Madelina was speaking again. “Who’s there? Is that a little lamb? A little piggy lamb?” I could tell, though, that she had turned away from the counter. She was moving toward the far end of the kitchen.

Then I heard another weird noise, a kind of snuffled whimper.

I inched my head above the counter. Madelina was dressed in long, dark robe, a sort of nun’s habit. She was kneeling before a small alcove, into which was wedged some kind of large, glistening doll. Then the doll whimpered again, and I could see that this was Sandro, that he had folded himself into this small space, which was, in fact, the dumbwaiter. He was dressed in boxer shorts, and his skin appeared to have been slathered in some kind of lotion. Then I noticed a bowl to Madelina’s left, half full of what my mother would have called drippings—the liquid fat gathered from the broiler beneath the lamb.

With her left hand, Madelina stabbed at the platter beside her and slowly raised a slice of lamb toward Sandro’s mouth. She was speaking softly now, almost tenderly. “Mi gordito,” she said. “Tienes hambre, eh?”

It was entirely unclear to me how Sandro had fit himself inside the dumbwaiter. He was, as I’ve mentioned, a fat child, folded upon himself; his limbs were pinned against his flanks. His mouth struggled for the meat, abject and fishlike. Madelina flicked his forehead to still him. She held the slice beneath his nose, drew it away, dragged it across his forehead, across the bridge of his nose.

Sandro’s eyes began to tear up.

“Don’t cry, gordito. The Lord provides. Do you believe that, little lamb?”

Sandro nodded.

She continued to drag the meat across his face, like a sick rag. “But you have to suffer for your sins on this night, don’t you?”

This went on for some time. At last, she let him bite down on one end. The other end she placed in her own mouth. They chewed until their lips were touching. This wasn’t kissing. It was more in the spirit of two wolverines.

I wish I could report that, having slipped out of the kitchen, I proceeded directly out of that house, to the nearest police station. But no. I was still drunk, and now quite frightened. I couldn’t imagine heading back down to the basement. I had to see Dria, not to make love to her, necessarily, nothing that complicated. I simply needed to cower under her covers until daylight. I was certain she was innocent of all this.