Chapter 3
After the night of that damn Instagram photo, Vladimir became a shadow hanging over us, a figure who came back to haunt us from time to time, but who I’d quickly forget, overwhelmed by my duties or too high to care.
The second time I heard his name was from Cecília.
Even though she and Umberto were on the outs, that skinny, horse-faced lawyer continued to attend the dinners, always cleaning her plate.
Then she’d wave to me with trembling hands and a faint smile of satisfaction.
She was losing her grip before our eyes, drinking too much and disturbing the other guests.
Umberto didn’t like her hanging around, but there was nothing he could do. Cecília knew too much.
In March, I plucked up the courage to talk to her.
At the end of the meal, while the other guests were busy with dessert and liqueurs, in no hurry to leave, marveling at the cured seagull terrine with glazed asparagus and brioche toast we’d served that night, I took Cecília by the arm and led her to a corner.
“Why do you insist on coming back here?”
“Let go of me! I’ll scream!” She stank of whiskey.
“Please, Cecília, just go home.”
“You think you’re so smart, don’t you? You’re nothing but a fool, you know nothing! Vladimir’s the real boss.”
That name set off an alarm bell in me. Cecília immediately noticed my surprise and let out a drunken guffaw:
“Aw, you really have no idea, do you? From the very beginning, Vladimir’s been the one running the show.”
“From the beginning?”
“Umberto’s just a puppet, a puppet who follows orders. And you’re just another one of his little playthings, Dante.”
“Get out, Cecília!”
“Umberto’s terrified of him,” she said, tripping over her own feet. “Vladimir…”
Her eyelids were starting to droop, her body slumped, but she still seemed very sure of what she was saying.
I felt a shock to the heart. It all made sense: Vladimir wasn’t some new silent partner, like Umberto had said, but the brains behind those dinners.
This explained how Umberto still lived in that old apartment but had managed to buy us a new car and fork over 80,000 reals before the first dinner.
Vladimir was the answer all along. I felt like an idiot for not realizing it sooner.
“What’s Vladimir’s last name?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” she said, hiccupping. “Nobody knows.”
She shook her arm free and stumbled away. Outside, she called over one of the drivers, put on her blindfold, and got into the car to be taken home.