The Nubian Prince: A Novel - Softcover

Chapter One 
My job was to save lives. It was that simple. You may think I’m exaggerating, trying to impress you. You can think what you like; the fact is I was paid to save lives, and the more lives I saved the more money I made. My existence was a kind of tennis game in which one of the players—me—never ventured far from the house, the living room with the big-screen TV, the darkroom where I’d spend whole days developing pictures, the neighborhood where I had everything I needed to be happy: a bar where I ate long, peaceful breakfasts, a small bookshop where I could get whatever book caught my eye, a fruit stand run by a big, toothy woman who’d set aside the best grapes and most tempting peaches for me, a barber shop I’d duck into a couple of times a week, and even an Internet café where I’d spend hours surfing the Web. Meanwhile, the other player—also me—would zigzag across half a continent, which was the zone I’d been assigned. He might be setting off for the Cádiz coast; he might be arriving in Sicily. I could usually decide for myself where this other player was to be found, but occasionally circumstances decided things for me. A huge transport of Albanians arriving in Brindisi would have me on the next flight to Rome, renting a car, and racing to the city where my partner in this tennis match would be waiting for me.
 
            You may well be wondering what sort of work I did, what I mean by “saving lives.” Well, I wasn’t saving people the way firemen or lifeguards do; all they really save are bodies. I’ve never known a fireman to rescue someone from the flames and then offer him a new and better life, something beyond dragging him down the fire escape to the street and providing a little emergency medical care. I’ve never heard of a lifeguard giving mouth-to-mouth to a half-drowned swimmer and then saying, “Marry me.” My job was to seek beauty, to plunge my hands into the world’s muck and bring up pearls. I cleaned those pearls, made them presentable, prepared them to acquire the value that was rightfully theirs. I traveled to places where poverty had hidden these treasures; I searched them out with infinite patience and rescued them. That’s what I mean by saving lives.
 
            Look at me now, for example, here on a beach near Gibraltar with the sun reluctantly sinking below the horizon while the trees, stiff with cold, lean forward as if attempting a graceful bow. A few dozen Africans have just arrived in pitiful, flimsy boats. They drag themselves along the beach in their dripping rags, following orders, fearful of the eyes that are watching them: the Guardia Civil has been waiting for them to land and immediately arrests them. Many seem about to faint; others would give their lives for a glass of water; most can’t stop trembling. But the Guardia Civil doesn’t do a thing for them, just herds them together to keep them under control. Some have managed to hang on to a few possessions carried in backpacks held together with duct tape. The police won’t bring out the water bottles and clean towels and start pampering the refugees until the TV cameras arrive. That’s how it usually is: cameras first, then the paramedics. In between, they’ll call me, if I happen to be in the area. Well, actually, the only one who calls me is a lieutenant into whose palm I occasionally slip a wad of bills. He wakes me at dawn with a whispered, “Half an hour from now at such and such a place.” And I’m off. When I get there, he always says, “You’ve got fifteen minutes,” and allows me to inspect the merchandise. I give the newcomers a quick once-over and if there’s a piece that convinces me, I signal to the lieutenant, who says, “OK, stop by the station in a couple of hours.”
 
            I get there right on time, and the lieutenant has set her aside for me, the one in the pink track jacket and pants that long ago were some light color, the one with the eyes that say, “Please don’t hurt me.” She’s been spared the medical inspection and served a cup of coffee instead. Some guy who’s just seen a movie celebrating human goodness may even have bought her a doughnut. I hustle her out the door, doing my best to make sure no one sees us. Even though she’s been captured, she still isn’t mine; I have to be charming and radiate friendliness, make her grateful. I’ve bought her a sweater and tennis shoes at a twenty-four-hour store. She’s certain to ask where I’m taking her, what’s going to happen to her family—there’s always a father or brother who gets left behind—and that’s when I have to tell her the truth. I’ll begin by confessing why I’m saving her while all the others who made the crossing with her will be sent right back where they came from without arousing the faintest twinge of remorse in the hearts of the enforcers of the law. If she doesn’t speak English, as is often the case, I can simplify matters by hiring a translator who knows how to explain the situation quickly and forcefully. If she does speak English, I can handle things on my own and convince her she has very few options besides trusting me and allowing me to save her. I even bring along the phone numbers of some of the various gorgeous specimens—both male and female—I’ve saved in the past; one will probably turn out to be from the same place she is; they’ll talk for a while, and when the newly captured piece hangs up she’ll have no arguments left. Then it’s up to me to clean her up, heighten her exquisite features, accentuate her extraordinary appeal. In a couple of days she’ll be ready to visit Club headquarters, where management will look her over. I always know in advance whether a piece I’ve collected will be accepted outright or will have some trouble passing the exam. In this case, there’ll be no objection whatsoever. They won’t stand there gaping; they’re not in the habit of feeling or expressing astonishment. But they will be delighted to have Nadim—that’s the name I gave her the moment I saw her; she told me her last name but for some reason refused to give me her real first name. They’ll immediately schedule a photo shoot, and the resulting portfolio will be added to the Club’s magnificent menu. Then they’ll transfer her to a city where she’ll work under some local branch manager. But I won’t have any part in that; all I do is save her. Once she’s assigned to a branch, she’ll start earning money: 20 percent of every service. (As a rule, she’ll be required to perform a service every three or four days.) The full price of the service is astronomical, of course. To put it bluntly, the proof that her life and beauty will soon be worth much more than they are now is that if I wanted to enjoy her body—which prior to her examination by Club management would not be at all an impossible thing (and I must confess that on more than one occasion I’ve been guilty of doing just that with the pieces I’ve captured)—at the Club’s going rate I’d have to pay almost as much as I’ll earn for having saved her. The Club offers no discount to its own scouts.
 
Copyright © 2006 by Juan Bonilla
Translation copyright © 2006 by Esther Allen