IN MARIA’S EXPERIENCE, famous people were usually less imposing in person than in their images. But Nal Gismonde seemed larger in real life. He stood over six feet tall, with a straight-backed bearing that stretched the impression even higher. His features were delicate, his skin agelessly smooth, his long hair black and silky.
Goddamn. He’s prettier than I am was Aida’s immediate thought.
“Councilwomen!” Gismonde said with a grand sweep of one arm. “I’m honored.” Against every instinct in their bodies, Maria and Aida both rose to their feet and dipped their heads.
“No, no, please sit,” said Gismonde, waving off the protocol. To Maria’s surprise, he was more charming than pompous, and he appeared to meet her eyes with genuine interest. Maybe they would get somewhere with this tyrant after all.
As the women settled back into their chairs, Gismonde took the seat at the head of the table. They had expected him to arrive with an entourage—a security detail, at least—but it was just the three of them. Gismonde leaned forward, his forehead furrowed with serious intent.
“I understand that we have some issues to discuss,” said Gismonde. He looked earnestly from Maria to Aida, and then opened his arms in a gesture that seemed to embrace them both, his expression suddenly bright. “But who can negotiate on an empty stomach?” On cue, a door at the far end of the room swung open, and a server appeared with a silver tray holding three small plates and three glasses of champagne.
“I never eat a big meal while conducting business,” Gismonde said. “Small servings are better, don’t you agree? Less blood to the belly. We all need our brains working at full capacity, do we not?”
Maria and Aida stepped on each other’s replies, a mumbled mangle of “Definitely” and “Of course.” Gismonde smiled as the server set the plates down. Each plate held several small toasted bread slices surrounding a tiny glass bowl. The bowls were filled with what looked like tiny white pearls. In spite of themselves, the councilwomen leaned in, curious.
“Almas caviar,” said Gismonde. “Harvested only from sturgeons over one hundred years old. The finest in the world—and so hard to come by.” He plucked a single tiny egg from his bowl and held it between his thumb and forefinger.
“We taste like this,” he said. He placed the egg in the middle of his tongue. His guests reached into their bowls and followed suit. “Now,” said Gismonde, “crush it and let the flavor pop.”
Maria went first. The texture of the tiny orb was like a large grain of couscous, but when she crushed it, her mouth flooded with a briny, creamy flavor. Unbelievably rich.
Aida went next. An involuntary “Wow” escaped her lips. She mentally scolded herself. The last thing she wanted was to be enjoying any part of this.
The servant had disappeared. Gismonde lifted his glass and held it up to the light, appreciating the slow rise of the bubbles. “Twenty seventy-seven,” he said with a confidential whisper. “Exquisite year.”
Maria couldn’t remember when she’d last tasted alcohol, let alone a glass of vintage champagne. She took a modest sip and felt the cool bubbles in her mouth. She looked across at Aida, who had already emptied her glass. She imagined Aida’s Muslim father revolving in his grave.
Aida nodded to Gismonde as if to confirm his opinion of the vintage. Suddenly, bubbles started to ooze from her mouth, as if the champagne were spilling back out. But Maria, a former physician, knew that this foam was something else. A shock of adrenaline shot through her gut.
“Oh my God—what’s wrong?” asked Maria. She turned frantically to Gismonde, who was sipping slowly from his own glass.
“Mr. President!” said Maria. “We need help!” Aida’s eyes were starting to roll back, showing only white. Agitated and scared, Maria craned her neck toward the door, expecting a rush of assistants or medics. Anybody!
“Please,” said Gismonde, placing his cool hand on Maria’s arm. “At this point, the key is to avoid panic.” At that very moment, Maria felt a bitter warmth rise in her own throat, accompanied by a sudden hot stab in her skull.
Oh my God, no! thought Maria. It was the final thought of her short life. Aida, mercifully, had not even had time to think.
The two women sprawled back in their chairs, heads rolled to the side, white foam trickling from their mouths. Gismonde leaned forward, his hand wrapped in a silk napkin. Slowly and carefully, he wiped the ooze from Maria’s face, then from Aida’s.
“So unappetizing,” he mumbled to himself.
He settled back, placed another delicate fish egg into his mouth, and felt its tiny, delightful explosion.