The euphoric corsages of personalities emanate a bohemian joy; other people circulate around the gallery attentively watching the multiple works of art so masterfully displayed on walls, lecterns and bases; others join existing groups with effusive greetings; some couples walk distractedly admiring paintings and sculptures, oblivious to the existence of the rest of the public; the waiters that wander around the public with trays full of champagne glasses and exquisite appetizers, seem to be invisible to some and an oasis on the move to others; the cherry of the cake is, without question, one of those girls that are recorded in one’s mind with such an inclement sharpness and intensity, that not even Alzheimer could free you from the memory of her.
She has dark hair, sculpted in a concave mane, which makes her look like a naughty fairy, something like a brunette version of Peter Pan's Tinker Bell, but with a tuft that fades down like plumage ending in tips that wrap her long and distinguished neck. She’s wearing a silky black dress, on the edge of socially acceptable boundaries both in length and cleavage. Her beautiful high heels serve as the pedestal of a masterpiece. She is graciously holding a glass of champagne that she just took from the tray of a dumbfounded waiter; her well-formed legs show deep and recent scratches that gracefully combine with the red soles of her shoes, but contrast with her otherwise fashion-magazine beauty and her subtly tempting body. Her flashy presence combined with the casual but blunt swagger of her walk, seemingly synchronized with the impeccably performed music, create a wake of turning heads and reduced murmur as she crosses the room on her way towards us, saluting a few people from a distance by nodding subtly.
As she approaches, I cannot help smiling when I remember one of my grandfather's quotes: “Beware of those which God has marked” and I think about sharing it with the group, once she passes us by, as she has everyone else.
But she comes straight to my wife, takes her hands and greets her with a kiss on each cheek and a familiarity that deeply hurts my controlling side, which boasts about knowing everything that she does, especially since we have irreconcilable differences that hint the possibility of a divorce. I have to admit though, that those same differences usually become the reason for passionate reconciliations that plunge us into a drunkenness of love for weeks.
It is also true that we already endured months of horrible coexistence and that the next kissing spree is not yet visible on the horizon. In reality, a divorce would involve an infinite number of legal battles, even if we didn't want them. A widowhood, however, would be very convenient for either one of us…
But then of course, a genuine and permanent reconciliation, would be a paradise for both.
She punishes the other five people sitting on perches around our high table with a cold "good night," without even looking us in the eyes. She turns back to my wife who is sitting, leans on the seventh high chair that a swift and fast waiter brought for her, but remains standing and talking with my wife, effusively. The volume of the music and the excitement of the place provide privacy to their conversation.
Their isolation and disdain engender in me a sick and growing fury.
As if I had warned her telepathically, my wife stands up and turns her over to introduce us. “Love, she is Roxanne who is here to support me in this very complicated day. Roxanne, he’s Hector, my husband.” She says, with a formality that seems inappropriate and even awkward.
My first thoughts, as I stand up to greet her, are ‘Why the hell do you need the help of a Millennial if you have participated in dozens of exhibitions like this? You are a renowned and very skilled artist, used to dealing masterfully with critics, fans, the press, the organization, the banquet and even with digital media. What can this arrogant, provocative, irreverent and nearly two decades less experienced kid do for you?’
As soon as Roxanne’s eyes meet mine, my fury, questions and sanity evaporate...
Roxanne's look is kind, naive, inquiring and profound; the squeeze of her hand is cordial, firm and longer than normal; she pulls me and kisses me on each cheek, as she did my wife, but brushing the corners of my lips, with a clear intention of disconcerting me.
Immediately after, she lets go of my hand and turns around to meet the two remaining couples that my wife introduces her to. None of them can help looking at her legs, but no one dares to ask. She carries her wounds with great pride and perhaps even with arrogance, because they surely hurt a lot. Those are wounds of falling from a motorcycle or something of the sort; or from colliding, thrown by the waves, against the sharp shells that adhere to the rocks of the coast, which sometimes become the only way out of the sea due to a tide change.
I carefully and thoroughly observe that her greeting to all of them is perfectly normal, with the traditional kiss on one cheek, not both and much less near their lips...
The words that Magneto says to the dying guard at the plastic prison, in the X-Men saga, now come to my mind: “Never trust a pretty woman, especially if she is interested in you,” The second warning of the night comes too late, though, because my prudence, coolness and nerves of steel are reeling already...
Everybody goes back to their conversations and I to watch them two, who are ignoring the world in general and me in particular. I’m withdrawn, curious and growingly malicious. ‘How is it possible that I don’t even know Roxanne and they are looking at each other, talking and gesturing as if they’re intimate and old time friends?’ I ponder.
“What should I be today, the exemplary husband, devout Christian, kind neighbor and conciliatory friend that everyone here has known for so many years? Or the heartless murderer that this irreverent kid is invoking and earning?” I ask myself.
My instinct wants to hunt, punish and eliminate her, but my fatherly side wants to question her, try to understand her, advise her, reprimand her and maybe save her... On the other hand, the promise I made to myself so many years ago: "I will only kill for money, never for fun" in order to lessen my guilt and set some limits to my perverse impulses, has become something like my professional ethic, and I would only betray it in an extreme case, or in self-defense.
Suddenly, they all rise from the table to fulfill their part of the program on the podium. To my surprise, Roxanne doesn’t go with them, but walks around the table to sit by my side instead, in order to see the presentation.
"What do you do for a living, Hector?" She asks, breaking the ice.
“I'm a hit man,” I answer smiling and proud, “do you have someone in mind? Maybe we can do business, I’d give you a good discount for being my wife’s friend. ”I add with a condescending face.
She cracks up...
-As I have always said, when the truth is implausible enough, one can afford to say it plainly without fear of offending, scandalizing or, in this case, warning one’s interlocutor-
When Roxanne finishes laughing, she says: “Now that you brought it up, I do have a Consciousness that talks way too much, reprimands me frequently and makes me feel guilty… and you know what they say out there:
‘Guilt and remorse prevent us from getting along with ourselves; selfishness and pride with others.’ So maybe I’ll hire you to set me free me from it.” Her mischievous smile, voice tone and her playful and innocent look, unleash a bloody war between the predator and the protective father that live in me.
"How are you helping my wife?" I enquire.
"I’m helping her to simplify some legal procedures," she replies selflessly, implying that it would be a boring topic of conversation.
"I wonder what the rooms in this hotel look like?" she asks out of the blue, changing the subject without any consideration, while tipping up her fourth glass of champagne and beckoning the waiter to bring her another one.
“I have a room in this hotel, in case my wife does not want me to go home with her, you know? If you want, I can lend you the key for you to go up to see it and enjoy the view of the city from a twentieth floor. I’ll wait for you here.” I offered kindly.
"No way! I wouldn't dare to rummage through your room in your absence, I’d feel like an intruder, a thief. But if you show it to me, I would be delighted to go see it,” she said with a feigned naivety that evoked a thirst for blood, in the cruel murderer; indignation for her lack of prudence, on the paternal side; and a sickening remorse, on the tempted husband side.
“How can you say something like that? Don’t you realize the risk? You don't know what kind of person I am. I'm twice your size and I don't even have a belly to justify it. Don't you think about the implications of being seen coming up with an older guy? Or even being seen walking out of here together? Or what my wife, who is your friend, by the way, may feel? I question annoyed. “You must take better care of yourself, you are a very beautiful young lady and, apparently, an excellent person too.” I add in a reconciliatory tone.
"Sorry, my madness has become so cynical, my mirror is so sarcastic and my heart has been broken so many times, that sometimes I don't think clearly, I live confused." she replies with a face of tragedy and showing signs of drunkenness…
But, dude, I’m dressed to kill, gorgeous, drunk and flirting with an experienced, manly, mature, and presumably virile man, who is also a confessed murderer. What could possibly go wrong?” she adds mockingly, “But if you’re afraid, Mr. Bad Guy, then there’s nothing else to say…"
I can't take it anymore and laugh aloud. ‘This insolent minx deserves a lesson and I am the assigned executioner, but if she behaves very well, I might forgive her life.’ I think to myself.
“Okay, I’ll go up first, as if I’d gone to the restroom, and you will follow me five minutes later. I will leave the door open. Room 2112, palindromic number.” I instruct while getting up from the chair and looking at my watch to check the time.
I go up hurriedly, with my heart racing and with the familiar drops of cold sweat that precede both, forbidden love and crimes of blood, running down my temples and back. I come into the room, hang my jacket, screw the silencer to my infallible squad 45, put it inside the drawer of the bed side cabinet and go into the bathroom to wash my hands and face. ‘I have 3 minutes left to set the trap,’ I think as I turn to walk back to the bedroom…
I find Roxanne sitting on the bed and reclining on the headboard, very provocatively, but fiddling with my gun...
"And this weapon? Were you going to kill me?" she asks smiling and with a face of faked consternation.
“Of course not, I didn't even know that I’d meet you, much less that you would come up to my room. But be very careful, please, it is loaded and the trigger is extremely sensitive.” I tell her while thinking, from the threshold of the bathroom door, how to take it away from her and give her a cruel and well-deserved punishment.
"Is it to kill your wife, then?" She says, looking at me inquiringly, seductively and in complicity.
“No, that would be too obvious and very stupid. I would hire a professional man to do it while I have a perfect alibi, you know?” I replied, winking at her.
"And why not a woman?" She questions playfully, looking at me sweetly, stroking the arm that’s holding the gun and starting to get bored of it, giving me hopes that she’d soon lay it on the bed.
"A woman?" I asked, "Who the hell would hire an assassin woman?" I added indignantly and mockingly.
"Your wife of course," she replied winking back at me, "goodbye sweetheart..."
THE END