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e is thirty-four
years old and does not show signs of being a creepy character. He is
overweight, but often thinks of himself, when walking down the street, as
disgustingly fat. Fat and bald, though the lack of hair around his temples highlights
his big forehead. He looks like an accountant should. Name? Caesar. Like Gaius
Julius Caesar—the Roman general and emperor.
Half
a year prior he had the misfortune of discovering his wife was cheating on him.
She does not know he knows because he decided not to immediately collect on his
revenge. He did not insult her with names like ‘bitch’, ‘slut’, or ‘whore’…he
continued accounting, adding penny after penny. He honored obligations to
the treasury, and thus to the country while she, his wife, came home late every
evening giggling and full of post-coital glee.
Three
months after witnessing his cheating wife with her lover, he emerged from shock
and decided to pursue his revenge…to lure her and her lover in the basement,
lock the door behind them and then conveniently lose the key. Nobody would know
they were there—buried alive in the back yard of the villa only five hundred
yards from the house but far away from the neighbors. He thought about this
plan and every time, a freakish smile blossomed on his overstuffed, sweaty
face.
He
needed a reason to get her in the basement so he built a bar. The cellar was
unused before; he went to work installing a counter under thick, glass shelves
and mirror surrounded by a string of Christmas lights discovered in the attic.
In front of the counter he arranged two spindled stools. So the cellar bar
would look real, he lined up bottles—elegant, expensive, and irresistible.
Caesar knew she would come down with her lover.
Caesar sits—his
massive body perched on one of the stools. He holds his tiny glass between
chubby fingers and thinks of many more things to put in place for the plan. He
swirls cognac around his mouth and shivers with pleasure while idly counting
the Christmas lights. Bored, he moves on to counting the bottles.
Eight
bottles on three shelves.
Plus
eight in the mirror, sixteen. Bottles of different configurations, sizes, and
colors. Suddenly he frowns.
Eight?
With
the one on the counter—nine.
Where
is the tenth? Did he drink it?
No…he
allows himself only one bottle for a glass every Saturday when he stops by.
Counting every indulgent sip is part of an accountant’s way of life. The last
constellation he arranged up was one bottle on the bar, three bottles on the
top shelf, three on the middle shelf, and three on the bottom shelf, all spaced
evenly.
Now
the bottom shelf holds only two bottles—missing the one in the middle. He
thinks of all sorts of nonsensical explanations: thieving ghosts, leprechauns,
and a thirsty octopus.
He
feels very alone in the cellar. It’s too quiet…too much cold comes from hidden
gaps in the foundation. The silence emanating from beneath the counter is too
deep. The gap between the two bottles on the shelf at the bottom seems huge.
After several minutes of discomfort, he decides to leave.
His
body feels massive and solid while climbing the stairs. Pushing the heavy metal
door, he breathes more heavily from panic than exertion. The door remains
immobile…beads of cold sweat beads sprout on his brow. He pushes harder, but
the door is sealed shut—like the entrance to a crypt.
Peeking
through the bars covering the tiny window next to the door, he sees his wife
and lover walking away…toward the cottage. She wears jeans and a knee-length
coat with a black hat on her head and a yellow handkerchief wrapped around her
neck. Her lover seems agitated…vibrating in his thin jacket. He carried the
missing bottle. They approach the back door—where her lover politely holds the
door open for her. They disappear inside without looking back.
Caesar descends to the bottom of the stairs and looks around the cellar. Now, he would need a new plan for revenge.
