The Empty Gala

The Empty Gala

Tobias checked his cheap gold-plated cufflinks for the third time. In the flickering lantern light of the Döbling villa garden they looked almost convincing.

Mr. Sterling stood at the head of the long white-clothed table, wearing a tuxedo from another decade. Behind him, Wagyu patties hissed on the grill, bleeding expensive fat into the embers. The smell was rich, almost obscene in the cool Blue Hour air.

“They are delayed by the weather, Tobias,” Sterling said, raising a crystal flute toward the darkening trees. “The Atlantic is a temperamental mistress, even for ghosts of state.”

Tobias adjusted his tray. “Of course, sir. Shall I keep the burgers on low heat?”

“Maintain the integrity of the beef. Mr. Jefferson is particular about his doneness. Medium-rare, with a firm char.”

Tobias nodded and moved to the first empty chair. He poured a splash of vintage Bordeaux into the untouched glass. The liquid settled with unnatural stillness. For a moment the air above the seat felt thicker, as if displaced by an invisible presence.

He did not look at the chair. He looked at his own scuffed shoes.

Sterling began his toasts.

“To the Continental Congress. May their influence be felt even here, in this crumbling empire of tradition.”

The crystal sang as he clinked it against empty air. A sharp, clear ting cut through the garden. For a second the light shifted — a bruised violet tint that made the white tablecloths look like old photographs.

Tobias served the next plate. As he set the Wagyu down, the fork beside the plate moved half an inch by itself. He pretended not to notice.

The host continued down the table, addressing each empty chair with perfect, terrifying courtesy.

“Mr. Adams finds the ice melting too quickly… General Washington sends his regrets but appreciates the vintage…”

Tobias kept serving. His hands moved on autopilot while his mind grew quieter and quieter. The garden was full. He could feel it. Thirty presences, hungry, expectant, anchored to this place by ritual and Sterling’s relentless politeness.

He was the only living thing moving between them.

When he reached the last chair, Sterling finally turned to him. The old man’s eyes were milky but focused.

“You are an efficient young man, Tobias. Would you like to sit? There is a place saved for you. Between the General and the Secretary. Prime position for observing the collapse.”

Tobias looked at the empty chair. The napkin was folded in a perfect triangle. The silverware waited.

He took one step backward.

“I have a class in the morning,” he said.

Sterling smiled, showing too many teeth.

“History class? How fascinating. You’ll find the primary sources far more difficult to manage than the textbooks suggest.”

Tobias kept backing away until his heels hit the stone wall of the villa. The gate he had entered through an hour ago was gone. In its place was seamless, damp stone.

From the table came the faint, rhythmic sound of silverware against china — thirty guests dining with impeccable, aggressive etiquette.

“Keep pouring, Tobias,” Sterling called softly from the dark. “They aren’t finished with you yet.”