Chapter 11: The Taco of Death

I WAS LAST IN LINE for the shower. Afterwards, I snagged one of the remaining clean towels and walked out of the steamy bathroom to dry off. My companions were standing hand-in-hand in the doorway to the patio watching a pair of small fat birds forage in the ivy at the top of the patio wall.

“Good morning, Sofía. Good morning, Javier.”

At that moment there was a knock on the door.

“Will you have breakfast this morning, don Miguel?”

Suddenly I was starving even though I was exhausted.

“Yes, Sra. Martínez. Thank you.”

“And for Srta. Sofía and don Javier, too?”

I looked back at my two friends and lovers. They looked at each other and back at me and laughed out loud.

“Yes, Sra. Martínez. For them as well, thank you.”

Sra. Martínez outdid herself with the local equivalent of huevos rancheros and something that looked and tasted like a mini breakfast burrito with rice and beans and a double measure of jalapeño, along with her own surtido, a mix of sliced cauliflower and carrots in a powerful vinagrette. And coffee. Hot and strong and lots of it.

Sated, the breakfast table a wreck and our stomachs content along with the other hungers we’d satisfied earlier, we looked at each other once more and smiled. And once more we laughed. We hugged and kissed, and I sent the two on their way. I collapsed in bed and slept well into the afternoon.

As for the visiting politician, was it a fortuitous (as some believed) accident, or assassination? No one seems to know for sure. I’m inclined to the latter.

Mme Bertha invited Gladys to join us for dinner the evening after our little impromptu bacchanal that had ended only at dawn. Bertha didn’t say, but I suspect she made it possible financially for Gladys to close up early.

That night we’d talked about the death of the unwelcome visitor after dinner as we had another glass or several of wine. And another. In fairness we didn’t really come to a conclusion. Was it in his food or his drink? Even if we don’t know for sure in the historical accuracy sense and probably never will, in the end as I said before I don’t think there’s much doubt about how it happened or why.

Gladys had what turned out to be the last word.

“In America they have that silly Star Wars movie with its Death Star.” She paused then and looked from one to the other of us. She smiled. The smile had many meanings, not all of them positive. Her smile was followed by a chuckle.

“We have the Death Taco,” Gladys said, and she made the sign of the cross.