Now Narcisa knew about Valeriya, Caramarin thought he had nothing to hide. And maybe a few points to gain. Late morning, he walked past the Kugulu Parki coffee shop and, through the steamed up windows, saw the same old men sitting playing backgammon at their table.
He pushed open the door to Narcisa's pawn brokers. She was showing a young couple with a baby a Playstation 3. Caramarin had learned a few English numbers by now and thought Narcisa was probably explaining the easy finance options available. The lad looked an easy sale, but the girl looked more doubtful. No prize for guessing whose Playstation it would be and who would be playing with it later.
After the lad dug out some crumpled notes for the deposit from his trackie pocket and carried his toy out, Narcisa came over. She looked around; the shop was empty for the moment. She steered him over to one corner then stretched up on tiptoes to kiss him full on the mouth.
"Why over here? This your lucky corner?" he asked.
"The CCTV camera's on the blink over here. I don't want the boss perving over me."
It looked like he was back in her good books again. He nodded. "I'm sorry if I upset you last night. Could you wire some money for me?"
"To this Valeriya?"
"Yes. To Valeriya. Back in Odessa"
Narcisa helped him fill in the forms. Counted out the cash and raised her eyebrows at the amount. "You must think a lot of her," she commented.
"I do, er, did. If it wasn't for her, I wouldn't be here now." That was true enough. Narcisa passed him the money transaction number and he stuffed it into his front jeans pocket.
His cell rang. A local Manchester number showed. "Caramarin," he said.
"Mike Bronstein," said the voice. Caramarin passed his cell over to Narcisa.
She spoke into it, shaking her head at times. She closed the call and passed the cell back.
"You're going to have to learn some English, Nicu. There are classes, you know."
"I know, I know," he sighed. "What did he say?"
"Bronstein'll meet us after work this evening. He'll discuss what he can offer for that painting of yours."
"Did he give any idea how much he might pay?"
"No," said Narcisa, "He'll tell us when we meet up." Caramarin was glad she said 'us' and not 'you'.
"Thanks. I really appreciate all your help," said Caramarin. The shop was filling up by now so Caramarin let himself out without a second kiss.
* * *
That evening Caramarin and Narcisa sat in Bronstein's overheated office. Rain slashed against the windows, running in torrents down the panes. The posters of the Tel Aviv beaches looked out of place next to the black, rain streaked windows. Bronstein finished his call and turned to them.
"Do you know what that picture is?" Bronstein asked, running his hand through his frizzy hair.
"Yes," said Caramarin. "It's by Picasso. The 'Vielle Triste Pute Avec Vase', I think." He stumbled over the French words. Narcisa frowned at him as she translated. Caramarin had not told her the painting was by Picasso.
"And hotter than the Negev Desert in July. During a heat wave. I could fry eggs on it." Narcisa looked even less happy as she told Caramarin this.
"I get the message," said Caramarin.
"It was stolen from a famous surgeon, Mixalis Karamanlis’s private art gallery in Thessaloniki back in 2004. It's been missing ever since, despite Dr. Karamanlis putting out a reward for its return. And now it turns up here. Thing is, no way can it be sold on the open market; only to a private collector. And not too many of those, either." Narcisa looked extremely unhappy now as she told Caramarin what Bronstein had just said.
"And that affects the price," sighed Caramarin. Knowing where this conversation was heading. No surprises there.
"You're way ahead of me there," grinned Bronstein. "As I said last time, fine art is a little outside my line of business. Unless you are prepared to wait while I put out some discreet feelers, I can only offer you thirty thousand." Narcisa carried on translating even though she looked like she wanted to get up and leave.
Bronstein shrugged and spread his hands in what he thought was a disarming gesture.
Caramarin glanced at Narcisa.
"Don't look at me," she said. "Nothing to do with me."
"C'mon," said Caramarin. "It's a Picasso. Even I've heard of him. His paintings sell for millions."
"Yes, legitimate ones do when they sell on the open market, that is. And I don't think you'll be taking this to Sotheby’s or Christies, will you? Also, it's unfinished and it's not one of his better paintings. And that affects its value, of course."
"But even so, thirty thousand is nothing. I'm not taking that." Narcisa translated but Bronstein could see the the refusal in Caramarin's face.
"Take it or leave it," said Bronstein.
Caramarin stood. A second later, Narcisa also stood.
"I might be able to up it a little," said Bronstein. "Say thirty-five?"
"I'm not wasting my time here. No thanks," snapped Caramarin. He caught Narcisa's hand and led her down stairs.
"You won't get a better offer anywhere else," called Bronstein after them.
Narcisa said nothing.
As soon as Bronstein saw the couple walk away down the rain swept road, the fence called up some people on his cell.
"Well, what are you going to do now?" questioned Narcisa.
"I don't know," admitted Caramarin. "Thirty-five thousand is a lot less than I'd hoped for. But I dunno what to do with the bloody thing now."
For that money, he thought he might as well take it back to Timur Ozgan in Odessa. Get out of trouble with one man at least.
"Are you coming back home with me tonight?" asked Narcisa. "You'd be very welcome and your Auntie 'Lina's cooking. She always does far too much."
Much better than hanging about his lodging and eating at a grim fast food takeaway. He nodded. "Thanks. That'd be great."
Narcisa was right. Ewelina obviously thought she worked in Manchester Royal Infirmary's catering department. Piles of Polish sausages, green beans with mashed potato and sauerkraut were heaped up before the friends. Much better than eating a burger or pizza on his own. Afterwards, they all sprawled in the overheated lounge watching adverts broken up by some talentless talent show.
The TV was only bearable after Artur passed around a spliff, the weed mellowing the braying studio audience and crying contestants. Caramarin had no idea why the people were crying or what was going on and didn't care either, although the girls seemed to enjoy the show. Narcisa rested her head on his shoulder. Caramarin took the joint from her lips and inhaled deeply, the tip glowing red hot. Enjoying feeling her warmth and softness against him.
Later, Narcisa whispered in his ear to follow her up in ten minutes. That woke Caramarin out of his torpor. He yawned and stretched. Ewelina threw herself to the couch next to him. Her pretty heart-shaped face looked up into his battered features.
"Please don't hurt her," Ewelina said in her best but still broken Russian. "She's been badly hurt before, and we don't want to see her hurt again. She was with a fella who treated her like dirt. I don't know if you're a good man or not, but remember, we all look out for each other in this house."
"I'm not going to do her any harm," Caramarin said to Ewelina's warning. He sincerely hoped that would be true.
He levered himself up from the couch and left the screaming wide-screen. Ewelina watched him leave and shook her head.
Caramarin hurried upstairs and pushed open her door. Narcisa had freshened up her make-up. She sat up in bed, her bare breasts beautiful, and her dark nipples proud. She arched her back and flung back her hair from her shoulders.
As quickly as he could, Caramarin dropped his clothes to the floor and dived onto her lush body. They fell into each other's arms and she eagerly released his frustrations and tensions in the way only a woman can. Much later, they fell asleep in each other's arms, all his problems for the time being vanishing into the cold dark night.