they called it a beautiful party

I ask her if I've told her how lovely she is lately and she lifts the bottle of Chambord like an anarchist's bomb.

The guests are commenting out-loud and often about what a beautiful party it is - what beautiful food, such beautiful wines and spirits - they call my booze spirits - I uncork my long dead grandfather and pass him around in snifters. The compliments on his woody character are effusive.

She passes by and I reach out for her rump. She's a beautiful woman and a wonderful hostess - she bares her teeth and jabs my hand with a cocktail fork. A drunken guest in camel hair and a pink turban expresses his love for this party and all its participants. His love lingers a bit long on her, recapitulating like a bum groove on an LP. Oh, She�s something else, I say, My dear, to you, and lift my glass in her direction with the turbaned guest in a friendly headlock.

She turns back to her work at the fireplace. She's burning my memories by the box load - she's shoveling out a box marked H-N. If she's working alphabetically she just torched all the girlfriends so unremarkable they were filed under G rather than by their christian names. It's a cold night and the guests are taking off their jackets and coats and throwing them on the beds in the kids� bedrooms, they're wiping their brows. The oboe players are sweating and asking for more cash.

I say, You try growing ficus and palm in the middle of a Nebraska winter.

Her long flowing skirt is up in her waistband - she looks like a fakir with a penchant for paisley; I ask if the children are well. She pretends not to hear and hurries to greet the hired assassins.

Mr. Tang got us the bearskin rug. It completes the motif - the party is fabulous - I wish they would have cured the pelt more, but my demands were specific, we're firm enough individuals to take the sight of blood.

The cheese is from France this morning. The fish is well aged. The breads, from four continents, were sent by couriers who endured war, drought, famine, scrutiny and full body searches from suspicious soldiers at the borders of nations unfriendly to my cause. I've spoken to my people and even the no-men agree - there has never been a more perfect gathering, ever.

A grinning socialite asks after the children. She-s greased the rim of her tonic with lip rouge, her skin is pulled tight at 70, I begin to reply but think better - you don-t know these folk's motives.

I am a kingmaker, a heartbreaker, part time drunk and reinventor of the coup d'etat. My people are solid and dependable, our efforts are rarely opposed. My wines are red and accounts in the black; my lovely wife plots my death and I know how to throw a party. There are those who look on with envy, but never at my request.

She's the shining pearl of the engagement, more beautiful than life at its best. I pour out the rum punch she offers knowing it poisoned. I receive my guests in a corner and recheck the lines of sight.

I'm approached by a President giving me smiles (he shakes my hand limply and asks for a moment alone), an archduke looking for patronage (oldworldoldschoololdbreatholdman), and an analyst seeking advice. I take them in warmly, pat their heads and make them beg for treats from a passing tray of hors d�oeuvres.

The fire's roaring nicely, she's putting her back into the work. The stones are glowing slightly; several guests have succumbed to the heat. She breaks off with the shoveling most-ways through a box marked O-T. I look for bits of my past filed under Q but alas, everything from oak trees to systemic ethics has curled under the fantastic flames. Next up: Tabasco and table wines. Goodbye friends.

I look at the clock on the mantel. The fire's made its glass sad and droopy. It's almost time for the toast. I nod to the event handler, she motions to the chef, the chef kicks the kitchen boy in the seat, the kitchen boy alerts the servers, the servers take up their trays, the assassins take their positions.

I curl her in before taking the dais. She smells like smoke and sweet flowers. She asks me to kiss her and I do so gladly.

Even her weeping is lovely.

The scrappers are howling at the gates. The guests, overwhelmed and overcome, are getting restless. The children are away under qualified care. My wife lies weeping tragically on the hearthstones, tonight is her birthday, I'm glad you�ve all come. It's been a very special evening. And now we have a special surprise for you all.