Obsession (Year of Fire) Read Free Page A

in a bad mood. This wasn’t unusual for him; his severe features accentuated the cold, reserved impression he made. Setbacks such as the problem with his state-of-the-art plane served to aggravate his reputation for being antisocial. He ran into the crew from the Gulfstream V on his way to the check-in desk.
    “The airport doesn’t have a hotel, sir. We’ll have to go back to Buenos Aires and spend a night or perhaps two there while the technicians check the aircraft,” the captain informed him.
    “Captain Paloméro,” Eliah said, “I know you think I was being overcautious in deciding not to fly.”
    “Not at all, Mr. Al-Saud!”
    The captain, a short Frenchman who barely reached Eliah’s chest, took off his hat and twisted it for emphasis. He wasn’t about to argue with Eliah Al-Saud, a decorated war pilot.
    Al-Saud made his farewells to the crew of the Gulfstream V, whom he left in charge of bringing it back to Le Bourget Airport, seven miles to the north of Paris, and headed to the business-class check-in desk, passing by the group with the blonde girl. He looked for a wall—he never rested with his back exposed, a habit he had acquired during his years in L’Agence—and leaned back to observe her. Another girl, with dark hair and skin and a slender frame, was resting her elbow on the blonde’s left shoulder. Also there were an older man, who had a certain resemblance to the tall brunette, a woman of about fifty, and two boys, who were obviously brothers. He wondered who was going on the trip; it was prettyclear that they were flying Air France; they were queuing at the economy check-in counter.
    “My father,” the blonde was saying, “promised he would come. I don’t want to leave without saying good-bye.”
    Eliah drew several conclusions from this statement. First: the girl was from Córdoba, a province in Argentina. He could tell from her distinctive accent. His mother, his aunt Sofía and, especially, his uncle Nando all spoke that way. He would never have noticed it had he not also had dealings in the horse trade with porteños , as the inhabitants of the city of Buenos Aires were called. Second: she was the one who was going to take the Air France flight. Third: he found her voice captivating. He always noticed voices; it was almost an obsession, maybe because he was a music lover, maybe because his sensei had assured him that voices revealed the interior music of human beings. “There are voices,” his mentor had explained, “that are out of tune. Sharp as blades, they make you want to cover your ears. There are those who raise their voices too much, who shout instead of speaking. This reveals their desperation, their anxiety. Their interior harmony is upset by extremely negative energy vibrations. However, when the spirit is in harmony, the voice flows forth like a gently absorbed caress, to soothe us.” The girl’s words had certainly caressed him. Their sound was crystalline and cultured.
    “Mat,” said the young brunette, “trusting your dad is worse than trusting a politician.”
    Mat? That wasn’t a Spanish name.
    “Juanita, for goodness’ sake!” The older woman admonished her.
    “Mama, you know it’s true.”
    “Yes, it’s true,” “Mat” admitted, honestly but serenely, “but he’s my father, Juana, and I want to believe that if he promised me he would come, he will.”
    “Speak of the devil…” interrupted one of the boys, and pointed to the entrance of the airport.
    “Well, well,” Juana said, “it seems that, for once, Don Aldo is as good as his word. Oh, no!” she blurted out. “I don’t believe it. What the hell has he brought him for?”
    “Juana!” her mother interjected. “He’s her husband!”
    Eliah looked beyond the group and saw two men walking toward them: one was older, around sixty, maybe a little more, quite handsome and well dressed, with a neat but bushy reddish-gray beard. The other was younger, blond, tall and very thin. He strode