each a re-enactment of the final meal of a famous person who had died before the age of thirty. Three friends, acquaintances or family of the soon-to-be deceased would complete the table. I suggested Famous Last Suppers, but Max, a devout Catholic, vetoed it. Beth added that Christ was thirty-three when he died and that no women had been present when he urged his disciples to perform their rite of metaphorical cannibalism. “Mary Magdalene was there,” said Chandra. “Look at the figure sitting to Christ’s right in da Vinci’s painting.” “That was John the Evangelist,” said Max. “He had the face of a girl. Besides, if Mary had been there, the food would have been better.” “She was there and it wasn’t to cook,” said Chandra with a wink. Chandra could imbue the driest fact with the urgency of warm, moist, smooth, flushed skin. Knowing that knowledge is sensual she extracted it from obscure niches the way a pickpocket can lift cash out from under a tight garter.
