Page 109 of The Secret Dinner

“Do you want me to get the antacids?”

“Yeah, but … I don’t want us to keep fighting. I think maybe I overreacted a bit. I’m sorry. Will you forgive me?”

Immediately I realized something was off. Maybe he could see right through my plan. Hugo slammed the door and sprinted down the stairs. I jumped out of the bed, hoping Arthur had had time to hide.

“What the fuck?” I heard Hugo shout.

I got to the kitchen in time to find him wrestling with Arthur on the floor beside the sink. They were trading blows, but Hugo was stronger. He started to strangle Arthur, roaring like an animal and keeping him immobilized with his legs. Arthur was gasping for air, about to pass out, but managed to grab Hugo by the ears and began to twist, almost ripping them off. Hugo then punched him in the face once, twice, three times, bloodying his face. I needed to break them up. I knocked Hugo off-balance with a kick to the back, giving Arthur a chance to crawl away and get to his feet, leaning heavily against the counter.

Hugo broke free from me, spinning and elbowing me in the stomach. Before I could react, he knocked me to the ground and started kicking. I shut my eyes, certain that he had us beat. Then, suddenly, the kicking stopped. As I lay there, panting, feeling like my stomach was on fire, I saw Hugo’s eyes freeze, his legs go limp and his knees buckle. He fell to the ground, writhing in pain.

Arthur had stabbed Hugo five times in the back.

I crawled to Hugo, my bones aching. There was no doubt that he was dead. I was surprised to find that I felt no emotion as I looked at my childhood friend’s lifeless body. A single, evil thought crossed my mind: Well done. I closed his eyes like someone filing away a solved case. As his blood pooled and seeped across the floor, Arthur grabbed a mop and motioned for me to help him carry the body to the guesthouse.

“We can’t stop now,” he said.

We wrapped Hugo’s dripping body in a blanket and made our way out back. I looked for any signs of the struggle as I retraced my steps, wiping blood spatters from the stove and cabinets. I washed the dishes in the sink while Arthur poured the entire jar of poison into the saucepan, stirring with it a wooden spoon, turning down the heat slightly.

3

“Just pretend nothing happened,” Arthur said before returning to the guesthouse.

I was a wreck. I wiped down the murder weapon, placed it with the other knives, and looked around to make sure that I hadn’t missed anything. Arthur returned from the back and guided me to the living room couch. I leaned my head back, closing my eyes, trying to calm down. It was impossible.

I searched for a lie to tell the sous-chefs about Hugo, but before I could come up with one, they arrived. Arthur ran to hide, and I only had a few seconds to compose myself. I told them that Hugo had finished the mise en place and the sauce but had had to leave to take care of a personal matter. They would be on their own that night.

“Do you think you can manage?” I asked, challenging them. They agreed hesitantly. I sent them to the kitchen to finish preparations and headed upstairs. I took a shower and put on my tux. It was the night of reckoning. I was nervous, but at that instant I wasn’t scared. A target on your back will do that to you. This was it—the moment that I’d felt approaching in the back of my mind for months now. All my friends were now dead. All my trust was now in Arthur. Minutes before the guests’ arrival, I laid the finishing touches on the table—flower arrangements, cloth napkins, and candles. I hit shuffle on my Best Love Songs of All Time playlist, lowered the volume, spritzed some breath freshener into my mouth, and went to answer the door.

In the first wave of guests, Kiki Dourado arrived in a silver dress, chatting away with Nilo Carlos Arruda and Gabriel Franco Herméz Neto. I complimented her—she was an attention whore—and welcomed the two men inside. I ordered the waiters to serve champagne while I presented the evening’s menu: as an amuse-bouche, seagull foie gras pâté with pain d’épices and green pepper foam; for the starter, eggplant and seagull carne de sol with Halloumi cream and date compote.

“And the main?”

“The main course is a surprise this evening,” I said with perverse pleasure. “But I can tell you that the sauce is our most delicious yet. And the meat … it’s exquisite!”

I repeated the same spiel a second and third time for each new wave of guests. I circled the room, taking orders, serving drinks, and making small talk. Around nine, once everyone was in the living room, I clapped my hands to get their attention.

“It’s a pleasure to welcome you all here today on this very special occasion. You already know me, but my name is Sidney and I’m here to make sure you have the best night of your life. I want you all to have fun. I suppose you have a lot of questions; most do their first time.”

“There are no newbies here!” said Soninha, nibbling on the cherry in her drink.

A hungry buzz grew among the guests, like shoppers outside a Walmart on Black Friday. I forced my best smile: Dinner would be served shortly. I led everyone to their seats, arranged with their initials on place cards. Umberto took the opportunity to approach me and grabbed my arm.

“It’s nice to see you here. And Arthur?”

“I did what you asked.”

I quickly moved away to pull out the chair at the head of the table for Ataíde Augustín, who was even bigger than the first time I’d met him. His name had recently been involved in every political scandal in the country, but he seemed surprisingly relaxed and in good spirits. While one of the sous-chefs finished the starters with meticulously arranged basil leaves, I asked the other to prepare some fresh-squeezed limeade to take to the drivers and security guards outside.

“Fresh-squeezed limeade?” he asked.

“Let’s do something nice for them.”

I went out the back with the tray, slipping sleeping pills into each of the glasses before reaching the patio. I served the drinks and returned to the dining room just in time to watch the amuse-bouche being served.

“To start, our traditional seagull pâté with spiced bread,” I explained as the waiters refilled their glasses with Tokay wine. “Our chef has added his own special touch with green pepper foam. Enjoy!”

Umberto leaned forward, tapping a fork lightly against his glass. He lifted it into the air, unable to contain his excitement.