Table for Two

Victor glanced at his watch. Twenty-seven minutes past eight. Strange, Max had told him she’d be here by now. But then it wasn’t his job to ask questions; he just eased back into his chair and became lost in the clinking of glasses, the low guffaw of businessmen, muffled orders from the kitchen, the sweet air from a distant violin… “Excuse me sir, are you ready to order.” Startled, Victor turned to see a young waiter standing before him. The fellow’s hands were shaking, he seemed embarrassed to have asked. “No, not quite, I’m expecting company but she appears to be running a little late,” he replied then returned to indulging himself in the sights and sounds of midsummer Paris. A white car drove up. Its rigid contours and brash golden metal work intruded upon the ancient cobbled streets. From the car stepped a woman in a long red dress. Her skin was pale and upon her long dark hair sat a rose. She looked at Victor and smiled. "She’s beautiful" he thought. "Shame she must die." The waiter returned, bringing the wine list. He seemed even more nervous than before. “I recommend the ‘56 Castle Margaux,” he stuttered, laying the booklet on the table. “It has a rich texture and-” “We’ll have a bottle of that thank you,” said Victor, cutting him short. The young man bowed swiftly and retreated to the kitchen. Across the table sat the pale skinned woman. She ran a slender hand through her hair, a golden ring glinting in the mellow candle light as she did so. “Are you married?” inquired Victor. “I was once, some years ago now.” “What happened?” “He died.” There was silence and Victor wondered whether he had pried too deep. He had always been told to act naturally and let the conversation flow in these sorts of assignments but he was anxious he’d stumbled on a sensitive subject. “It was on a climbing trip three years ago,” she continued. “He and his brother often went on these trips together, never anything too difficult you understand, just the lower Andes and such.” She paused for a moment and Victor expected her to cry. Instead she just straightened in her chair and laughed grimly. “Well in short, they were never heard of again.” Victor’s attention was suddenly diverted from the curious woman by the arrival of the wine. The fragrance of the deep-crimson liquor transported him back to long Sunday mornings spent kneeling before the altar and how he had cried when Father Andrews told him he would grow up a sinner. The woman was searching for something in her purse, money, a picture of her dead lover perhaps? Suddenly the contents spilled to the floor. Embarrassed, she knelt down and began collect the melange of cards, bank notes and cheques. This was the moment Victor had been waiting for. He quickly scanned his surroundings; the nervous young waiter scurried between tables delivering drinks, a plump moustachioed man welcomed people as they entered and the party seated behind him discussed the ridiculous proportions of the Jones’ new refrigerator. The coast was clear. As casually as one unfolds a newspaper Victor reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a small white pill and dropped it into his companion’s glass. “Sorry, I’m such a klutz,” she said, returning to her seat. Reaching across the table she picked up the wine and brought it to her lips. Victor was on the edge of his seat, muscles tensed, eyes fixed on what was about to unfold. “What’s that on your wrist.” she exclaimed, setting down her glass. Victor’s heart sank. “Oh, do you mean my scar?” he replied, giving her his hand. As the woman lent in, a stray elbow knocked the poisoned drink, sending it crashing to the floor. Victor watched the crimson liquid run along the ground and sighed. After the drinks came hors d'oeuvre, then the entrée and by the time the waiter arrived with the bill Victor was desperate. He showed no sign of this of course, apart from the single bead of sweat that ran down his brow. “I hope you’ve had a pleasant evening,” said the woman. “It’s nice to finally meet you. Max has told me so much.” The mention of his employer shocked Victor and he thought it odd she should speak so plaintively of the man ordering her death. “Well I hope he’s not told you everything…How did you come to first meet Max? In all the time I’ve known him he’s never told me the story,” he asked, more out of his own curiosity than for the role. “It was at Richard’s funeral, after the ceremony we all went back to the hotel. He came up to me and said he was one of Richards friends, we got talking for a while, he invited me back to his flat and we spent the night drinking and crying. We’ve been friends ever since.” “So are you two together, well together romantically?” Her lips quivered then fell and she looked away. The shadows of her face growing deep in the setting sun. “No, no. It’s not like that, were just friends, in fact he got married last winter. I haven’t spoken to him much since then, I suppose we just drifted apart, but then people always do.” At once Victor knew why he was here. This was not to be a murder of revenge or money, but love. Max could not be with this woman, yet she occupied every moment of his life, filled his waking hours with futile desire and his dreams with what could never be. His release, he decided, could only be brought by her death. “It’s drawing late,” said Victor reaching for his wallet. “I’m not accustomed to these hours, so if you don’t mind, I wish to retire.” He laid a wad of notes on the table and a handful of coins for the young waiter. The couple walked out of the restaurant into the cool night air. The violin could no longer be heard, in its place was the low hum of mosquitoes. Victor reached for his dagger, ashamed it had come to this. The woman sighed. “What a pity, it must end this way. I was growing rather fond of you”. Bewildered, Victor turned to face his prey, dropping the dagger behind him. “I know Max sent you to kill me” Before Victor could answer the woman drew a pistol from her purse. She fired two shots into his body and ran towards the darkness.