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Authors: Leif Davidsen
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the photographs. The attractive, smooth face was just like any other pretty young female face, but then again not quite, because it rang a bell. The pouting mouth and the large, slightly slanting eyes. I tried to imagine her wearing make-up. Make-up can change a face so radically that it’s almost unrecognisable, but before I could place her, Oscar told me who she was.
“It’s Arianna Fallacia. It has to be her.”
I looked at the photograph. It was true. She had just missed out on an award at the Cannes Festival. She was a hot newcomer in Italian film. That in itself wouldn’t be enough to make her a household name in Italy or anywhere else, but before she’d started in films she’d been a scantily-clad hostess on one of Italian television’s idiotic game shows – and that made her most definitely profitable.
“You’re right,” I said. “Where the hell would they have met each other?”
“The old lecher has interests in one of Berlusconi’s televisionstations. Besides, he’s rolling in it. He’ll have seen her in a newspaper and sent his private plane to pick her up. Lovely girl. She’ll be even more famous now. It won’t do him any good, but her stock will rise once Lime’s photographs clear the front pages in Italy and Spain. Who do you think should have exclusive rights to break it first?”
“Do you want a beer or a coffee?” I said.
“Cola.”
I fetched two colas from the fridge and put them on the table. Oscar looked at me.
“What’s on your mind, Peter?”
“Maybe we should forget about it?”
“Could be a million or more. Undoubtedly more. You must have a pressing reason.”
“I have.”
I told him the story. He listened carefully. Oscar could flit about, be garrulous, superficially cheerful, but it was a façade he wore for the outside world. He was a sober businessman through and through, and he knew me well enough to respect that if I had misgivings there would be good reason. I had taken thousands of photographs in my life, and hundreds of photographs that people would prefer I hadn’t, so Oscar was well aware that it wouldn’t be moral scruples that led me to have misgivings.
“We’ll bring Gloria in on this one,” he said. “But I can’t see a problem. It’s a non-starter. It can’t be substantiated. You haven’t done anything wrong. They were in a public place. Your name won’t be mentioned. It’s always like that. And anyway, anyone who knows anything knows that often when OSPE runs really revealing photographs they’ve got the Lime signature, right?”
It was true, so I nodded.
“It’s just a hunch,” I said.
“I respect that. Gloria can snoop around a bit.”
“OK,” I said, but I had the feeling that we should leave it alone, although I had complete confidence in Gloria’s and Oscar’s ability to assess the situation. They knew all about the minefield, the borderline between the legal and the possible. They knew how to make the most of people’s instinct for gossip, but they also knew that if we broke the law our profits would soon be eaten up by lawyers’ fees. That’s simple arithmetic, as Gloria was wont to say.
“We’ll give it a couple of days,” said Oscar, and got up to use the telephone.
He rang Gloria. I heard him putting her in the picture. He was standing next to my desk and I saw him pick up the black and white photograph that had turned up from out of the past. He glanced at it and put it down again. We had known one another for so long that he wouldn’t think he was poking his nose in my business. Then he picked up the photograph again and stood holding it as, suddenly preoccupied, he responded to Gloria in his slow, heavily accented, but correct Spanish.
“Four o’clock?” he said at the end of their conversation.
I shook my head. I had an appointment with the Japanese. I needed it. I had that strange uneasiness in my body, tingling fingers, shivers down my spine, churning stomach, dry mouth. All the danger signs.
“It’s Arianna Fallacia. It has to be her.”
I looked at the photograph. It was true. She had just missed out on an award at the Cannes Festival. She was a hot newcomer in Italian film. That in itself wouldn’t be enough to make her a household name in Italy or anywhere else, but before she’d started in films she’d been a scantily-clad hostess on one of Italian television’s idiotic game shows – and that made her most definitely profitable.
“You’re right,” I said. “Where the hell would they have met each other?”
“The old lecher has interests in one of Berlusconi’s televisionstations. Besides, he’s rolling in it. He’ll have seen her in a newspaper and sent his private plane to pick her up. Lovely girl. She’ll be even more famous now. It won’t do him any good, but her stock will rise once Lime’s photographs clear the front pages in Italy and Spain. Who do you think should have exclusive rights to break it first?”
“Do you want a beer or a coffee?” I said.
“Cola.”
I fetched two colas from the fridge and put them on the table. Oscar looked at me.
“What’s on your mind, Peter?”
“Maybe we should forget about it?”
“Could be a million or more. Undoubtedly more. You must have a pressing reason.”
“I have.”
I told him the story. He listened carefully. Oscar could flit about, be garrulous, superficially cheerful, but it was a façade he wore for the outside world. He was a sober businessman through and through, and he knew me well enough to respect that if I had misgivings there would be good reason. I had taken thousands of photographs in my life, and hundreds of photographs that people would prefer I hadn’t, so Oscar was well aware that it wouldn’t be moral scruples that led me to have misgivings.
“We’ll bring Gloria in on this one,” he said. “But I can’t see a problem. It’s a non-starter. It can’t be substantiated. You haven’t done anything wrong. They were in a public place. Your name won’t be mentioned. It’s always like that. And anyway, anyone who knows anything knows that often when OSPE runs really revealing photographs they’ve got the Lime signature, right?”
It was true, so I nodded.
“It’s just a hunch,” I said.
“I respect that. Gloria can snoop around a bit.”
“OK,” I said, but I had the feeling that we should leave it alone, although I had complete confidence in Gloria’s and Oscar’s ability to assess the situation. They knew all about the minefield, the borderline between the legal and the possible. They knew how to make the most of people’s instinct for gossip, but they also knew that if we broke the law our profits would soon be eaten up by lawyers’ fees. That’s simple arithmetic, as Gloria was wont to say.
“We’ll give it a couple of days,” said Oscar, and got up to use the telephone.
He rang Gloria. I heard him putting her in the picture. He was standing next to my desk and I saw him pick up the black and white photograph that had turned up from out of the past. He glanced at it and put it down again. We had known one another for so long that he wouldn’t think he was poking his nose in my business. Then he picked up the photograph again and stood holding it as, suddenly preoccupied, he responded to Gloria in his slow, heavily accented, but correct Spanish.
“Four o’clock?” he said at the end of their conversation.
I shook my head. I had an appointment with the Japanese. I needed it. I had that strange uneasiness in my body, tingling fingers, shivers down my spine, churning stomach, dry mouth. All the danger signs.
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