XIV

Love crime

Notes: Sorry for the delay, I was very busy. I hope you'll like this chapter ;)

I thank Astridu, my friend and beta. I was happy to finally meet you.
Enjoy!

Since I was able to see Hannibal as he really was, I collected countless numbers of information about his posture, the way he talked and gesture. And that morning, while I was wallowing on our bed, watching him as he dressed, I was amazed at being able to clearly see that he was on the hunt, just by the way he buttoned his white shirt, the color of his eyes and the smirk on his thin lips. In the full-length mirror, his reflection gave me an unequivocal look. He knew I understood, and he was pleased about it. Hannibal enjoyed my instinctive understanding of his complex mind. That was what he had always wanted and never found.

"We need fresh meat for tomorrow's dinner," he said, putting on his beige linen pants.

I remembered then that he had invited the curator for the Museum of Fine Arts of Buenos Aires, and his wife. The man quickly gave Hannibal a job within the museum's library because of his skills.

"I guess you're going to revisit that butcher from Almagro,"

"You are reading my mind, Will. We have an obligation to welcome our guests properly."

"Of course. Should I come with you?"

"Only if you want to."

I knew he left me the choice because he wanted my total and absolute consent, and that, even if he'd be disappointed if I refused, wouldn't be upset with me.

"Just let me take a shower," I answered, before standing and going to the bathroom, noting that he was smiling all the more.

…

We got in our car. One of these modern crossovers, which were adapted as well to the city as to the countryside, with a lot of gadgets that seemed useless to me. But I had to admit that the spacious inside and the leather seats were very nice and cosy. Hannibal started the car and drove downtown.

The neighborhood of Almagro wasn't really a tourist area, per se, but rather popular and densely populated. There were local and authentic shops, far away from the supermarkets that had invaded the capital over the last few years. We did some shopping first: aromatic herbs and spices, shallots, beets, some Granny Smith and bread. We also went to a fish market and Hannibal ordered a seafood platter for the next day.

I enjoyed walking the streets with him. Mainly because it was easy. No need to hold hands or to kiss. All these social conventions, which had always made me very uncomfortable in public, didn't exist between us. We walked naturally side by side, in complete coordination as if our hearts beat in unison, very close but without touching.

After putting the grocery bags in the car, we strolled through the city until evening. Then, we took some stuff in the trunk and, wrapped in the comforting darkness of the nightfall, we easily found our way to the butcher's shop that was about to close. By the storefront, a stray dog drooled over the meat. The poor thing seemed starving. I gave a look to Hannibal and he rolled his eyes. He was about to say something when the butcher came out and kicked the dog, screaming insults in Spanish that I didn't understand.

"Hey!" I exclaimed, while the dog ran away.

"Qué?"

"He didn't do anything to you!"

The fat man kept shouting in Spanish, waving his hands, and I had no need to translate "hijo de puta." Hannibal approached him and put a hand on his shoulder, speaking the same language in a calm and firm voice. He found the right words, the douchebag calmed down and followed him inside the shop. I looked around the street to be sure that nobody paid any attention to us, but the sidewalk was empty. So I joined them.

In the shop, they kept talking. I didn't understand what they said but analyzed their body language. Hannibal's hand was on man's neck and he talked to him, dominating him. Visibly ill-at-ease, the merchant didn't dare to contradict him and led him behind the counter, into the back room. I noticed then the key that the man had left in the door, and put on gloves to close the store before lowering the iron curtain and pocketing the keyring.

I entered the cramped room with filthy white walls and work plans covered in dried blood. On the dirty floor, there was a gully grate that was going to be useful to us.

"Will, what do you think? We are in a butcher's shop and our new friend is no better than a pig. Are we going to hang him by his feet from one of the meat hook to let him bleed out on the tiles?" Hannibal asked me, smiling.

"I think I like your ideas."

And the butcher seemed to finally realize he was in trouble.

…

The man swung at the end of the hook, dead for a few minutes. Under his head, blood slowly flowed out. We'd had a hard time subduing him, even though we were two. But, we had already defeated a dragon. An Argentinian pig, no matter how big, would not defeat us.

Dressed in a plastic suit over his clothes, Hannibal removed some organs and a thigh muscle. In the same outfit, I took a meat cleaver and squatted in front of the corpse to decapitate our victim, before taking the head and going back to the shop. Then, I opened the display case and put it in a place of honor, between the rump steak and the ribs.

"Even then, he is not a good ornament," Hannibal said, over my shoulder, and I laughed. "We can go home."

"That's it?" I asked him, pointing his bag.

"I only take what I need."

"If I don't go back with something for the dogs, they're going to be mad at me."

In response, he handed me his knife with a wicked smile on his face.

…

I fell asleep in the car on the way home. Hannibal woke me with a sweet caress to my hair, before getting out of the vehicle with the groceries, and I followed him, taking our bag from the back seat. It was late at night and the ocean was black as ink under the full moon. In the darkness, the house seemed quiet, until Hannibal opened the door. Then, an army of hairballs came at us and he had to raise the grocery bags above his head. I calmed them with a whistle and they ran towards the beach to stretch their legs.

We removed our shoes and I left Hannibal in the kitchen to go to the bathroom. I turned on the taps of the large and black bathtub rounded as an egg, which was in the middle of the room, before taking my clothes off. Little by little, the steam and the scent of essential oils, which I put into the warm water, filled the room tastefully furnished with two sinks, a big mirror and a walk-in shower in a corner.

Hannibal joined me, put a hand on my neck, scratched my skin gently with his nails, caressed my back, and a shiver ran down my spine. He got undressed and put his arms around me, until the bathtub was filled. Then, he turned off the taps and lay down in the water. I took my place between his legs with my back to him and leaned against his chest. The bathtub almost overflowed. He seized a natural sponge and soap from a little cabinet and started to wash me. The water became tinged pink, because of the blood on my face.

We had bathed together before, but always as a prelude to our intimate moments. Never after a murder. Never in this cosy atmosphere, like had we just made love for hours. I felt like I floated and let him take care of me. Meticulously, he cleaned every part of my body before I did the same for him. The sponge slid over his broad shoulders, his arms and torso. I kissed him and sat down against his chest. Then, we stayed that way until the water got colder.

…

The next day, I spent the morning on the beach with the dogs, enjoying the end of summer months. Here, winter began in May and ended in September. Hannibal gazed at us, listening to Mozart, with a sketchbook and a pencil in his hands. I thought he drew a landscape from memory. Florence, maybe, or somewhere else. But at about 2 pm, when the delivery man came with the seafood platter, Hannibal left his sketch on his chair to receive the order, and I could see a drawing of me and the dogs, running in the sand in front of the ocean.

Hannibal set to work in the kitchen, with Vivaldi's Four Seasons playing in the background. I perched on one of the stools around the central island and contemplated the show. Carefully, he removed the nerves and the fat from the meat and cut it into small dice with a carefully sharpened knife, before putting it in a bowl. Then, he finely chopped chives, a shallot and some spring onions, before mixing it with the meat and seasoning with lemon juice, salt and pepper. And he put the tartare in the fridge.

"Is there anything I can do?" I offered, in despite of my poor skills in this field.

"You can wash and chop the chervil," he answered, handing me a bushy bunch.

I did it, while he got a new container out of a cupboard, which he filled with a lot of extra virgin olive oil, before taking the knife and cutting another piece of meat into very thin slices.

"Add the chervil to the olive oil."

I followed the instructions and he put the meat in the marinade. Then, he gave me a shallot, which I peeled and sliced, while he got other ingredients out of the fridge.

"Apples and beets?" I asked, skeptical.

"The beet is sweet and go well with the acidity of the Granny Smith," he said, sure of himself, before dicing them.

Then, he made another tartare with the heart.

"Is it a raw menu?" I questioned him.

"Precisely. Do you know how to open the oysters?"

"Yes."

"Three per person should be enough," he told me, handed me the oyster-knife. "Remove the water and put them on absorbent paper."

I did exactly what he said, while he preheated the oven and sliced the bread before toasting it. Then, he put the mollusks in the blender, mixed all the ingredients and seasoned them with a few drops of Tabasco. And, he arranged the meat slices on a plate and spread a spoonful of the mixture on each of them, before rolling them up.

"In the drawer behind you, there are tooth picks," he told me, and I seized them, before skewering each roll to hold them in place.

"What do we do now?"

"There is a tiramisu. So, we have finished for now," he answered, satisfied, before putting the dish in the fridge and cleaning the kitchen.

…

Lucas González and his wife Sofia arrived fifteen minutes late. I knew Hannibal well enough to see that it annoyed him a lot, but he was too polite to make a comment. He wore one of his fantastic suits that looked good only on him, whereas I remained sober. I welcomed our guests, while Hannibal garnished the dishes in the kitchen. The dogs were in their room and they wouldn't disturb us.

The couple was charming at first glance. Him: fifty years old, salt and pepper hair and tiny brown eyes sunken in their sockets. Her: about forty five years old, long and curly brown hair that cascaded down her shoulders, and intense green eyes. We sat down at the table and Hannibal served the wine, before bringing the plates.

"As a starter, tartare de veau," Hannibal presented, before sitting on my right, in front of our guests.

"That looks delicious," Sofia complimented.

"Buen provecho."

At the beginning of the dinner, the discussion was about Hannibal's new job and Lucas's expectations for the coming months. He hoped to expose some new masterpieces. I was only half-listening without really participating. Then, Hannibal stood up to serve the main course and I helped him to clear the table.

"I think they're a bit pretentious," I whispered, putting the plates in the dishwasher.

"They are rich and influential. I expected no less from them. But, it is a great opportunity to figure them among my acquaintances for now," he answered, preparing the next dish.

"I know, but there's something about them that bothers me and I can't put my finger on it."

"I know what you mean," he confirmed, going out the kitchen.

I assisted him in the service.

"Beef roulade and tartare d'huîtres with pommes vertes et betteraves en salade," he presented again, before sitting back down.

"You're spoiling us, it's delicious. Where do you buy your meat?" Sofia asked.

I stuck my nose into my glass and let Hannibal answer the question.

"A magician never reveals his secrets."

Lucas roared with laughter.

"You're absolutely right," he approved. "You have to keep a little mystery." Hannibal smiled. "And speaking of mystery, that's very generous of you to accommodate your charming friend, but aren't you afraid that people talk behind your back?"

"I'm not following you," Hannibal said, even though I could see clearly his back suddenly stiffened.

Indeed, he introduced me as an old friend, newly arrived from United States, and I followed the movement, curious to know why.

"I admit me neither," I added.

Lucas seemed uncomfortable and the atmosphere became a little awkward.

"I mean... You know, two men in the prime of life, living under the same roof... The house is big, but people here have nothing else to do than gossip. Some of them might think you are... maricas."

Hannibal froze for a few seconds, his fork between his plate and his mouth, staring at our guest with contempt.

"I would appreciate it if you were not rude at my table, Mister González."

"I apologize," he answered immediately. "No offense intended. That's a bad choice of word and I don't imply that you are, of course, but I warn you."

"What does maricas mean?" I asked.

"In more polite terms: homosexual," Hannibal told me.

"I see. You're afraid that people think we're in couple," I said to Lucas, with a smirk.

"I know you're not, but it would be unfortunate if anyone supposed that I hire that kind of person."

"Of course, Mister González. We will ensure that this situation does not drag on too long." Lucas seemed eased. "May I ask for your business card, please, for my records?" Hannibal asked suddenly.

"Yes, sure," Lucas answered, a bit surprised.

He got a little case out his jacket pocket and Hannibal pocketed a card. Then, the dinner carried on in a quieter atmosphere.

…

They left late in the evening, promising to talk to their friends about Hannibal's culinary skills. Once the door closed, I lost my forced smile, leaving the dogs out of their room.

"What are we going to do about this son of a bitch?" I asked, slumping on the couch in the living room.

The sight of the Primavera calmed me.

"Tout vient à point à qui sait attendre, Will," he said, sitting down by my side.

"Which means?"

"All things come to him who waits."

"I like rare meat," I replied, putting my head on his thighs.

He laughed quietly.

"The longer we wait, the intense the pleasure will be."

His fingers ran through my hair, caressed my neck, and I nestled against him, impatient.