The Two Deaths of Senora Puccini Read Free

dinner—after all, each of us had already had a turn—but the majority decided that Pacheco should be added to the end, which put his turn some years in the future. But, of course, time has passed and what with deaths and various departures, Pacheco’s dinner has arrived earlier than anticipated. Now we are sixteen, but some are in Europe and others are scattered around the country. Even though tonight nine are expected, because of the troubles it seems doubtful that all will attend. This is a pity. Considering Pacheco’s wealth and success, the reputation of his cook and wine cellar, this should have been a dinner for all of us—all us boys grown old.
    â€”
    I had taken down a volume of Rilke’s poetry and was sitting in the red leather armchair in front of the fireplace. Despite the hot weather, several eucalyptus logs and kindling were piled on the andirons.
    Alle Blicke, die sie jemals trafen,
    scheint sie also an sich zu verhehlen,
    um daruber drohend und verdrossen
    zuzuschauern und damit zu schlafen.
    The poem was
“Schwarze Katze”
or “The Black Cat,” and the lines seemed to be about all glances being hidden in the cat’s eyes. Unfortunately, I have forgotten most of the German I once worked so hard to learn in the university, but the gist suggested concealment, a person whose face revealed nothing. The poem had attracted my attention because of the words “like her!” written in the margin with blue pencil. Just then the door opened and the housekeeper reappeared, followed by Carl Dalakis. I got to my feet as Dalakis hurried over to embrace me.
    â€œSo you made it,” cried Dalakis, clapping me on the back and engulfing me in a hug that smelled of garlic and sweat. “What a day! My taxi was actually fired upon. Believe me, this dinner is the only thing that could have made me leave the house. What we won’t do for our friends!”
    The housekeeper had left the room so I made my way to the liquor cabinet to fix Dalakis a drink. “There’s a story at the paper,” I said, “that the air force wants to take control.” Pouring several ounces of Johnnie Walker Black into a glass, I added ice and handed it to my companion.
    â€œThe army would never allow it. In any case, there’s no reason, the government’s sound.” Dalakis spoke almost aggressively, defying me to disagree.
    â€œWell, I expect we’ll know more in the morning,” I said, not wanting to argue. To tell the truth, I am not a political person and really I had very little sense of what was happening. Resuming my seat, I looked to see how Dalakis had fared during the last six months. He was a great bearlike man with long brown hair that was perpetually mussed and thick glasses which gave him an inquiring look, as if he were always on the point of asking a question. He wore a wrinkled brown suit and I could see food spots on the lapels.
    Dalakis has spent nearly thirty years working with the Park Service within the Ministry of the Interior. Now he’s in charge of the picnic areas at all the National Parks. It is he who replaces old swings and slides with new ones, who is in charge of picnic tables and grills and trash containers, who determines how the toilets are functioning and how much sand is needed for the sandboxes. Because he works for the government, he often imagines himself to be its spokesman, and although he was strongly against the military when it took power ten years ago, these days he tends to defend their actions.
    Dalakis stood a few feet in front of me sipping his drink and slowly shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He has great hairy hands with long blunt fingers and his glass was nearly hidden within his grip.
    â€œI must say the soldiers made me nervous. We even passed a corpse, a young fellow. I suppose you’re used to seeing corpses, what with working for the newspaper.”
    â€œWe don’t see many at