Like me? he wondered, then burst out laughing. “So I’m a writer now, am I?” But then he had to attend to a pan of béchamel sauce that was boiling over.
It was always the same: when Nestor was busy at his work, he forgot about everything else. All he could think about were his saucepans, or in this case the tomato flowers that would be used to decorate the plates for the warm lobster salad. Had he not been such a conscientious and meticulous cook, he might have been alarmed by what happened next.
Chloe went on talking louder and louder in a vain attempt to provoke some reaction from Nestor or Carlos. “Come on, Nestor, lighten up,” she said. “Just one story. It doesn’t matter if you’ve already told it. Tell us that one about the woman whose sister topped herself in Buenos Aires. You know, the girl who threw herself out the window. That was a cool story.”
Nestor was completely focused on his béchamel sauce and didn’t notice the door opening. Chloe didn’t notice anything either. Only Carlos realized that Adela had her hand on the door and was about to step into the room, but when she heard what Chloe was saying, she froze.
“Yeah, it was like a horror movie,” Chloe went on. “Tell us that one again.”
The door closed again just as it had opened, and Carlos went on breaking ice while Chloe chattered away as if nothing had happened. Just as well, thought Carlos. When she saw me, Adela decided to come back later, and that was the right thing to do. It’s better if no one’s around when we meet for the first time here. If she’d come in just then, unprepared, Nestor would have been able to tell from our faces.
“Fucking hell, Nestor. And you too, Carlos,” said Chloe. “You could at least say something to me. I don’t see why work has to be incompatible with a bit of communication between human beings.”
But neither Nestor nor Carlos was listening. One was thinking about sauces, the other about love, and Chloe got bored and let her gaze wander until it came to rest on the door of a large cool room on the other side of the kitchen. WESTINGHOUSE 401 EXTRA-COLD, she read distractedly before noticing her reflection in the stainless steel door. Her face was distorted and enlarged, as in a trick mirror. Chloe amused herself readjusting her hair and checking how cool all her studs and rings looked, especially the one in her lip. This mutating fairground mirror-image made her laugh, and she stopped thinking about Carlos and shameful secrets and Nestor’s little moleskin notebook.
Twenty tomatoes later, when all the flowers had been carefully placed on the plates, Chloe asked Nestor what else he wanted her to do. After consulting his watch, Nestor said he didn’t need any more help in the kitchen, so she could go upstairs and get changed. “It’s still early, but you need to make sure your uniform isn’t crushed and the apron is spotless. Off you go. Carlos and I will finish this. You go and give your uniform a good iron, all right? And after that, you know what you have to do, don’t you, dear? All those rings and studs and other bits of metal you’re wearing are coming out, aren’t they? You can pack them away in that enormous backpack of yours. I can’t imagine what you’ve got in there. Anyone would think you were heading off for two weeks in the desert.
“Ah . . . women,” Nestor added with a smile. He was in very high spirits: everything was going exactly according to plan.
A PEARL JAM CD was playing in the room that Chloe Trias and Karel Pligh had been given to share. Chloe had already taken a shower and, with her wet hair wrapped in a towel, she was rummaging through her backpack in search of her maid’s uniform: a severe gray smock with a white collar and cuffs, an organza apron, and one of those little lacy caps that prestigious catering companies like Mulberry & Mistletoe have rescued from oblivion to give their services that extra touch of class.
“Where the fuck is that maid’s getup?” she said, pulling the clothes out of her backpack, all the clothes she had picked up at her parents’ house the day before. There were far too many things: shirts, a bikini, a pair of Bermuda shorts made in China (just the thing for strolling around the garden at the Lilies), everything except the uniform. As she continued rummaging, Chloe started to get worried. Jesus, don’t tell me I left the fucking thing at the olds’ place—what a fuckup! I was in such a rush I don’t know what I took anymore, and it’s not here, so what do I do? Nestor’s a good sort, but when he finds out I haven’t got my stuff, he’s not going to be happy, that’s for sure.
It was seven-thirty. Early still, but not early enough to solve the major problem of having left her uniform in Madrid. Shit, shit, shit! Chloe paced up and down in her room. Suddenly she had a lifesaving idea. It was her only chance.
She looked in the armoire. Karel had brought two waiter’s uniforms. Yes! Such an organized young man! You could count on Karel to bring a spare set of work clothes. In the hospitality business you have to be prepared for all eventualities, and luckily, Karel was. So now Chloe knew what she had to do.
“It’ll be fun dressing as a guy,” she said.
AN HOUR LATER the front doorbell rang. It was still too early for the guests to be arriving, so rather than opening the door, Karel Pligh put his head out the window. He saw an affable-looking gentleman with a crew cut standing in front of the main door holding a small suitcase.
“Good evening. I am Serafin Tous,” said the man.
“And you’re here for the party?” asked Karel from the window, unsure as to what the protocol was in such cases.
Serafin smiled. He was in good spirits, all the more so when he realized that Karel’s handsome face, like a portrait in the window frame, had not provoked any of those distressing urges that had been plaguing him recently.
“I have been invited for the party, and to spend the night. Ask Mrs. Teldi if you like. Go and ask.”
Serafin waited a few seconds while Karel came around to the door.
“Good evening, sir,” he said.
And behind Karel, Serafin could see the serene interior of the Lilies. Such a peaceful house, he thought. Perfect, perfect. As I always say to Adela, it reminds me of a spa, a place where all anxieties are cured.
“May I take your suitcase, sir?”
As Karel Pligh picked up the case and headed off (“Follow me, sir, I’ll show you the way”), Serafin Tous noticed a large, shiny, wet-looking cockroach waiting on the doormat to greet him. But he was shortsighted and in good spirits, so he misidentified the insect. Oh, a sweet little dung beetle, he thought, giving it a nudge with his shoe. Ah, nature! The country life! It was just what he needed: a haven safe from people who might know about his secret.
“Off you go, off you go,” he said, very gently, to what he thought was a beetle. “Off you go and roll some balls.”
NOT LONG AFTERWARD, Serafin Tous had completely changed his mind about the Lilies. If the incident with the cockroach had occurred two hours later, he would certainly not have mistaken it for a beetle. The Lilies, so blessedly peaceful when he arrived, now struck him as an old pile full of junk, the house of a collector with far more money than taste. Yes, that’s what Serafin thought, sitting on the terrace with a newspaper in one trembling hand and a glass of sherry in the other, thoroughly shaken by what had just happened. As he settled down to read the paper and sip his sherry, Nestor’s unmistakable pointy mustache had appeared at one of the windows giving onto the terrace—the mustache he had encountered at Freshman’s and again at Madame Longstaffe’s.
“Good evening,” said the mustache. “I’ll just leave these here if you don’t mind. They’re for decorating the terrace.”
As Nestor put the candles on the table, he smiled, and that smile was so disturbing that Serafin couldn’t help himself: he spilled the sherry on his trousers. A suspicious-looking stain began to spread across his crotch.
Dear God, he thought. Nora darling, isn’t there something you can do to save me from this terrible coincidence?
2
EVERYONE WANTS TO KILL NESTOR
IF MADAME LONGSTAFFE, the famous fortune-teller from Bahia (and keen collector of taxidermic specimens), had b
een invited to this party for collectors of rare objects, no doubt she would have sensed the shadow of a crime hovering over the Lilies. Or perhaps not, since even if she had been among the guests, none of them were present when that sinister, negative energy took possession of the house.
The collectors had not yet arrived and would still be a while coming; the only people in the house were the characters who have already figured in this story, each of whom was getting dressed for dinner. As they performed this routine task, their thoughts wandered freely, unconsciously, and it so happened that four of them were thinking the same thought simultaneously: they all wanted to kill Nestor. Or at least they were all wishing, fervently and hopelessly, like souls in torment, that they had never set eyes on the chef who knew too much.
Why did he have to turn up tonight of all nights? It’s completely stupid, stupid and unfair, thought Ernesto Teldi as he took a pair of cuff links from a little box. A curious pair they were, in the form of gaucho spurs: a rather unfortunate choice, for the sight of them spurred his memory back to a region of the past he had tried to leave behind. A long time had passed since his return from Argentina, and for more than twenty years now his respectable and impressive CV had gone unchallenged. The only thing he had left out was starting off as a smuggler, but was that really so terrible? Hadn’t other respectable fortunes begun in a similar way?
And now, years later, this character has the nerve to turn up in my house thinking I’m not going to recognize him. I come to my country house, I open the door, and there he is, flicking at my furniture and my artworks with a feather duster, pretending to be one of the caterers. It’s outrageous! But I never forget a face or a name, though I was very careful not to let on when we ran into each other. “No doubt about it: he’s Antonio Reig, our old cook from Buenos Aires,” muttered Teldi, immediately disproving what he had just affirmed.
Sitting brazenly on his bedside table were three letters written in green ink. He had received the first just over a week ago. The signature was no doubt deliberately illegible and the writing was difficult to decipher, but the content was only too familiar: the roaring motors and the screams that filled his nightmares. The one name he had been able to make out was clearly linked to an episode that he thought everyone had forgotten. That name was Minelli. Other scribbly paragraphs reminded him of the young men’s shouts, the dark sheen of the Río de la Plata, a one-way trip, and his little smuggler’s plane, which had been used to commit a crime. And what was the purpose of these wavering lines accusing him anonymously from the bedside table? What were they asking for?
Why, money, of course.
Completely unfair, said Teldi to himself, looking at his little silver spurs, the symbol of everything he had achieved in life through hard work: money, success, respect. He had earned it all, and it was rightly his, because the only shameful thing in his past was that one night when Minelli had asked to borrow his light plane and Teldi had lent it to him, no questions asked. “Not something to be proud of,” said the green lines. All right, it wasn’t something to be proud of, but it wasn’t really that terrible, either, and he had paid dearly for it already. Ever since then, his nights had been inhabited by nightmares and screams, repeated over and over, hour after hour. People think that men like me don’t feel anything or suffer at all, but what do they know? What does anyone know, really? Teldi looked back over the years and convinced himself that he had spent half his life getting rich and the other half apologizing for being so successful. All that work: his generous patronage of the arts, the vast sums of money he had donated to worthy causes, setting up charitable organizations . . . for what? In the end, none of those good works had redeemed him in the eyes of others. People think that men like me give money away to buy forgiveness for a sin or out of vanity, when really it’s the winner’s pathetic tribute to the loser. Look at me, we seem to be begging, I need you too. I need you to accept me, to admire me, to love me.
And now, thought Teldi as he fastened his right cuff link (which is always harder to do), now all that hard work is at risk. “You and I know what happened in 1976,” said the last of those knotty lines in green ink, which looked like a row of parrots on a wire. Teldi was convinced that if the author of those lines were to tell the plain truth, no one would believe him. Who would believe that the only thing Ernesto Teldi had done wrong was to lend his light plane to Lieutenant Minelli? Lending a plane to an army officer, just once, without asking what for, is hardly a serious offense, so the truth would have to be embroidered a little. It would be so easy to cross the fine line between telling it the way it was and claiming that he had collaborated in the Dirty War. A blackmailer can twist the truth however he likes—all he needs is a single detail, a subtle nuance. “Be careful, Teldi. Remember how easy it would be for me to go to the papers with your story,” said the letter. “You think about it. I’m not going to write to you anymore. I’ll get in touch with you directly so we can sort out this little misunderstanding . . . perhaps by telephone or perhaps . . .” Here the green writing became completely illegible, but Teldi could tell where the blackmailer was heading. So he decides to turn up at my house, bold as brass, he thought. And here he is, under my roof. What a nerve! How dare he!
I suppose he thinks he’s invulnerable, thought Ernesto, having finally secured his cuff links and putting on his jacket now. He doesn’t know that I’ve recognized him, and he’s waiting for the moment to catch me off guard and screw the money out of me. And the worst thing is, I’ll end up paying what he asks, however much it is, just to be rid of the filthy leech.
Ernesto Teldi was about to leave his room. I’ll work it out later, he thought, after the party, how much I’m prepared to pay him. Life goes on and I’ve got other things to worry about. At least I’ve got money. It does have its uses, like fixing this sort of problem and disposing of leeches like Reig.
As he reached for the door handle, the silver spurs knocked against it with a little ting. The sound was almost imperceptible, but it rang like an alarm in his head. He realized his mistake: money wasn’t the solution; it would only make the leech fatter and greedier. You spend your whole life achieving respectability, then someone comes along and destroys your reputation just like that. The only good leech is a dead leech, he thought, surprising himself. He had always been a firm and efficient man, but he preferred to avoid conflict. Sometimes, however . . .
Was it better to fatten a leech with money (since he did have enough to tolerate a bit of bleeding), or should he find another way to get rid of it? The question would keep needling him all through the evening.
MEANWHILE, SERAFIN TOUS was in the grip of a similar anxiety, and wondering what magic he could call on to eliminate Nestor. Not a magic spell, the sort Madame Longstaffe might have pronounced, or her ancestors the Weird Sisters. No, while Ernesto was pondering leech control, Serafin was toying with the sort of homemade magic remedies we have all fantasized about at some stage. If only I could press a button and make him disappear, I’d do it without a second thought, mused the inoffensive Mr. Tous. Oh God, if only there were some secret device I could activate to make him vanish, with a simple click. I can’t let him wander around. If I could just seal him away hermetically, like bacteria in cold storage or patients in a plague hospital, isolated for the public good.
Serafin Tous was sitting on the lid of the toilet. In outward appearance, he was a respectable judge, with his close-cropped gray hair, his legs crossed tightly, and his clasped hands resting on his thighs as if in prayer. The party would be starting soon. How on earth was he going to get through it, maintaining the serene composure expected of a judge? Three, four, maybe even five hours of social interaction awaited him: participating in banal conversations, smiling, admiring the works of art Ernesto Teldi would undoubtedly show them, while being manifestly delighted by the comments of the eccentric guests. Would he, in short, be able to perform the familiar routine of social gymnastics given his fragile state of mind? With a mechanical gesture, Serafin tore o
ff a piece of toilet paper as long as the night ahead and used it to wipe his brow.
But the party was just the beginning, he thought, and it wouldn’t be the hardest part, far from it. Nestor would be so busy with the catering, he wouldn’t really have time to indulge in malicious gossip; he probably wouldn’t get a chance to tell anyone where and in whose company he had encountered the venerable judge. Thanks to the party, his secret would be safe tonight, at least. But it would only be a momentary respite. Now the fellow knew his name and his profession. He also knew who his friends were, and it would be simple for him to ensure they found out about Freshman’s. The real danger would begin in the morning. It was impossible to predict just when he would strike: tomorrow, the next day, the following week . . . Such was the exquisite torture that he would be forced to endure: the waiting and the uncertainty, until one day a caustic smile or the attitude of a friend would confirm that everything was lost and that his one little slip had become public knowledge. Serafin pressed his knees together, keeping his legs crossed in a desperate X as he reflected on how malicious rumors spread. Often, ironically, it’s frivolity rather than malice that sets it off, he thought. He had seen it happen so many times. It’s terrible to think that the most shameful secrets are often revealed simply for the pleasure of sharing a little indiscreet gossip among friends: You’ll never guess where I met Serafin Tous the other day . . . you know, that judge, a pillar of the community. Did you know he was a queer, a poof, a pedophile? Didn’t you know? A few remarks like that and everyone pricks up their ears. Really? Do tell . . .
I’ve seen it happen, thought Serafin, still sitting on the lid of the toilet. Careers cut short, lives ruined. And the most extraordinary thing is that people don’t do it because they’re evil or unthinking, or even because they’re jealous. It’s vanity. All they want is to be the center of attention for a few minutes. Honestly!
Little Indiscretions Page 18
