Exposure Read online

  (Training has nothing to do with it. In truth, Otello could murder a drink, something a good deal stronger than champagne. But he is fairly sure that it wouldn’t do for a fifty-million-dollar purchase to be seen knocking back rum.)

  They are skilled at party behavior, these people. They know how to drift away when they have lost interest and make it look as though it’s you that’s moved, not them. They talk about him when they are not quite out of earshot. The boys say something; the girls either giggle or toss their beautiful heads dismissively.

  Otello begins to wonder if there will be any other black guests. It bothers him that the question has even occurred to him; he is not used to thinking this way. Brabanta’s words have unsettled him. He watches the doors to see if any other Rialto players have been invited. It seems not. Not even Jaco Roderigo. Otello is puzzled by this. And worried, too.

  He would like to have a word with his agent about it, but Diego is working, as always. He is over there with Brabanta, shaking hands with the people who come to pay homage to their host. Diego does not assert himself. He waits patiently to be introduced and then proffers his hand. He accompanies the handshake with a little lowering of the head: a bow, yet not a bow. It’s like saying, “I’m going through the motions of respect, señor, but don’t make the mistake of thinking that I don’t matter.” Diego never interrupts but has the weird skill of taking control of conversations. These fat cats come to talk to Brabanta and soon find themselves delighted to be talking to Señor Mendosa instead. As do their wives or girlfriends or whatever they are. Watching from across the room, Otello is reassured; he is fortunate to have someone so skillful on his side. He will leave Diego to press the flesh, work the room. To be an honest pimp, that most ancient of trades.

  Otello realizes that for the moment no one is approaching or stalking him, so he takes the opportunity to get some air. The French doors onto the garden are just behind him, and wide open.

  The rain has stopped, and because light pollution does not affect this exclusive district, the sky swarms with stars. Gazing up at them, Otello feels at home for an instant, even though the constellations are not quite in their usual places. He is standing on a terrace surrounded by a stone balustrade. Ahead of him the shrubbery is strewn with tiny electric lights that mimic the sky. Steps go down to a lawn, where someone is talking. It’s a monologue, so whoever it is, he’s talking into a phone.

  “Yeah. No. No, of course I’m not. Fruit juice. Carmen, listen . . . Yeah, okay, but if you wanted that sort of information, you should have wangled an invite for that airhead, what’s-her-name, does the gossip column. Okay, society column, pardon me. Yep, he’s here. No, with his wife. Yep, he’s here too. I don’t know, Carmen, I’m a sports writer. Yeah, yeah. Okay, I’ll ask. Well, he looks like a fish out of water, the poor bastard. And I know how he feels. No, of course I won’t. Trust me. Well, hey, thanks a bunch.”

  “Hi, Paul.”

  Faustino jumps like a startled deer. Turning, he sees a black man in a pale linen suit. The guy is standing on the bottom step down from the patio, and that, along with the height advantage he has anyway, makes him look like a giant. Which, in Faustino’s eyes, he is.

  “Otello?”

  “Yeah. Otherwise known as ‘poor bastard’ and ‘fish out of water.’”

  “Hey, I’m sorry. I —”

  Otello lets out a reassuring laugh. “S’okay, Paul. You’re wrong about me being poor and my parents not being married, but the fish out of water thing was about right. How you doing?”

  He comes down the last step and puts out his hand. Faustino, who is trying to manage a large gin and tonic and a cigarette as well as his cell phone, is forced to do some clumsy juggling before he can take it.

  “I was talking to my boss,” he says, as if that were the right sort of answer.

  “She’s not here?”

  “Lord, no. The editor of the country’s leading independent newspaper seen schmoozing with members of the government? That wouldn’t do at all. So I’m supposed to be her eyes and ears tonight. Check out who’s patting whose political ass. Who’s slipping off to a back room for a chat with someone he’s not supposed to talk to, that kind of thing. Also, and most importantly, who Desmerelda Brabanta is with and what she’s wearing.”

  “Right,” Otello says. “She’s expected, is she?”

  “She’s already here, apparently, although no one’s seen her yet. But at least you’re not the only big attraction tonight, my friend.”

  “Thank God for that.”

  “Amen.”

  A slightly awkward pause.

  Then Otello says, “Listen, Paul, uh, thanks for the good things you’ve written about me recently.”

  “Not at all. I owed you. Diego Mendosa gives me the exclusive; I’m nice to you in the paper. It’s called professional integrity. Otherwise known as ‘You scratch my back, I scratch yours.’”

  Otello smiles. “Yeah, if you say so. But it makes a change from all the manure the northern papers are dumping on me.”

  “I’m surprised you bother to read them.”

  Otello shrugs. “Diego tells me I shouldn’t, but you know . . . You see the picture last week of my Rialto shirt with the number twenty-three and JUDAS on the back?”

  “Yeah. Very witty, I thought. Listen, uh . . . I’m not trying to sneak another interview here, but do you mind my asking if all this stuff is getting to you? I mean, you must have been expecting it, but does it depress you? You’ve been keeping a pretty low profile since that brawl they called a press conference.”

  “I’m fine,” Otello says. “I come from a long line of people used to putting up with a lot worse. I’m not talking to the media because I’ll do my answering on the field. Meanwhile, I’m just resting up and settling in.”

  Faustino nods, recognizing the touch of steel in the other man’s voice. He flicks his cigarette away into the darkness of Nestor Brabanta’s garden. “I guess we should return to the cream of society,” he says. “I’ve got some spying to do.”

  Just as they reach the doors, the sound inside the room dips slightly, then increases, like trees surprised by a gust of wind.

  “Aha,” Faustino murmurs, “I think La Brabanta may have made her entrance.”

  Peering into the throng, Otello catches only a glimpse of her as she makes her way through admirers toward her father. He sees white and gold.

  Nestor Brabanta takes both his daughter’s hands in his own while she kisses him. There is a light scattering of sentimental applause from the onlookers. The expression on Brabanta’s face is one of such simple adoration that he looks, for a second, foolish.

  Desmerelda kisses a few of the guests closest by, then her father says, “Darling, I don’t think you’ve met Diego Mendosa, Otello’s agent.”

  “Hi.”

  “Delighted to meet you, señorita.”

  They shake hands. His fingers are long and slender, but strong. She has met a great many agents, and he doesn’t look like one. He looks like someone who should have an agent. He resembles that American actor, Phoenix somebody, is it? He has a smile that doesn’t seem to expect one in return. And calm, serious eyes.

  Brabanta says, mock-sadly, “I am rather afraid that Diego might be immune to your charms, Desmerelda.”

  She thinks, Oh, is he gay?

  “Diego is not impressed by celebrity. He once told me that it would make no difference to him if I were the father of an alligator.”

  She pouts ironically. “Are you in the habit of doing business with the fathers of alligators, Señor Mendosa?”

  “Of course. But your father is being slightly mischievous, I think. I suspect he was a little disappointed that I didn’t talk about you when we first met. And no one could blame him for that. I thought you were extremely good in that Channel Nine interview two nights ago, by the way.”

  She is, he thinks, even more beautiful in the flesh than on TV. Smaller, of course, but then everybody is. Presumably the hair — all
carefully tumbled swirls the color of honey — and the light skin are inherited from her American mother. The eyes are extraordinary, mesmeric; he doubts that there is a word in any language for their color. She’s wearing a white broderie jacket and trousers cut like jeans but made of black silk. Not a scrap of jewelry, which in the present company is almost as shocking as nudity.

  “Thank you,” she says. “I’m afraid I snapped at the guy once or twice.”

  “I think we could maybe drop the alligator references now, señorita,” Diego says, straight-faced.

  She laughs. It’s an honest and unrehearsed laugh, the kind you might hear on the street in a rough part of town. Then she glances at her father; it seems she expects him to disapprove. Which is interesting, and Diego makes a mental note of it. But Nestor Brabanta’s attention has been claimed by a plump woman in an unsuitable turquoise dress, so Desmerelda says, “And where is your client, our guest of honor?”

  “Over by the garden doors,” Diego tells her, not needing to look. “I think he may have been having a quiet word with Paul Faustino, of La Nación. Do you know him?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Please. Come. I’ll introduce you to them both.”

  Faustino sees their approach. “Here we go,” he murmurs.

  Diego performs the introductions. There is the kind of small talk you would expect. After a while Faustino gets the feeling that he is unwanted, so he slips out of their orbit and sets off on an eavesdropping tour of the room.

  Desmerelda, like her father, is interested in soccer and well informed. She asks Otello serious questions about his exploits on the field. About the social implications of his move to the South. She is serious, not flirtatious or frivolous.

  Otello is hesitant and awkward when he responds to her. Although he is angry with himself for doing so, he speaks the glib understatements that soccer players are supposed to speak.

  This is because the poor fool has fallen in love. Cupid has got him, not with the usual sniper’s arrow but with a cruise missile, a smart weapon locked on to the victim’s soul, where it explodes. There is collateral damage far from the point of impact. To the eyes, which want to focus on Desmerelda’s but skitter all over the place; to the hands, which wander into his pockets and then out again and clasp each other behind his back; to his knees, which have gone slack. Also, of course, to the tongue. If he’d incurred this amount of damage on the field, he’d have been stretchered off. He half wishes he could be. He needs treatment. So he is almost relieved, as well as dismayed, when her father comes to retrieve her.

  Smiling with his mouth but not his eyes, Brabanta says, “Desmerelda, my darling, you must not monopolize our star guest. Besides, I’d like you to come into the dining room and inspect the buffet before I ask the guests to go through. You have a much better eye for detail than I do.”

  “Of course, Papa. Excuse me, Otello. Duty calls.”

  He doesn’t know what to say, so he ducks his head in a miniature bow. And gazes after her as she threads her way through the room with her father’s protective arm across her back. When at last he looks away, he meets Diego’s solemn gaze.

  “What?”

  “She’s no slouch,” Diego says. “But then neither are you, Capitano.”

  After the wandering balancing act of eating light food from heavy plates, Otello finds himself penned in at the end of a sofa by an earnest young man who wants to explain the government’s policy toward the social problems in the North. He believes in Free Market Forces and Wealth Creation, which he pronounces with capital letters. Because the young man clearly knows very little about the North and Otello doesn’t know the first thing about economics, the conversation is going nowhere. In addition, Otello is feverishly preoccupied with Desmerelda Brabanta. So he is unable to say anything and sits there nodding like a bull bothered by flies. Then he feels something settle along his back and hears a voice from above and behind him.

  “Antonio, for the love of God, stop being so boring.”

  Otello turns his head. She has perched on the arm of the sofa. The thing that is in soft contact with his back is her thigh.

  “Antonio,” she says, “is one of my father’s disciples. One day he will be minister of economic affairs. Won’t you, Antonio? But unfortunately he knows nothing about the important things in life, such as music or soccer.”

  She stands and then comes around to face them both. “Shove off, Antonio. I need to get this guy’s opinion of Rialto’s chances in the Copa Libertadores.”

  Antonio gets to his feet, wearing a smile that is meant to look good-natured, and sidles off.

  Otello and Desmerelda are left islanded on the sofa.

  He says, “We will lose to River Plata of Argentina in the semifinal.”

  “Ah. So you are clairvoyant, as well as everything else?”

  “No. But Rialto — we — are the fourth, maybe third, best club in South America. So we deserve to reach the semis. But who knows?”

  “Yeah, who knows. Let’s hope you get more than you deserve.”

  Otello senses that she means something else by this, although he cannot, or dares not, work out what it is. But he manages to hold her gaze, which is good. In the end she is the one who looks away, taking a sip from her glass.

  “You seem a bit edgy,” she says. “Is it because you’re worried I’m going to ask if you like my music?”

  Since the acrimonious breakup of Kaleidoscope, Desmerelda has made two solo albums of lightweight pop and disinfected hip-hop that no self-respecting person over the age of sixteen would be caught dead listening to. And which millions of pubescent girls listen to constantly. Knowing that sooner or later he would be bound to meet her, Otello had downloaded a few tracks onto his iPod and played them when he was alone. The only thing he can think to say about them is that they are perfect, for what they are. Which is true but not what he needs to say to her. But he is saved from saying anything, because once again Nestor Brabanta comes to his unwelcome rescue.

  The senator materializes behind the sofa and stoops to murmur in Desmerelda’s ear. She nods seriously, her face expressionless. But when she turns to Otello, she flares her eyes at him and silently mouths a curse.

  “You’ll have to excuse me. Seems there’s been a bit of a catfight among the staff. One of the girls is in tears. Papa wants me to go and restore order. Apparently I’m good at that sort of thing.”

  She reaches across him to put her glass down on a low table. He inhales her scent as deeply as he can.

  “Desmerelda,” Brabanta says testily.

  Otello turns and looks up at him. The senator doesn’t meet his eye; he stands with his hand out toward his daughter. She takes it and he leads her away.

  When she returns, Otello has gone. And so has her drink. She looks around the room, trying not to make it obvious. The crowd has thinned a bit, but nevertheless she cannot see him. Then Diego Mendosa catches her eye and with a tiny gesture of his head points her toward the terrace.

  There are several people out there, smoking, talking loudly, laughing, but Otello is alone at the far end. He has his back to her and is gazing at the stars. Her wineglass, now full again, is standing on the balustrade next to his hand.

  “It’s crap,” she says when she is close to him.

  He turns. “What is?”

  “My music. But it’s very high-quality crap. That’s what you were going to say, isn’t it? Or were you going to lie to me?” She picks the glass up and leans her back against the balustrade.

  “Uh, I was going to lie to you.”

  “Well, don’t. You don’t have to. I haven’t got any illusions about what I do. Any of it.”

  She drinks. He can think of nothing to say. These Brabantas disturb and baffle him.

  “So tell me,” she says now, “what are your plans? What do soccer superstars do between seasons? Apart from win the Copa América, of course.”

  “Well, training starts in a week, so I’m going to grab a vacation. Five da
ys of doing nothing, just chilling out.”

  “Sounds good. And where are you doing all this nothing?”

  He glances away from her, and she reads the confusion in his face.

  “Oh, right. Top-secret location. Yeah, I suppose it would be. You don’t have to tell me. You shouldn’t tell me. It’s a well-known fact that I’m a notorious gossip.”

  “We’re going to the Bay Islands. Cypress, to be exact.”

  Well, she thinks, he trusts me, then. She also thinks, We? The word is huge in her head, but she pushes it aside. For the moment.

  What she says is, “Cypress? Oh, fantastic. It’s beautiful. Really. We shot the beach scenes for the ‘Take Me Up’ video there. You ever see that? Go on, you can lie if you like.”

  “Sure I saw it. The one with all the planes in it?”

  “No. That was a different one. You’re terrible at this, aren’t you?”

  “Looks like it.”

  “It does. I bet you’ll be staying at the Blue Horizon. Yeah? That’s a great place. It’s where I stayed when we were filming. You’ll love it. I can just imagine you there.”

  She is imagining him there.

  Otello, however, is not paying attention. She turns her head and sees Diego Mendosa standing in the doorway giving Otello a look which means Time to come back in here and say good-bye to Important People, Guest of Honor. She realizes that she and Otello are now alone on the terrace.

  “I think you need to go,” she says.

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  The fact that they have made no further arrangements with each other looms between them.

  He says, “Look, I —”

  “No, let’s not do the cell-phone-number stuff. It won’t be necessary.”

  Why not? he thinks. Why the hell not?

  “It’s been great talking to you,” he manages to say, and holds out his hand.