Page 90 of The Secret Dinner

She took me by the arm and we went out and up the back stairs to the villa again, passing through the kitchen on our way to the living room. My senses were still heightened, but only then did I realize the extent of the mess I’d made inside the villa: end tables strewn around, rugs turned over, drawers left open. Cora didn’t seem to care, rummaging through her bag until she found a cigarette.

“Do you have a light?”

“No.”

“I’ll be right back.”

She disappeared toward the kitchen, returning less than a minute later with a lit cigarette. “It sucks. I smoked a pack and a half today.”

“Nervous about tomorrow?”

“A little. Sometimes I feel old, but then I think I’m too young to die.”

“You don’t have to do this, Cora. I don’t want to lose anyone else.”

“I have to,” she said, sitting beside me on the sofa. “What they did to Miguel was so fucked up. He was a nice guy. Kind of a pain in the ass, but nice.”

I thought she was going to lay her head on my lap as usual, but she just sat there, back straight, her face turned slightly upward, gaze lost somewhere beyond the smoke.

“I brought you a present,” she said after a few minutes.

She reached into her bag and handed me a thin book. I was surprised to see the cover image—filthy tiles, covered in graffiti and marker scribbles. Above the picture was the title: Once, on the Wall of a Public Restroom, I Saw a Poem. And the author: Cora C.

“Piglet made it as a surprise for me,” she explained. “The digital copy is a bestseller, so he got ten copies printed for me.”

I feigned enthusiasm. “That’s so cool! Congratulations!”

“I’ve been meaning to give it to you for a while now, but so much has happened that I keep forgetting.”

“I love it.”

Once, on the wall of a public restroom, I saw a poem:

Wine can be red or white

But an asshole is always rosé

Pure poetry! I leafed through the remaining ninety-six pages. The binding was handmade; the font was Comic Sans; nothing about that little book could be taken seriously. A dedication was scribbled on the first page:

to my best (((and handsomest) and hottest) and smartest) friend Dante,

My dirty poems

xoxo C. C.

On the back cover flap was a photo of Cora lying on our sofa, smoking a cigarette while reading a book.

“It’s the only one Piglet could find,” she said. “You know I hate photos.”

“It’s nice. Very intellectual.”

She agreed, putting out her cigarette in the ashtray on the coffee table:

“Why’s the living room such a mess?”

“I was looking for some clue about Vladimir, but I didn’t find anything.”

“You have to chill out if you want to go about things rationally.”