Chapter 2
I continued my role as dinner host, bolstered each time by a few pinches of Molly dissolved in water.
I felt more easygoing and energetic that way, head in the clouds and feet on the ground, and I executed my role with an almost mechanical ease and charisma.
The guests could certainly tell that I was high, but they were more concerned with inhaling Hugo’s tasting menu than with my buzz.
For dinner on Saturday, we served cured seagull tartare with crispy skin, smoked tongue with a red pepper foam, and fettuccine with seagull ragù.
While the guests were digging into their main course, I headed outside to where the five drivers were smoking, leaning against the hoods of their luxury cars.
I asked to bum a cigarette to establish a rapport.
“Wasn’t Vladimir coming today? Who was supposed to pick up the old man?”
I lit my cigarette and waited for an answer, trying to act chill.
They looked at one another like a bunch of dummies—either they were great actors or they had no idea what I was talking about.
I quickly changed my approach and asked what they thought of the guests.
The help usually loves to bad-mouth rich people, so I assumed they’d ramble on about the lousy fuckers and fill me in on all the gossip they’d overheard, but their answers were timid and monosyllabic, like nuns being asked about sex.
They definitely didn’t like me; I was just a limp-wristed sissy boy to them.
I went back inside in time to watch the waiters serve dessert and digestifs.
A tingling crept up my legs, sharpening my senses, and urging me to glean as much information as possible from my surroundings.
Once all the guests had left, I helped the waiters clear the table.
Hugo hastily told me that he hadn’t been able to get anything out of the sous-chefs either, but I could tell he was more focused on all the praise the guests had lavished on him that night—his pride was a ravenous beast that needed to be fed daily.
By two in the morning, I was alone in the villa.
Still under the magical effects of Molly, I rummaged through the living room furniture, the drawers with false bottoms and their old wood smell.
I looked under all the end tables, the dining table, and the lounge chairs.
I went upstairs and opened all the bedroom closets, scanning every nook and cranny.
I felt the mattresses, examined the little jars in the bathroom, the pictures on the walls, the towels and the dishes in the butler’s pantry, looking for who knows what.
If Vladimir controlled the entire business, there had to be some trace of him.
To my despair, the house was cold and devoid of anything personal.
Everything looked like it had gone untouched for months.
The bedrooms, hallways, and bathrooms held only absolute necessities.
Cecília had said the owners were an elderly French couple—a businessman and his wife, a painter—but it occurred to me that that might be a bluff.
I made a note on my phone—VERIFY OWNERS—and summoned the courage to explore the guesthouse.
Ever since I had been handed Ruth’s flyer, I’d avoided going back there.
I went out through the front door, walking around the perimeter of the property rather than taking the back stairs.
The night was cold and starless, and a monastic silence filled the dead-end street.
I opened the door slowly, scanning the hooks and tools scattered around the room.
In the middle of the floor sat Cora’s bright yellow chainsaw covered in stickers.
It gave the place a childish feel, the weapon like a toy left behind.
I climbed onto a stool to inspect the built-in cabinets, but there were only buckets, cleaning solutions, and rags.
I reached to take a more thorough look when a hand touched my shin.
Panicked, I lost my balance and fell, taking the buckets and everything else with me.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” said Cora, offering me her hand. “Hugo said you were still out here. I came to keep you company.”
She was wearing jeans and a gray hoodie, an outfit she’d never wear out of the house. The only thing that stood out was the gold MK logo on her bag and her hair, which was now dyed almost the same color. Recovered from the shock, I let her help me up.
“I spent all day at the salon getting highlights,” she said, with a smile on her full red lips. “I want to look my best for the highway patrol tomorrow. I’m going to seduce the cops and get them to tell me everything.”
“You look gorgeous,” I said, because I knew that’s what she wanted to hear. “Just please be careful. Remember that detective who came to the apartment to look at Bukowski? That guy is part of Vladimir’s gang. He was at the station when they took me there.”
Cora gulped hard.
“Why didn’t you say so earlier?”
“Because of Hugo. I don’t know if we can trust him…”
“You know, I’ve never trusted him. I’ve got fantastic intuition, I’m in touch with my orisha.”
She took me by the arm and we went out and up the back stairs to the villa again, passing through the kitchen on our way to the living room.
My senses were still heightened, but only then did I realize the extent of the mess I’d made inside the villa: end tables strewn around, rugs turned over, drawers left open.
Cora didn’t seem to care, rummaging through her bag until she found a cigarette.
“Do you have a light?”
“No.”
“I’ll be right back.”
She disappeared toward the kitchen, returning less than a minute later with a lit cigarette. “It sucks. I smoked a pack and a half today.”
“Nervous about tomorrow?”
“A little. Sometimes I feel old, but then I think I’m too young to die.”
“You don’t have to do this, Cora. I don’t want to lose anyone else.”
“I have to,” she said, sitting beside me on the sofa. “What they did to Miguel was so fucked up. He was a nice guy. Kind of a pain in the ass, but nice.”
I thought she was going to lay her head on my lap as usual, but she just sat there, back straight, her face turned slightly upward, gaze lost somewhere beyond the smoke.
“I brought you a present,” she said after a few minutes.
She reached into her bag and handed me a thin book. I was surprised to see the cover image—filthy tiles, covered in graffiti and marker scribbles. Above the picture was the title: Once, on the Wall of a Public Restroom, I Saw a Poem. And the author: Cora C.
“Piglet made it as a surprise for me,” she explained. “The digital copy is a bestseller, so he got ten copies printed for me.”
I feigned enthusiasm. “That’s so cool! Congratulations!”
“I’ve been meaning to give it to you for a while now, but so much has happened that I keep forgetting.”
“I love it.”
Once, on the wall of a public restroom, I saw a poem:
Wine can be red or white
But an asshole is always rosé
Pure poetry! I leafed through the remaining ninety-six pages. The binding was handmade; the font was Comic Sans; nothing about that little book could be taken seriously. A dedication was scribbled on the first page:
to my best (((and handsomest) and hottest) and smartest) friend Dante,
My dirty poems
xoxo C. C.
On the back cover flap was a photo of Cora lying on our sofa, smoking a cigarette while reading a book.
“It’s the only one Piglet could find,” she said. “You know I hate photos.”
“It’s nice. Very intellectual.”
She agreed, putting out her cigarette in the ashtray on the coffee table:
“Why’s the living room such a mess?”
“I was looking for some clue about Vladimir, but I didn’t find anything.”
“You have to chill out if you want to go about things rationally.”
“I just can’t stop thinking about that poor guy who lost his fiancée. I can’t get that flyer out of my head.”
“Stop it, Dante. What can you do about it? Call the man and apologize?”
“It’s our fault.”
“No, it’s not. Umberto tricked us, he made up that story about the crematoriums. But look at us now. We have money. We can do what we want. Life can still be good, my friend.”
She went to the wine cellar and picked out a 2008 Bonnes-Mares, a French pinot noir worth 20,000 reals.
“We can’t drink this.”
“Screw it,” she said with a grin. She opened the wine and poured two glasses. “Drink up, it will do you good. Booze is like existential lube.”