the tepid, heavy afternoon air, barely circulated by the ceiling fan, there was a wistfulness. Their journey home was approaching. Tomorrow they’d be checking out. Any kind of parting is sweet sorrow. The timid respect which with Tony had originally treated Mrs. Bo Xiang inhibited the intensity of their relationship.

      But not for long. Intimacy breeds trust, and that trust increases as shame is reciprocally cast aside. Once Tony had braced his feet against the bedstead and slowly increased his tempo, a languid, noisy euphoria overcame Mrs. Bo Xiang and her worn-out bones.

      Tony was embarrassed for her. The poor woman was lying prostrate and defenceless, her legs spread, one side of her face pressed into the pillow. Her whole body rocked backward and forward, assisted by her mild corpulence. Her face rocked along each time, as though she were trying to spread out the stiff pillow, using her head as a rolling pin. Just now she’d pulled the other pillow under her midriff to keep her hips raised without getting a cramp. When love comes knocking, you have to open your door to it. Mrs. Bo Xiang didn’t take any persuading.

      Just how old is she? Tony wondered. She smelled of violets and green tea. I really don’t get it, he groaned inwardly, without sacrificing momentum. What do all these old bags see in me? Some objects attract flies, or iron filings. I’m a magnet for the motherly type. Or even the grandmotherly type, of late. What does Mrs. Bo Xiang think I’m going to help her achieve, or recover? Or does she enjoy humiliating me? Is that the role I’m playing? Despite the heat, he systematically increased his pace.

      The euphoria beneath him swelled just as systematically. ‘More,’ Mrs. Bo Xiang whispered in English, for the second time now, a little louder than the first time. ‘Yes. I want more.’

      Why didn’t she say it in her own language if she was really that euphoric? Why did she use the lingua franca of the American porn industry? Did elderly women watch sex on the internet nowadays, too? At each of Tony’s thrusts, Mrs. Bo Xiang’s shiny red lips poked out sideways between her squashed face and the stiff pillow. Her lipstick was coming off, her foundation, too. What she liked, she’d confided to him on one of the previous days, was being bitten in the scruff of her neck ‘during the act.’

      Tony didn’t do it. On top of everything else, he was supposed to bite her? There were limits. ‘I want more,’ Mrs. Bo Xiang whispered, even louder this time. Tony was having more and more trouble empathizing. And the hardest part was still to come, he realized. The seduction and the foreplay were bearable; the action itself was a matter of not thinking too much and doggedly keeping at it. The aftercare, that was a terrible prospect. What could they possibly say after the deed? Two beings who were so different?

      ‘More, Tony. More.’

      Outside, the metropolis was taking its siesta. Spray trucks were driving around to mist up the pavements and beat down the dust. The heat managed to penetrate everywhere all the same, air conditioning or no air conditioning. It clamped around you like a truss. A shortness of breath was stealing up on him. Tony pounded away, anyway. What was the problem? It was years since he’d taken so long. It wasn’t just the smell of violets and the creaking of the bed. It was also Mrs. Bo Xiang’s husband and the fortune that Tony owed him, of course. How could he have been so stupid? Roulette wasn’t his thing. He should have never allowed himself to be seduced. Not then, not now. Not ever.

      ‘More! More!’

      Don’t you worry, my dear Tony, Mrs. Bo Xiang had said to him a week earlier, shortly before falling asleep next to him in the Boeing with her mouth obscenely open. She was drunk; she’d had one gin and tonic after the other. You’ll figure it out, you and my husband. He can be very generous and forgiving. If I ask him. And if you help me. Can you help me, Mister Tony? To avoid answering, he’d kissed her hand. She had pulled her hand away, giggling, and then kissed the back of it herself. Her own hand. With closed eyes, ardently, protractedly, not quite licking the place he’d kissed. It wasn’t the first trip she’d taken him along on. She’d dragged him to Monaco, and even to Dubai. He’d always managed to ward off her advances. But not anymore. He knew what was coming. Buenos Aires would be his Waterloo.

      ‘More!’

      Just before falling asleep on the airplane, she’d stroked his cheek. She’d never done that before. It felt like he was being branded. ‘My Tony is a little damaged, that’s all’ she’d jabbered. It sounded like a verdict. ‘Damaged,’ as in damaged goods. As in ruined. What was she then? A perfect peach? An immaculate saint?

      ‘More!’

      Stop whining, Tony thought, keep up the tempo and everything will come good. This is the fate of everyone who gets into debt; plenty of people are worse off than me. While thinking this, he looked at himself in the full-length mirror next to the bed. It was a shocking sight, the way he was mounting that hillock of flesh. Pale, veal-coloured, quivering flesh.

      ‘More!’

      I should learn to keep my eyes shut, Tony thought. But he carried on watching, focussing on his own pumping hips. Where his belly had once been taut, all muscle, now, in shock, he counted three rolls. I should learn to close my eyes to everything, he thought, and I have to stop complaining about my life. I’m not important enough to complain. I’m a louse in other people’s bedsheets, nothing more. The traces I leave behind won’t survive the first wash. So what? What have lice got to complain about, except that they exist? Where there’s blood, there’s hope. No self-pity! Everyone has to pay. Everyone looks for a scapegoat and everyone longs for a saviour, there isn’t anything else to be said about life. Give up grousing and ejaculate.

      But he didn’t ejaculate. His breathing grew frantic, his floundering took on a desperate note. Liberation was a long time coming.

      Mrs. Bo Xiang, whose head was still pressed solidly into the pillow, didn’t take it personally. She began to help. She grubbed back up at him, harder and harder. The sounds she was making no longer resembled anything like words. The bed squeaked

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