CHAPTER NINE: THE KITCHEN BELOW THE STREET
Two mornings before the zoning hearing, Marta invited Ethan to the apartment where she lived with her aunt.
Her kitchen was barely large enough for two people to turn around.
She had laid three photographs on the table beside a mug of tea.
Each showed the back room of the bistro during a different memorial dinner.
“Look at the tables,” she said.
Ethan counted the place settings.
There were twenty-six in the first photograph, thirty in the second, and thirty-two in the third.
“Victor said he never held more than one event,” Marta continued.
“He told Gideon those were ordinary private parties.”
“Where did you get these?”
“I took them because the kitchen was doing too much with too few hands.”
Marta pointed to an elderly woman near the door.
“That’s Beatrice Shaw.”
Ethan recognized her from the meeting.
“She remembers attending one dinner, not three,” he said.
“Exactly.”
Marta explained that Victor had collected family stories at the first meal, rehearsed a presentation at the second, and held a promotional dinner for potential investors at the third.
He had called every gathering a remembrance event.
She said an outside consultant had provided questions for staff to ask guests.
“He wanted us to get them talking about how Eastbank had changed,” Marta remembered.
“Whenever someone complained about the old neighborhood, he told us to write the complaint down.”
“Complaints about what?”
“Everything from broken sidewalks to young people leaving town.”
Ethan studied the photographs.
“Then the final program made it look as though their complaints supported the redevelopment plan.”
Marta nodded.
“That is what I think.”
Her aunt entered carrying a basket of folded laundry.
“You two should eat something before solving the world,” she said.
Marta smiled despite herself.
Aunt Elena placed a plate of toast on the table.
She had worked as a school cook for twenty-nine years and regarded unpaid eating as an offense against common sense.
“I saw that old man on the news,” Elena said.
“He looked tired.”
“He is,” Ethan replied.
“Victor’s lawyers have been keeping him busy.”
Elena sat down.
“And you are losing weight because you’re too proud to ask for help.”
Ethan tried to argue.
She pointed at the toast.
“Eat.”
He obeyed.
For a few minutes the room filled with ordinary conversation about groceries, leaking faucets, and Marta’s niece learning to ride a bicycle.
Then Marta’s phone rang.
It was Simon Vale.
His voice shook enough for Ethan to hear him across the table.
“Victor is setting up the dinner somewhere else,” Simon said.
Marta straightened.
“Where?”
“An empty banquet room above the Graybridge Market.”
“The public hearing isn’t until next week,” Ethan said.
Simon paused.
“This isn’t for the public.”
“It’s for the people financing the project.”
He said Victor was advertising the event as the final presentation of community support.
The organizers planned to show portraits of deceased residents behind a speaker reading the contested endorsements.
Marta pressed her hand against her forehead.
“They can’t do that after everybody objected.”
“They say the material belongs to the event company,” Simon answered.
“And they hired another coordinator after I refused.”
Ethan looked at the photographs.
“How many people know about the banquet?”
“Enough to fill the room,” Simon said.
“But not the families whose names are in the program.”
