WHILE SAUL WATCHED the racetrack illuminated by the floodlights and listened to the murmur of wagers, Meggie commented on the sudden blackout with the typical enthusiasm of someone who could turn any incident into a story.
Raphaniè's eyes, however, were focused elsewhere: he was carefully observing the man standing behind Baruch Hawkings — a fellow in a glittering suit, with an affected smile and broad, almost theatrical gestures. There was something about him that did not fit that environment of wealthy gentlemen. A disguise, perhaps, and for a brief moment, the priest felt the same chill that visited him during exorcisms.
— That guy is quite flamboyant, don't you think, Father? — Meggie asked, frowning.
Raphaniè hesitated, as the reflections of the lights shimmered across the crystal glasses and the sound of voices mingled with the rustling of banknotes on the betting tables. He took a deep breath before answering, still watching the group of six men holding whiskey glasses and laughing as though they knew something everyone else did not.
— I'm not here to judge anyone — he finally replied, raising another glass of champagne to his lips.
— Speaking isn't judging, Father. It's just... observing.
— I agree with you — he shot back, winking, a flash of irony crossing his calm features — but it's still too early to draw any conclusions about him.
Meggie smiled, amused by the mysterious tone.
— The race is about to start! — Saul announced, suddenly animated, clapping his hands on the table.
AFTER THE SIGNAL, THE GATES sprang open with a metallic snap, and the dogs shot forward like arrows after the mechanical hare buzzing along the rails. The roar of the crowd echoed through the panoramic restaurant. Saul fell silent, his fists clenched on the table, his eyes fixed on the track as though his will alone could push the dog ahead.
Within seconds, the greyhounds vanished around the bend. His dog, Wolfgang van Bach, was in last place — a dark blur nearly swallowed by the dust. Saul rose to his feet, tense, following the race on the television suspended above the bar.
— Come on, Wolfgang van Bach! — Meggie shouted, her voice vibrant.
The underdog gained ground: fifth place, then fourth, and Saul's heart began to race. Baruch Hawkings, standing beside his own table, was roaring the name of his favorite, the elegant Baron Fawkes.
— Run, Baron! Show them who's in charge! — the English lord bellowed with a scornful grin.
The crowd began chanting in unison. Wolfgang van Bach drew level with the third-place dog, then overtook the second, and in a spectacular burst, caught up with Hawkings' dog. The two ran side by side, fighting for every inch of the track. The stadium held its breath.
A shrill sound echoed through the venue, signaling the end of the race.
Meggie looked at Saul and saw the gleam in his eyes. Even before the result was announced, he was already smiling — a smile that blended pride and disbelief.
But suddenly, murmurs spread throughout the hall. The screen displayed only the message: "Result Under Review."
— What happened? Who won? — the priest asked, raising his eyebrows.
— It's like horse racing — Meggie explained with her characteristic charm and clarity — when two competitors finish together, the judges have to analyze the footage to determine the winner.
— And what position did Saul's dog finish in? — the priest insisted.
— I'd bet he beat Hawkings' dog — the American replied, leaning toward the screen — I'd say his snout crossed the finish line by a few inches.
— Incredible! — the announcer declared seconds later. — The winner of tonight's first race is... the underdog Wolfgang van Bach!
A roar of applause swept through the restaurant.
— He won! — Saul cheered, raising his arms.
— Didn't I tell you he would? — Meggie bragged with a victorious smile.
— Congratulations, Saul. A toast to the dog of many names — Raphaniè proclaimed, lifting his glass in a solemn gesture.
— Cheers! — the journalist replied enthusiastically, clinking glasses.
— Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to the restroom — the priest said, adjusting his jacket and moving away through the tables.
— I think I'm starting to believe in witchcraft — Saul joked as he watched him disappear through the door.
— Why don't you say that to his face? — Meggie teased.
— I'd rather avoid unnecessary controversies.
— I like that priest — she commented, leaning back in her chair. — He has a sense of humor. He's different from the others I've met.
— And dangerous, too — Saul replied, half serious, half joking. — He has the look of someone who sees more than he lets on.
— What did you think about the story he told earlier?
— Intriguing... and dark. — Saul took a sip of wine. — I'll tell you the rest later. For now, let's celebrate Wolfgang van Bach's victory.
— I refuse to accept the result! — Baruch Hawkings shouted, crossing the hall with his face burning red. — That underdog is as much a cheat as his owner! — he roared, passing Saul's table and glaring at him before disappearing toward the restroom.
— I'm sorry, Saul — Meggie commented, lowering her voice — but whenever that man opens his mouth, all that comes out is poison.
— If what the priest said is true — the journalist replied, watching the lights above the bar — today's defeat is merely the amuse-bouche of the banquet fate has prepared for him.
Before Meggie could answer, another blackout struck the restaurant. The lights went out with a snap. A murmur swept across the hall, and the generators took a moment to respond. Darkness enveloped everyone — dense, almost tangible. For an instant, the only audible sound was that of a glass rolling across the floor... and shattering.