Buying cocaine online in Rimini

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Buying cocaine online in Rimini

The parting is initially amicable and he moves on, carefree, with a new zest for life. Hungry to make up for lost time and keen to forget the past, he finds a younger girlfriend and starts using cocaine. Though the apparently idyllic relationship is over, their love has not died, merely taken on a different form. As time passes and their paths continue to cross, the past festers and torments them, like an infection. Rimini was taking a shower when the entry-phone buzzed. He went out wrapped in a hand towel - the only one he could find in that bazaar of perfumes, shower caps, creams, salts, lotions, remedies and massage oils into which Vera had converted the bathroom - and a trail of obedient drops followed him into the kitchen. Rimini asked him to push the letter under the door, then all of a sudden, as if surprised by the shadow of an intruder in a room he had thought was empty, he caught sight of himself, naked and shivering, in a glass door panel blown open by a sudden gust of wind. The classic image of confusion: trivial, precise, too obvious. The wisps of steam from the bathroom - he had left the shower running as if this might shorten the interruption - made him feel somehow nauseous. Snorting, Rimini pressed the buzzer to open the door, and looked on helplessly as the vistas of his happiness collapsed around him. Although perhaps. Rimini tucked the receiver in the palm of his hand and stood for a few moments hunched over the hall table, as if trying to make himself invisible. But the buzzer rang again and the last glass panes of his morning happiness slowly crashed to the floor, as though in a scene from a silent film. Rimini, who most of all hated the way that the world sometimes seemed determined to imitate his private mishaps, did not feel plagiarised this time. He was in danger. He was not the victim of a marginal note, but of a plot. And yet he resigned himself to his fate and opened the door. While he was staring down at his feet - a giant's feet, around which spread two tiny human oceans - he heard what he had been afraid of hearing from the start: the street door was locked. Rimini ran down the three interminable flights of stairs that he cursed every day 'Fantastic! I hate lifts! He felt so angry he thought he was going to explode. How was it possible? A battered old truck passed by in slow motion, a tangle of tanned forearms sticking out of the windows. The horn sounded repeatedly. Rimini looked down again at his feet his left sandal was on his right foot, the right was on the left: a typical morning mix-up , at the pink towel just covering his thighs, like the garment of a Roman gladiator, and the raincoat getting soaked across his shoulders - but for some reason did not take the comment personally. He was about to step back inside when a smiling face popped up from behind the nearby newspaper kiosk and stopped him. It was a young man as gaunt as a fakir, with the kind of knotted, skinny body that rock musicians had stolen from Egon Schiele. But he was not tall, and was not wearing a uniform. Rimini was about to correct him, but preferred to cut things short: 'Where do I sign? Rimini waited: a biro, a pencil, something. But the postman just stood there staring at Rimini's toenails glinting in the sun while he produced strange gurgling sounds from a chewed plastic straw in an empty can. Daft, isn't it? Ten minutes later, by now in a thoroughly black mood Rimini had asked the man in the newspaper kiosk to lend him a pen, but the man would only sell him one, so Rimini - whose emergency attire did not include a wallet - had to promise to pay him later; then Rimini claimed his missive, but the postman-fakir would not hand it over until he agreed to buy a Christmas raffle ticket, and when Rimini protested that he had no money on him, winked and suggested he use the same credit line he had just called on to buy his pen with , Rimini collapsed on to a chair and for the first time was able to look at the letter properly. He felt a sense of infinite relief, as if this tiny oblong envelope he now held in close-up were the only talisman capable of exorcising his nightmare morning. What caught his attention was not so much the shape of the letter as the paper it was made from. It was shiny and soft as silk, and it was a pale sky-blue colour which when bought might have been lavender. As if observing a ritual common among recipients of such old-fashioned letters, Rimini lifted the envelope to his nose. Its perfume a mixture of petrol, nicotine and strawberry or cherry chewing gum seemed to match the postman's fingers rather than the paper and its delicate colour: there were traces of his prints in one corner. There was no sender's address, and the handwriting did not mean much to Rimini. His name and address were written in printed capitals that looked too impersonal to be spontaneous dictated not by the heart but by strategy, he thought, suddenly finding himself in the middle of a libertine novel : no clue either that could be explained by chance or a lack of familiarity with writing letters. What did seem strange to him was the way the address was scrunched into one corner of the envelope, as if the person who sent the letter had been reserving the rest of the space for a message they never managed to write, or had changed their mind about. There was something there, that he hoped could be salvaged from the destruction of his morning happiness. He glanced at the postmark: 'London'. Multiplied three times, an insolent, emaciated face wearing a wig stared out at him from the stamps. The figures of the date of posting formed a straggly moustache on one of the faces. With some difficulty, he managed to decipher it: a month and a half, he calculated. In a split second, Rimini saw the adventures on the letter's tortuous journey, overcoming strikes, drunken postmen, wrong letter-boxes. He felt that six weeks was far too long a time for a letter sent to someone who was not used to receiving them. The truth was that Rimini did not even know how to open them. He tried to tear a corner, but something resisted. He used his teeth, like a terrier, and when he spat out the piece of envelope, he realised he had also destroyed part of the contents. Inside was a colour photo: in the centre a red rose lay on a modest black stand in a glass case; beneath it on a white plaque in small but legible letters he could read: 'In Memoriam Jeremy Riltse, '. He was shaken by an obscure sense of foreboding: the damp, the dust, the sordid alchemy starting to seep under a door. Another chunk of his innocence fell away. When Rimini, who somehow knew what he would find, turned the photograph over, he was less young than he had been ten seconds earlier. Indelible dark-blue ink, microscopic handwriting sloping to the right. And that old compulsion of putting everything in brackets at the slightest excuse. He read: 'In London just like six years ago , except that now the window of the flat rented from a Chinese woman who has a patch over one eye looks out on to a yard with no flowers where dogs the same ones, I think rip open the refuse sacks every night and growl at each other over a few sad bones. You should see the sight that greets me every morning when I wake up. Two nights ago I awoke from a long, sweet dream: I can't remember much, but you were in it, worked up as usual over something that wasn't in the least bit important. At the same exact moment as I was having this dream I learnt later J. Things happen; they happen because they have to, without anyone putting them up to it. You can do what you like with this. I've changed, Rimini , so much that you wouldn't recognise me any more. This paper seems to have been specially made for you: everything written on it can be rubbed out with your finger without leaving a trace. It may even be that these lines have disappeared before they reach you. But the photo and J. If you had been in my place and you were, my dream tells me so you would have taken the photo too. The only difference is that I have the guts to send it you. I hope young Vera does not get jealous over a poor dead painter. I hope you know how to be happy. Rimini turned the photo back over and studied it. He recognised the art gallery and then, at the right-hand edge, the outline of one of Riltse's paintings that he had not noticed the first time. The glass case looked clouded, as if it were a double image. He brought the photograph closer and on the glass shielding the rose he could see the reflection of the flash, the small automatic camera, and finally, like a crown of shining light, the great blonde halo of Sofia's hair. Why was he so surprised? The last time he had heard from her, six months earlier and a year and a half after they had separated, it had also been via a written message. It had not been a whole sheet of paper, but only half of one - torn off by hand, with that little piece left from the top half that a hasty or angry tug leaves above the line traced with a thumb-nail - from a yellow sheet at the foot of which there was an address in the Belgrano neighbourhood. It had been Rimini's birthday. Yet again, he had decided not to celebrate it, beyond enjoying the solitary pleasure of making a list of the friends who throughout the day left him congratulations on his answering-machine. But Vera, who interpreted his reticence as a form of male coquettishness and Vera was right , sneaked the list of proven telephonic loyalties from him in an unguarded moment, counted them, and reserved a table for twelve at a restaurant in the city centre. Only ten years separated her frank attitude to life and Rimini's hysteria: he had been born with the Cuban Revolution; she with the landing of man on the moon. Victor had been the first to arrive. Rimini saw him come in, scan the restaurant rapidly, then cross the empty room with his upper body tilted forward in that typically unstable balance of his, something Rimini put down to his feet being far too small compared to the rest of him. He sensed he would also be the first to leave. Victor sat down next to him, but did not wish him happy birthday. Something was on his mind. All of a sudden Rimini felt something pressing against his ribs, as if he were being held up. He looked down, and Victor's fist opened: a delicate, carnivorous flower with slender petals and varnished nails. In his palm Rimini saw a piece of paper, uncurling as though released from prison. After a quick glance over at the bar Vera was already coming towards them he made it disappear as if by magic. It was not until three hours later that Rimini remembered this secret time-bomb. He was in the restaurant bathroom, trying to clear his head by staring at himself in the mirror while rummaging for a coin to buy a tablet of soap. His fingertips brushed against his keys, the top of a biro which at that very moment, uncovered, was staining some pocket or other of his jacket, the indented rim of an Underground token and finally, the edge of the piece of paper. Just touching it gave him a shock, as if by merely opening it he might unleash a whole torrent of catastrophes. But it was now or never. So he unfolded the paper and read it in front of the mirror, swaying to and fro against the washbasins to catch the flickering light. How can you carry on having birthdays without me? I woke up early this morning, too early I'm not sure in fact I even slept , and it was only when I was out in the street coat over my nightdress, woollen stockings, slippers that I realised why. Another 14 th August! I bought something for you I swear I couldn't help it. It's nothing, I've still got it with me. I'm not giving it to Victor because I feel a bit ashamed of it and you know I would never want to embarrass you in front of my successor. I'm sure I'll regret it as soon as he's gone look after him, and make sure Vera does too, remind him to take his pills , but by then it'll be too late. Call me if you want. I'm at the usual address. Don't worry, this message will self-destruct in fifteen seconds. Someone pushed the door open. Rimini felt a blow in the small of his back and, fearing he had been found out, turned on a tap. The scrap of paper slipped from his fingers and landed in the bottom of the basin, where it was baptised by three tiny streams of water. Rimini half-turned towards the intruder, as Sofia's handwriting was slowly washed away in whirls of pale ink. It was Sergio, one of his guests. It was a birthday present. Her writing compulsion was nothing new to him. How often had he suffered from it in the past? How often in the long period since he had been apart from Sofia, and how often during the nigh-on twelve years he had spent with her? In opera, characters who have reached an emotional limit, a point of no return where imperious passion demands that they change register, stop talking and start to sing. Actors in musicals stop walking around and start to dance. Sofia wrote. As a young girl she was the typical schoolgirl overwhelmed with a long list of extra-curricular activities, always half-asleep, always contented she had studied singing, and later as part of her 'corporal research' - as she called all the different classes and workshops she put herself through when no longer an adolescent - on more than one occasion she had come across the discipline of dance. But when love was too much for her, when one of its accidents, either the happiest or the most wretched when she was in ecstasy, for example, or in despair somehow crossed the threshold where love renders words or gestures invalid, Sofia fell silent and withdrew, as though she had to disappear in order to move on. An hour, a day, sometimes a week later, when the economy of love had regained its daily balance and the 'incident', as Rimini had privately baptised those episodes of aphasia, seemed to have spontaneously healed, he would suddenly find a message, a letter of three cramped lines or whole pages of confessional renunciation that Sofia had written all alone, in the strange intervals when she existed without Rimini but entirely for him: shut in a room or bar, elbow-deep in small paper napkins, or sleepless in the early hours and seated at the kitchen table, while Rimini took advantage of her absence and sprawled diagonally across the bed, his legs spread in a perfect 4. Or two romantic lines, slipped as if by accident into a shopping list for groceries or cleaning products, would suddenly leap out at him. He would open his wallet at the bus-stop and in between two dog-eared bank-notes would discover the unexpected tip of an envelope, his initials traced on it by a loving hand. Inside, he would find the fruits of her passionate reflections crammed on to a medical prescription. Sofia's messages lay in wait for him in the bathroom cabinet, stuffed at the bottom of a jacket pocket, on the notepad next to the phone, between the pages of the document he had to translate where Sofia sprinkled them like hidden signposts or even in the fridge, where they waited long hours for him to notice them, frozen but stoic, propped against a milk carton or pot of yoghurt. Report an issue with this product. Previous slide of product details. Print length. Publication date. See all details. Next slide of product details. Review It soars in terms of style Alan Pauls' finest work so far, displaying a rare intelligence Alan Pauls is destined to be more widely celebrated, Glasgow Herald Beautifully written, bold and powerful, Time Out A novel that is brilliant enough to raise itself effortlessly above and beyond the level of the vices it portrays: strange art and reckless passion, cocaine, excessive exercise and other forms of addiction, Le Monde. Alan Pauls was born in Buenos Aires in He has worked as a university lecturer, scriptwriter, film critic and, more recently, as a journalist. He has published four novels, including the much-praised Wasabi. The Past has been published in several foreign languages, and it was the unanimously acclaimed winner of the Herralde Prize. All rights reserved. Read more. About the author Follow authors to get new release updates, plus improved recommendations. Alan Pauls. Brief content visible, double tap to read full content. Full content visible, double tap to read brief content. Read more about this author Read less about this author. Customer reviews. How are ratings calculated? Instead, our system considers things like how recent a review is and if the reviewer bought the item on Amazon. It also analyses reviews to verify trustworthiness. Images in this review. Sort reviews by Top reviews Most recent Top reviews. Top reviews from India. There are 0 reviews and 0 ratings from India. Top reviews from other countries. Been through the wringer in your love life? Still believe in it even after all that's happened? Buy this book. Verified Purchase. I'm not even finished but this book is a page turner. Highly recommended. See more reviews. Your recently viewed items and featured recommendations. Back to top. Get to Know Us. Connect with Us. Make Money with Us. Let Us Help You. Audible Download Audio Books. Shopbop Designer Fashion Brands. 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