Page 43 of The Secret Dinner

I began to see the next day as some sort of psychedelic dream. Those people only wanted to eat human flesh to inject some adrenaline into their rich, monotonous lives. Cora was right: There was no point in being a hypocrite. I’d been eating meat since I was a kid, right? I never cared about the suffering of a cow, the torture of a goose; I never lost sleep thinking about all the pigs and chickens I’d devoured throughout my entire existence. Deep down, those people weren’t so different from me.

Finally, I managed to fall asleep.

[Letter]

Rio de Janeiro, April 21, 2023

Hi Mom,

How have you been? Last night I dreamed that my bed caught on fire. Have you ever had a dream like that? I know there are some types of dreams that everybody has. Like falling. Or dreams where you die, or you’re drowning … This one, about my bed catching on fire, is a recurring dream. Like Zulmara, who had those nightmares about that giant rabbit … Remember how she always used to talk about that?

How is Zulmara? Have you heard from her? I miss you and all your friends who lived in our house with us. It was always so lively. I liked how we’d have lunch and dinner around that giant table outside, covered in huge platters of delicious home-cooked food. It tasted a little like the countryside, and a mother’s love. Zulmara, Emanuelle, Nylda, Norma, and Sonia all used to spoil me. They’d pinch my cheeks and tell funny stories about me for everyone to hear. I loved it. I really miss those times.

The other day, I remembered something you used to say to me: “Stories about food are stories about ourselves.” I always thought that was so beautiful, but I never really understood it until now. I think of you whenever I taste a piece of well-seasoned pork, when I smell chimichurri, or when I feel like eating tapioca. And I think about the stories you told me, how you’d stroke my hair and remind me to bury those bags in the backyard. Food nourishes the body and soul, but it also helps you to remember.

Here in Rio, the guys don’t spend much time at the apartment. Since I’ve been working from home, I get kind of lonely and don’t eat very well. We rarely sit around the table together. But today things are going to be different. Hugo is going to prepare a special dinner. We invited some friends over to eat seagull meat, have you ever had it? I wish you were here to try it with us. I bet you’d like it. And it would be so great to see you again. I miss you.

God bless you.

With love,

Leitão

PS Cora sends her love and says she can’t wait to meet you.

DINNER IS SERVED

1

That day, April 21, started differently from other Fridays. The living room was spotless; you couldn’t tell it had been the scene of a total horror show just the day before. I was in the kitchen by nine. Hugo, hands slick, was stuffing lychees and peeling shrimp. The citrus aroma had taken on new, complex nuances, impossible to describe. There was something that went way beyond just sweet, salty, or bitter.

“Did you manage to get any sleep?” asked Hugo, without interrupting his work.

“Not really. I was thinking … Wouldn’t it have been better to hire drivers to pick up the guests? Wasn’t it kind of risky giving out our address?”

“Whoever paid for this dinner is as complicit as we are, Dante. Relax.”

I saw his point and peeked inside the oven, where the hearts of palm were roasting.

“It looks amazing.”

“It is amazing,” he corrected me.

I nodded, smiling. The combination of aromas was intoxicating. I went to get some juice from the fridge but was nauseated by a hideous odor coming from that side of the kitchen.

“Do you smell that?”

Hugo took a step back from the counter and inhaled deeply. Immediately, his face contorted in disgust. Hands still wet, he ran to the freezer and opened the door. The putrid smell barreled out with full force.

“Holy shit,” he said.

I came closer, in disbelief. At some point in the night, when we were storing the meat, the power cord must have snapped, shutting off the freezer. Inside the drawers, slimy red-and-white liquid pooled beneath the packaged steaks. You didn’t have to be a chef to know the meat had been completely spoiled.

2

“We’ll get another body,” Cora said matter-of-factly.

She was wearing a sheer nightgown and had raging morning breath. Beside her, Piglet was chowing down on two slices of bread with Nutella and drinking a glass of milk. On the kitchen floor, Miguel was cleaning his glasses, trying in vain to hold back the tears streaming down his face. For a moment I also wanted to cry, but I couldn’t give in so easily: “Everybody just stay calm … There has to be a solution.”