As soon as that sweet orange smell hit his nostrils, John Rogers knew he was in trouble. He spun around and watched the swinging hips disappear into the crowd. He was already running late but was unable to resist.

Saturday morning brought the crowds to the East Side market in Caracas. The air was full of exotic colours, sounds and smells. John, however, had logged the sweet orange and picked up on its trail as it began to fade away. He pushed his way through the crowds, his white suit marking him out as a stranger, but one to be respected. He squinted over the heads of the mob but was unable to locate his prey. He pushed the white Panama back on his head and ran his fingers over his moustache. He retrieved his handkerchief and wiped his brow and, as he did so, glimpsed the bobbing head some ten metres in front of him. She stopped at a stall to examine the fruit, and like the predator he was, John thrust himself between the jiggling bodies and worked his way round to the adjacent thoroughfare. He caught his breath, for a moment paralysed. 

She was young, a shimmering black vision, barely ripened and irresistible. She selected three bruised and burst mangoes from the tray of spoiled items, scraped five centavos from her purse and handed them in to the giant paw of the trader. As she placed the fruit in her bag and muttered “gracias”, she looked towards the magnetic stare.

John smoothed his moustache and cracked a smile. Helplessly. “Allow me,” he sashayed around the stall and held out his hands.

She looked into his face as a ripple of excitement shot into her chest, “Señor?”

He reached for the strings of her bag and lifted it from her with a soft, accommodating smile, “Allow me, Señorita.”

Together, they walked through the bloated snake of shoppers milling between the stalls. “Do you live close by?”

“Si, Señor, very close.”

He threw another winning smile at her, “That’s good.”

He walked beside her, from the market to the increasingly empty streets. Eventually, she led him through a doorway and crossed a courtyard, complete with chickens, into the darkness of a kitchen. He lifted the bag onto a rough table, “There you go.”

“Thank you, Señor.”

“No need for thanks, it’s my pleasure.” He lifted his hat and smiled once more, “I’ve got to go now, but shall I come back later for a cup of tea?”

“Of course, Señor.”

Satisfied with the encounter, but anxious at the time it had taken up, he turned and retraced his steps. At speed.

John Rogers rushed along the side of the dockside warehouse towards the rotund figure standing alone at the far end. He thrust out his arm and glanced at the watch. It was eleven twenty; the diversion to the girl’s house had cost him some twenty minutes. He was breathless, and his shirt was sticking to him by the time he thrust out the other hand towards Guillermo Mendoza.

“Guillermo, a thousand apologies, old chap, the shipping company lost my bags, had to shop for a completely new outfit…”

He saw Mendoza check himself, shrug, then hold out a hand. “You must be sick and tired of Caracas already; let me show you the goods, then we can do the business.”

John Rogers tipped the Panama back on his head as he digested the sweet smell in the cool darkness of the shed. Everywhere he looked, there were buckets of flowers stowed in neat rows upon metal shelves.

“Five hundred carnations, five hundred roses, five hundred tulips, five hundred lilies.” Mendoza spread his arms.

“Perfect”, John Rogers held out a hand and grasped Mendoza’s, squeezing it between both of his.

John Rogers drank in the sharp shadows of the midday sun as the two men sat at the table outside the dockside cafe. He picked up the glass and sipped; the ice-cold whiskey was heaven-sent. Mendoza finished counting and tucked the final hundred into his briefcase. He clicked the clasps, then smiled at John Rogers, “It’s always a pleasure doing business with you. So, what are your plans? After you’ve made your next fortune, of course.”

John Rogers sucked on the ice cube, then crushed it between his teeth. “I thought I might stay a while here. It certainly seems to have a lot to offer.”

“The women, you old dog. When are you going to settle down?”

“When the adventure ends.”

“So,” Mendoza winked, “no time soon.”

The church bells rang out with an extra-masculine vitality; it was Mother’s Day, and the pews were full to bursting. Children had been polished and preened, the women in their splendid best, of course, and the men dragged like reluctant beasts to the abattoir. With Lent out the way and Spring in the air, there was a shared madness at the promise of summer.

John Rogers revelled in the tension of his thighs. He’d set the stall up in the centre of the square, thanks to a nod and wink to the chief of police, a few whispered words and a wad of notes. To the north was Saint Francis, to the south Saint Joseph, and even those poor churches away from the square would soon empty their congregations into it.

Within 70 minutes, his stall was stripped bare, and the multi-pocketed coat which he wore was stuffed full. If he stayed in bed for the next three months, he’d still be able to live like a prince.

A stick-thin child no more than four years old held out her palm full of coins.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, but I’ve sold out.”

The child mutely gestured towards the magnificent bunch in a bucket below the stall.

“They’re mine, Negrita. A thousand apologies.”

The child’s eyes sunk towards the ground as she turned and slunk away.

John Rogers watched the cock strutting amongst the chickens in the courtyard, then, snapping out of his reverie, lifted the mug to his lips and flashed a smile at Patricia Delgado. Although well worn by a lifetime of struggle, there was no denying she was a handsome woman. The magnificent bunch of flowers sat proudly in a vase at the centre of the table. 

John Rogers effortlessly poured all his attention into Patricia despite the ache in his loins. “Delicious tea, Señora, you are a true saint.”

“It’s the very least I could do, Señor. I’m honoured by your attention. But, of course, you’re here for my daughter. She threw out her chin and called. “Maria Carmen.”

John Rogers caught his breath as the vision emerged from the kitchen door.

“Mama?”

“Sweetheart, John Rogers has come to see you.”

He leapt up and took her hand, bringing it gently to his lips, “Charmed, Señorita, the afternoon has only served to enhance your beauty…” he smiled warmly.

Patricia Delgado was already clearing away the teacups, “Would you like to stay for dinner, Señor?”

John Rodgers glanced at his watch, then smiled at Patricia, “Nothing would give me greater pleasure, Señora, but I’ve got an urgent appointment in town. Would you permit me the honour of calling on your daughter another day, at a more convenient time?”

Patricia looked at her daughter, who nodded gently.

“Of course, Señor, we look forward to your attention.”

With that, John Rodgers doffed his hat, turned and sauntered out of the courtyard, back towards his hotel, in the centre of town.

The Egyptian cotton bedsheets were as soft as a whispered promise, but the fevered sweat had plastered them to John Rogers’ body during the late siesta like a second skin. He was sick, sick with love. “Maria Carmen,” he whispered repeatedly. “Maria, Maria, Maria.” He reached out and grasped the orange on the bedside table and brought it to his nose. “Maria Maria Maria.” He sat up, tore the sheets away and swung his legs off of the bed.

Twenty minutes later, he stood outside the hotel Riviera, refreshed and dressed. A taxi skidded to a halt in front of him, and, in one easy movement, he opened the door and leapt in.

“Si, Señor?”

“I need girls. Young girls. Nice girls. You understand?”

“Si, Señor.”

Fifteen minutes later, the taxi slowed and stopped. John Rogers thrust a note at the driver and stepped out, turning to look at the building in front of him as the vehicle chuffed away. Rogers stroked his moustache and smiled as he took in the well-cared-for neo-classical villa.

A minute later, he was inside.

“Welcome, Señor.”

John Rogers flashed his teeth at the elegantly dressed lady before him. Her house had a quiet class: the taxi driver had done his job well.

“Can I get you a drink, Señor?

“Champagne,” John Rogers smiled.

“Of course, Señor, come and make yourself comfortable.”

John Rogers’ nose itched; champagne always had that effect on him. He surveyed the room. Seven women had arranged themselves on the chairs and cushions opposite the bar. None of them quite fitted precisely what he had in mind, and he was in the throes of making a compromise when the heavy red velvet curtains gave birth to a dark shape, carved seemingly from granite. She was pure animal: endless legs, achingly tall, athletic and feline. A stare that was both masterful and submissive. The long red nails at the end of delicate jet-black fingers sealed it.

Daphne was everything that John Rogers could have dreamed of. She was his new landscape, and he explored her with abandon, immersing himself until his very essence was lost.

John Rogers was swimming but not in water. It was warm, thick and jellylike. He made the strokes with his legs and arms, but every movement was a struggle. He made no headway, and his face was engulfed in the warm gelatinous substance. He took in a mouthful and began to choke. A shadow descended, and life within his Technicolor dream ceased.

Ninety minutes later, the cool darkness of the night bathed his eyes as he scanned the street for a cab. He had no memory of getting dressed, saying goodbye or paying his dues. His hand shot up as if possessed, and there was a screech.

“Si, Señor?”

John Rogers stared at the crumpled face of the cab driver. “The Riviera.” He pulled the rear door open and fell onto the back seat.