Beto began his pre-trip inspection, but it wasn't a mechanic's inspection; it was an aesthete's. He looked for water spots on the paint, creases in the leather; not leaks in the engine or cuts in the hoses. He walked around the vehicle, chest puffed out, admiring his own reflection in the polished bodywork. And then he stopped. He saw a small, dark stain on the gray epoxy-coated concrete floor. It was small, barely bigger than a coin, but it was fresh. It glistened with an oily moisture under the artificial light. Another drop fell as Beto watched.
Nico closed his eyes and prayed silently. Realize, please, realize. Smell it. Touch the liquid. It's sweet, it's poison.
Beto frowned. He leaned forward slightly, but not to touch the liquid. He didn't want to get his white gloves dirty; he only got close enough to look.
"Humidity," Beto muttered, straightening up immediately with a gesture of annoyance. "It must be the air conditioner sweating a little, nothing a rag can't fix."
Nico felt like screaming. Air conditioning? Water? Water didn't sparkle like that. Water didn't have that viscosity. He was so convinced of the car's perfection and his own impeccable maintenance that his brain refused to process the reality of a mechanical failure.
Nico couldn't bear it any longer. The image of the car flying over the cliff, with Clara screaming inside, filled his mind. The fear of being discovered was replaced by a much greater terror: the terror of being an accomplice through silence.
"It's not water!" The shout escaped his raspy throat before he could stop it.
Beto jumped, losing his composure for a second. He spun around violently toward the pile of boxes, his eyes wide.
"Who's there?" he bellowed, his voice losing all its professional smoothness. "Come out right now."
Nico emerged from his hiding place, standing small and trembling, his grease-black hands clenched at his sides, his clothes stained with soot and old oil. He looked like a speck of dirt that had come to life in the middle of that immaculate garage. Beto looked at him, his expression shifting from surprise to utter disgust in an instant. He wrinkled his nose as if he'd just stepped in excrement.
"What the...?" Beto took a step forward, waving his arms as if shooing away a fly. "What are you doing here, you filthy kid? How did you get in? Security..."
"Sir, please listen to me," Nico pleaded, taking a brave step toward the giant in the blue uniform. "The car wasn't leaking water, I saw it. A man crawled underneath. It's glycol. It's DOT 4 brake fluid. If you touch it, you'll see it's oily."
"Shut up!" Beto blocked his path, putting his bulky body between the boy and the car. "I don't know how you got in, you sewer rat, but you're getting out of here right now before I call the police to drag you away."
Beto turned red with anger. The mere thought of this street kid lecturing him about his car, and worse, suggesting that he, the great Beto, hadn't noticed the sabotage, was an intolerable insult. He walked over to the wall where a green garden hose was coiled. He turned on the tap.
"I told you to get lost," Beto shouted, pointing the mouthpiece at Nico.
The jet of cold water hit Nico hard in the chest, soaking him instantly, causing the old oil on his clothes to run down his legs. Nico gasped from the icy impact, stumbling backward and tripping over his own feet.
—Get out! Go back to your trash can and stop littering my view. If I see you near this car again, I swear I'll run you over.
Nico ran; he had no choice. Soaked, humiliated, and shivering, he shot out the service door, fleeing the spray of water and the blind chauffeur's wrath. He stopped, panting, behind the bougainvillea hedges, out of sight of the garage. He hugged himself, the cold water mingling with his hot tears.
But then, through the bushes, she saw the mansion's terrace. She saw the people, hundreds of guests dressed in linen suits and silk gowns, laughing, drinking champagne, celebrating love. And at the center of it all, though she couldn't see her, she knew was Clara. The bride, who would be getting into a car with no brakes in less than an hour, along with her husband. She wiped her tears with the back of her wet hand. She couldn't leave. If Beto wouldn't listen, someone else would have to.
He slipped through the side garden, avoiding the waiters passing by with trays of canapés. The music grew louder. The Blue Danube played majestically. Nico emerged near a chocolate fountain, an intruder in paradise. People glanced at him, but didn't really see him, or rather, they saw him and instantly looked away, as if he were something unpleasant that ruined the aesthetics of the event.
"Excuse me, sir." Nico tugged on the sleeve of a man in a gray tuxedo. "Please, I need to speak with the groom."
The man shook his arm in disgust, spilling some of his drink.
—Hey, watch out. Where did this kid come from?
Nico tried it with a woman who was wearing a huge hat.
—Ma'am, the bride's car, you have to stop it.
The woman took a step back, covering her nose with a perfumed handkerchief.
—How awful. It smells like gasoline. Where's security? Someone let a beggar in.
No one listened to his words; they only saw his clothes, only smelled his poverty. To them, he wasn't a messenger of life or death. He was a nuisance, an intruder. Nico felt despair suffocating him; he was invisible. He was screaming in a soundproof room.
Suddenly, a heavy hand grabbed his shoulder. A security guard, a giant with an earpiece and a grim face, had found him.
"The party's over, kid," the guard grumbled, dragging him toward the exit. "I saw you sneak in. Thought you could steal some food, huh?"
"No, let me go!" Nico kicked and screamed, struggling with a strength that surprised the man. "I don't want food, I want to save them. The Rolls-Royce. They're going to crash."
"Yes, yes, of course. And I'm the Queen of England," the guard mocked, tightening his grip. "Let's go outside, and if you come back in, I'll call the real police."
They were taking him out. They were dragging him away from the only chance he had of avoiding tragedy. Nico looked toward the mansion's main staircase. The large oak doors were opening. The music changed. A triumphant fanfare sounded. The guests began to applaud and throw rice. And there they were: Eduardo, tall and elegant, with a smile that lit up his face, and Clara, radiant in her white dress, laughing as she picked a grain of rice from her hair. They looked so happy, so alive. And behind them, slowly approaching along the gravel driveway, gleaming like a silver shark in the sun, came the Rolls-Royce. Beto was at the wheel, smiling proudly.
The guard dragged Nico toward the side gate. He was about to throw him out onto the street. Nico stopped fighting the guard. He relaxed for a second, letting the man's guard down, and then he bit. He bit the guard's hand with all his might. The man screamed and let go out of pure reflex.
Nico didn't look back; he ran toward the center of the gravel path. He ran with his heart in his throat, his worn-out shoes clattering against the stones. At the foot of the steps, Eduardo and Clara were waiting. He looked like a modern-day prince, and she shone with her own light, a radiant simplicity that made her lace dress seem woven from clouds. Clara laughed, squeezing her new husband's hand, oblivious to the fact that the woman clapping the loudest to her left, her cousin Vanessa, was counting down the seconds until that smile would be erased forever around a bend in the coastal road.
—Ready for the adventure? —Eduardo asked, his eyes full of love.
Clara nodded, lifting the hem of her dress so she wouldn't trip as she put her foot on the car's running board. Vanessa, in the front row, held her breath, her eyes gleaming with morbid anticipation.
That's when chaos erupted. It wasn't an elegant sound; it was a raw, harrowing scream that shattered the symphony of violins and polite murmurs.
—Don't go up!
A small, dark projectile pierced the security perimeter. Nicolás, his clothes soaked from Beto's hose and now covered in dirt from his dash through the gardens, launched himself into the open space. The guards tried to catch him, but Nico was quick and small, driven by a desperation that gave him wings. He slipped between a waiter's legs, dodged the outstretched arm of the head of security, and hurtled straight toward the open door of the Rolls-Royce. He didn't stop; he crashed into Clara.
It was a clumsy impact, brutal in its lack of grace. Nico's grease-black hands slammed against the immaculate skirt of the wedding dress, leaving ten dark imprints on the white lace. Clara gasped in surprise and stumbled backward, falling into Eduardo's arms, who caught her just before she hit the ground.
Nico stepped between them and the car, his arms outstretched like a scarecrow. His chest rose and fell violently, and tears traced clean paths down his soot-covered face.
"Don't get on!" he shouted again, his voice cracking. "They ruined the brakes!"
The silence that followed was absolute. The orchestra stopped abruptly. The laughter froze. 300 guests stared in horror at the scene: the stained bride, the stunned groom, and that small, wild creature blocking the way.
Beto was the first to react. His face turned red with fury. That rat,
continued on next page
For complete cooking times, go to the next page or click the Open button (>), and don't forget to SHARE with your Facebook friends.
