Page 100 of The Secret Dinner

How have you been?

It’s been a while since I’ve heard from you. I miss you. Things have been weird around here. I got a little sidetracked and haven’t had a chance to write to you. Everything’s fine with Cora, don’t worry. I want to marry her soon. I’m happy. She’s been selling a lot of books and has been really successful online.

What’s on your mind, son? you must be wondering. I miss Miguel, but it’s not just that. I think I might be turning into a vegetarian—I don’t know. It’s just that I thought of something the other day. Remember when I was a kid and I used to play with the cows and pigs in the yard while you worked? Remember I had that pet chicken I named Antônia, how I loved my little stuffed cows and how I had two fish?

So … I keep trying to pinpoint the moment when I realized that Antônia was the same chicken I ate for lunch, that my stuffed cow was like the steak and onions for dinner, that the pigs behind the house were in the sausage I loved at barbecues. See what I mean? It’s a pretty big moment in a person’s life, and I should remember it, but nothing comes to mind. And that bothers me, it keeps me awake at night. When do kids discover that what their mom is serving for dinner is Peppa Pig? When do they figure out that we roast and eat Chicken Little? And why aren’t they angry?

God bless you.

With love,

Leitão

SUCKLING PIG

1

My drooping eyes fixed on the near-empty whiskey bottle. Cora got up to get more ice.

“Another bottle?” asked Hugo.

“Yes, please.”

He walked to the pantry and got more whiskey. He downed his glass in one big gulp, like a shot of tequila. I did the same, looking around at my friends under the warm glow of the lamplight. We were drunk and exhausted, worn out. For a moment I missed when we were kids roaming the streets of Pingo d’Água, playing ding-dong ditch, scaring the animals or stealing from the church collection plate.

Before I knew it, the clock struck two AM. Hugo was curled into a ball in the corner dozing, glass in hand, waking every now and then for another sip. Through the picture window loomed the hotel across the street, clad in mirrors, most of its rooms shrouded in dark curtains. In one of the sixth-floor windows, a couple was having sex.

I drank in silence, watching the shadowed figures shift positions, arms and legs tensed, heads tipped, and I imagined their moans, their sweat, their desire. I’ve always had a bit of a voyeuristic streak. Half an hour later, the couple disappeared through a door—the bathroom, I assumed—and then went back to bed, this time to sleep. My brain worked like that hotel: After an orgasm, the lights went out. Vladimir doesn’t exist, Piglet had said. He really wasn’t saved in Umberto’s contacts. And after stopping at the Fasano, Virgínia had gone straight to meet Umberto. Could I really have been that stupid?

“Umberto is drowning in debt,” I said a couple of hours later. “It doesn’t make sense for him to be the ringleader.”

On the table, Piglet and Cora were rolling their tenth joint. He shot me a scornful look, like he couldn’t believe I was still thinking about it.

“I still haven’t found who operates that offshore account where most of the money goes.”

“Do you think it could be in his name?”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

I stared at Piglet like a disappointed child who’s just found out Santa Claus isn’t real. Cora licked the rolling paper, but she was so out of it her fingers kept slipping, and she had to start over. Hugo’s half-lidded gaze wandered over us like his mind was navigating more entertaining universes.

“What do we do now?” I asked.

“We wait,” said Piglet. “I still haven’t confirmed anything. It’s just a hunch.”

Giving up on the joint, Cora grabbed Piglet and planted a sloppy French kiss on his lips, straddling him.

“I’ve gone through three stages of drunk, Love Nugget,” she said, licking his ear. “Impressionable…”—her mouth dipped, running her tongue over the folds of his neck—“vulnerable…”—she moved back up, biting his chin—“and submissive. Right now, I’m submissive.”

Drunk off my ass, my voyeuristic desires had reached their peak. Piglet laughed, scooping Cora up in his arms, and they disappeared down the hall together. It wasn’t long before the moaning began, in a range of pitches from low to high. I polished off the last of the third bottle of whiskey and retired around five AM, leaving a peacefully snoring Hugo on the living room floor clutching his glass of melted ice.

Once, on the wall of a public restroom, I saw a poem:

HE WHO LOVES, DEVOURS

2

Needless to say, I woke up Friday morning with a splitting headache. My phone was buzzing on my nightstand, but it sounded like a samba drumline inside my skull. I answered without looking.