A guy like me, white, poor, skinny, and starving, has neither brothers nor allies. It wasn’t easy to get a job with the most expensive and exclusive catering service in town. It took deliberate planning and maneuvering; I spent two years at it. Perseverance is the only virtue I possess. The rich had the habit of hiring that catering service when they gave a dinner. The owner, the descendant of an illustrious family, I’m not going to mention her name, just as I’m not going to mention anyone’s name, not even mine, was a domineering woman who kept her notes and time charts in a small computer that she carried in a bag over her shoulder. She imposed rigid standards on those who worked for her, cooks, decorators, buyers, waiters, and all the rest. She was so competent that the employees, besides obeying without batting an eye, even admired her. If some employee acted in a way not in keeping with the established model, he was fired. That was rare, because all, before being hired, were subjected to a rigorous selection and training process. We did as we were told, and I was one of the most obedient. And the service charged a small fortune to cook for and feed those rich people. The owner of the catering service had the gene.
Before the evaluation and training to which I submitted to become a waiter at the catering service, I did an apprenticeship of my own. First, I did something about my appearance. I found a good, cheap dentist, which is very rare, and bought some decent clothes. Then, even more important, I learned, as part of my solitary training, to be a happy servant, as good waiters are. But faking those feelings is very difficult. That subservience and happiness can’t be obvious, they must be very subtle, perceived subconsciously by the recipient. The best way of playing that impalpable dissimulation was to create a state of mind that could make me truly happy to be a waiter to the rich, even temporarily. The owner of the catering service pointed me out as an example of the employee who did his job by taking pride in what he did, which is why I was so efficient.
The rich, like the poor, aren’t all the same. There are those who like to ramble on with a cigar between their fingers or a glass of precious liquid in their hand, there are those who play the gallant, those who are reserved, the solemn, those who sport their erudition, those who flaunt richness with their designer attire, there are even the circumspect ones, but deep down they’re all show-offs; it’s part of the pantomime. Which ends up being a true sign language, for it allows seeing what each of them really is. I know that the poor also do their pantomime, but the poor don’t interest me, it’s not in my plans to play with any of them; my game is that of the bigger yacht.
I waited patiently for the ideal rich man to come along. I was ready for him. It wasn’t easy to get the poison, tasteless and odorless, that I transferred from one pocket to the other in my pilgrimage. But I’m not going to relate the risks I took and the vile things I did to obtain it.
Finally, a rich man of the type I was looking for appeared at the reserved-seating dinner at one of the five tables in the mansion’s dining room. I knew his story, but I’d never seen him, not even his photo. It was the owner of the catering service who told me, and for the first time I saw her excited because “he” had just arrived, and I was designated to serve him personally. Rich people like to be well attended. I would remain at a certain distance, without looking at him, but at any gesture of command of his, however subtle, I was to approach and say simply, “Sir?” I knew how to do that very well; I was a happy waiter.
He had arrived, like the other guests, in a bulletproof car, surrounded by bodyguards. He was a short, dark guy, balding, with discreet gestures. His wife, his fourth, was a tall, slim blonde who appeared even taller thanks to the high heels she was wearing.
There were eight guests at each table, four men and four women. Even though the service wasn’t French style, each table was attended to by a pair of waiters; my colleague was a tall black man with perfect teeth. There were drinks for every taste, even beer, but I don’t remember anyone at my table asking for that vulgar and fattening beverage. As per the owner’s instructions, the other waiter was my subordinate. Discreetly, I decided that my colleague would handle the requests of the other diners, who were so engrossed in their conversations that they didn’t notice the special treatment I afforded one of them.
I waited on him with perfection. He ate little, drank in moderation. He didn’t use, with me, the words “please” or “thanks.” His orders were laconic, unaffected. The dinner was nearing its end.
“Sir?” I approached when he turned his head an inch to the side, without looking at anyone, but I knew it was for me.
“Half a cup of coffee.”
It was the chance I’d been waiting for.
I went to the kitchen and made the coffee in the state-of-the-art Italian machine supplied by the caterer. I added the poison.
“Here you are, sir.”
He sipped the coffee, chatting with the lady beside him. Unhurriedly, I picked up the empty cup, went back to the kitchen, and washed it carefully.
It took some time for them to discover that he was dead, as he had rested his head on his arms on the table and appeared to be sleeping. But since millionaires don’t do those things, take a nap at a banquet table, those around him found it odd and realized that something serious had occurred. A heart attack, probably.
There was a commotion, confronted with relevant elegance by the majority of those present, especially his svelte wife. The bodyguards, however, were much more nervous. The dinner was brought to a close shortly after a private ambulance took the corpse away.
I think I’m going to continue serving the rich for a time. It’ll have to be another catering service; the one I worked for suffered a reversal of fortune. At first the newspapers said only that the cause of the rich man’s death was a sudden illness. But one of the weekly magazines published a long cover story talking about poisoning, with pictures of the guests at the banquet, especially those, men and women alike, about whom malicious insinuations could be made. The life of the dead millionaire, his businesses, his marriages and divorces, especially the scandalous circumstances of one of the latter, were given extensive coverage.
The police are investigating. I enjoyed going to the precinct to make a statement. I wasn’t there long; the police thought I couldn’t have much to say about poisoning. After all, I was a stupid and happy waiter, above any suspicion. When I was dismissed by the interrogator in charge of the case, I said casually, “My yacht’s bigger than his.”
Someone had to know.
“I told you, we’re through here, you can go.”
As I was leaving, I heard him tell the recording clerk, “One more shitty statement.”
I won the game. I’m uncertain whether I should play again. With envy but without resentment, just to win, like the rich. It’s good to be like the rich.
acknowledgments
“The Art of Walking in the Streets of Rio de Janeiro” originally appeared in Cristina Ferreira-Pinto, ed.,