Killing Sarai

54

The man looks even older than he does in his photo. And heavier. I estimate he must be in his late sixties, average height but not quite six-feet tall and no less than three hundred pounds, most of it in his stomach and cheeks. As he stands there at the head of the room with his henchmen at his sides, I don’t see a simple overweight man of mature age, I see an evil man who is going to die tonight. It’s all I can think about: he’s going to die. And I’m going to be there to witness it. Suddenly, my insides lock up, my chest constricting, my stomach a hard knot, and I feel like I can’t breathe. I suck in air through my parted lips and let it out very slowly through my nostrils. Calm Sarai. Just remain calm.

I didn’t think it would affect me this way, knowing a man’s fate, practically controlling whether he lives or dies simply by having the knowledge that he doesn’t have. But despite the anxiety I feel as the reality of the situation catches up to me, I don’t regret coming here. I may not know what Arthur Hamburg has done to deserve death, but I trust in Victor’s words and I know that he is far from innocent or we wouldn’t be here.

Arthur Hamburg addresses his guests, thanking us all for coming tonight and he carries on and on about superfluous things to which everyone nods and agrees and smiles and offers their own input. And he makes jokes to which he laughs at before anyone else, but they always laugh too, because it would be rude not to, of course. Even I find myself chuckling lightly at a joke that everyone else seems to find funny and that I really don’t.

Victor moves me around to stand in front of him, pressing the back of my body against the front of his. His mouth explores my bare shoulders, his hands rest on my hips. But the affection is brief, just for show, and his attention is back on Arthur Hamburg, who I notice in that short timeframe singles us out with his gaze fixed on us from across the room. I can see the deliberation in his eyes, the sudden shift in his demeanor. After a few more announcements, he wraps up the small talk and leaves everyone to mingle and enjoy themselves the way they had been doing before he came into the room.

Next thing I know, he’s walking straight towards us.

Victor

Arthur Hamburg shakes my hand as I introduce myself and Izabel.

“My assistant tells me that you encountered a problem in my restaurant last night.”

He knows very well that it was the two of us. He watched us from that private room of his, listened to our interactions at the table through the tiny microphone situated inside the table centerpiece.

“Yes,” I say with a nod. “Forgive me for saying it, but I believe a change in the way your management hires your staff is in order.”

Hamburg smiles to cover up what he’s really doing: studying me and Sarai, getting a feel for us more than he already had at the restaurant, imagining us with him in his room. He could care less about the incident at the restaurant or being sued. That has nothing to do with why he invited us here.

“Are you from L.A.?” he asks.

“No,” I say, pulling Sarai closer to me with one arm around the back of her hip, my hand resting near her pelvic bone. Hamburg’s eyes stray to see it there. “Stockholm.”

He looks intrigued.

“You don’t sound foreign,” he says.

I respond by saying in Swedish, “I am fluent in seven languages.” And then I repeat it in English, so that he understands.

He nods with an impressed smile. Then he looks to Sarai.

“And what about you?”

“She is from New York,” I answer for her.