Chapter 3
“Don’t do anything stupid, dude!”
“I’m just going to slice the vegetables.”
The sound of the sharpener was obnoxious.
I thought about turning on the radio or humming some tune to drown it out, but I knew it was useless.
Soon, the sound I was really afraid of came from the living room: the roar of the chainsaw.
I clapped my hands over my ears, trying to drown out the noise.
Hugo put the knife down and handed me a piece of paper from his pocket.
“Go buy this stuff.”
I looked over the items, feeling a paradoxical mix of relief and despair.
It was a welcome excuse to get out of the house, to reassure myself that the world outside was still turning, even if there was currently a dead body getting sliced and diced in my living room.
But what if somebody came up to me on the street and said, “Hey, aren’t you that guy from the papers? ”
“Nobody’s going to recognize you,” Hugo said, as if reading my mind.
“Do you really want me to buy all this?”
“People don’t just eat with their mouths, Dante. A meal starts with the nose, then the eyes. Taste comes after. A good meal is all about presentation. And the hospitality needs to reflect the quality of my food. The table setting has to be dignified—”
“This is going to cost a fortune.”
“Try to spend as little as possible. But everything has to be perfect.”
I complied in silence. When I passed the living room on my way to the bedrooms, Cora was smoking at the window with the curtains closed.
She waved me over with her bloodstained hands.
The chainsaw and chef’s knife were resting just a few inches from the hanging body, which was held in place by hooks driven between the tendons.
It was strange to think that until a few days ago that lady was breathing, watching soap operas, reading books, eating bread, and shitting.
Maybe somebody had called her Grammy. And now there she was, sans feet and hands.
Up close, I could see the engraving left from the carving knife.
There were rings around the wrists, the ankles, and the tip of her chin.
From her jaw, a zipper-like line ran down her chest and abdomen.
A strong smell rose from the severed limbs, and the suffocating heat of Rio de Janeiro only heightened my unease.
“The knife is getting dull,” said Cora. “I need to sharpen it before I take off the rest of the hide.”
I nodded, inching toward the door. She grabbed me, leaving a red handprint on my arm.
“I’m just finishing this cig. Keep me company.”
“Sorry, Cora, but … all this makes me uncomfortable.”
“I wanted to ask you something,” she said. “What’s your dream?”
I was taken aback by her abrupt question.
“I don’t know.”
“Of course you do. Maybe you don’t want to say it, but you know.”
“What’s your dream, Cora?”
She took a deep drag on her cigarette, blowing the smoke through her nostrils. Squinting at some fixed point through the window, she said:
“I wanted to be a writer.”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve got good instincts, you know?” she went on. “I always knew I’d be a whore.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s just part of my path. I always wanted to run my own business, become a madam or a pimp. Boss others around, serve only a few special clients and write my poems in peace, you know? Without having to suck a bunch of limp dick covered in scabies.”
“You’re persistent, strategic, focused, self-confident, and persuasive. You’ll get what you want.”
She smiled, accepting my attempt at flattery. It lowered her guard.
“You really are a nice guy, Dante. That free blowjob is still valid, if you want.”
“Thanks.”
We stared at each other until she finished her cigarette.
“I need to get back to work. It was nice talking with you.”
She gave me a peck on the forehead before returning to her chainsaw.