Page 47 of The Secret Dinner

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

YOU ARE WHAT YOU EAT

YOU EAT WHAT YOU ARE

When I entered the dining room with the main course, the plates cloaked in stainless steel cloches to maintain the temperature and concentrate the aroma, all conversation stopped and everyone’s attention locked onto the tray. They could feel they were on the verge of a big moment—all you could hear was the clinking of cutlery, the rustling of cloth napkins, and the anticipation in their breathing. I went around the table, serving one guest after another. Once all the plates were served, I started with the women: I lifted Albertina Terranova’s cloche and immediately watched her eyes gleam from the scent alone. Discreetly, the other diners craned their necks to get a look at the rare meat.

Albertina closed her eyes and brought the fork with a substantial chunk of meat to her mouth. As I lifted the other cloches, I watched every subtle movement on her face. She blew on it briefly, then her teeth grabbed hold of the meat and sank into it, her mouth soaked with saliva, her rosy cheeks inflated and deflated as she chewed. Her tongue, kneading and turning the bite over in her mouth, ran across her thin red lips to ensure no juices escaped. Finally, as she swallowed, Albertina brought her hands to her face, inebriated, making a delighted smirk. Noticing all the rings on her fingers, I couldn’t help but find a certain similarity between female embellishment and the seasonings in the dinner. They were just different ways of preparing meat.

Like a starving schoolboy, Ataíde Augustín gnawed on an entire slice and offered his praise before the meat could even reach his stomach. “Wow,” he said, piercing the next bite with his fork.

That one, simple interjection was a hint of the enthusiasm that foreshadowed the dinner’s success. Albertina’s face hovered over her plate, her giraffe-like neck tilted slightly, mouth open wide to receive forkfuls of meat. Passion animated her muscles. As she chewed, an expression of ecstasy washed over her face, and her gaze had an intensity akin to a surgeon at the operating table. Kiki, on the other hand, approached eating more like a soldier: sitting perfectly straight against the back of her chair, she chewed slowly, shooting me approving looks.

“Look, I’m going to confess something to you all…” said Umberto a few minutes later. “I’ve had this experience before. In Russia, in 2018. I found an underground restaurant and ate grilled human flesh.”

“And how was it?” Cecília wanted to know, her mouth still full.

“It had a very distinct taste, just like this. But the seasoning was just awful. This is wonderful. And it’s perfectly cooked, too. Nice and bloody, just the way I like it.”

On each person’s face, you could see the joy of having reached unparalleled pleasure. Umberto wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin, adjusted his bow tie, and asked me to call the chef so he could give him his compliments. I didn’t take him seriously at first, but the others joined in.

“They want to see you,” I said to Hugo in the kitchen. “They loved the food.”

“I knew it,” he replied, his eyes gleaming.

Hugo puffed out his chest and spun his hat around on his head, bringing his name to the front. He swiftly pulled off his apron and went into the dining room, where he was greeted with applause. He bowed his head, pretending to be shy. I knew him well and understood how proud he was. This was his big moment. Watching from a distance, I saw that Kássio and Gustavo were not applauding, and they hadn’t touched their food, either. After a few seconds, Umberto noticed, too. Putting his praise for the chef on hold, he turned to the two young men:

“Aren’t you going to eat?”

The couple exchanged glances. Kássio squeezed his boyfriend’s thigh under the table to reassure him. Gustavo looked nervous; he was white as a sheet, biting his lower lip.

“I … I can’t,” he said.

Umberto cleared his throat without taking his eyes off him. “But this is spectacular!”

Gustavo whispered to Kássio, “I told you we shouldn’t have come!”

Their food was getting cold. Cecília, Ataíde, and Kiki continued to devour their meal, uninterested in the discussion. Soninha even glanced at their plates as if she was about to ask, Can I have what they don’t eat? Kássio stood up, tugging on Gustavo’s arm. He turned to Umberto as if he were the host.

“We apologize for the inconvenience. We liked the idea for the dinner when we saw it online, but now … I feel a little … disgusted. Anyway, we’d better go.”

Umberto placed his knife and fork on the table and interlaced his fingers, staring down the two men.

“You can’t leave.”

“What?”

“You can’t leave without eating,” he said, running his tongue over his canines to fish out a shred of meat. “You know the address, you saw our faces … The only way we can be sure you won’t go to the nearest police station and report what’s going on here is if you eat.”

“I won’t go to the cops. You can trust me,” begged Gustavo.

Disappointed that he had lost their attention, Hugo returned to the kitchen. I knew I had to take action, but I just stood there, waiting for the couple to say something. Kássio walked to the front door, ready to dash.

“I said, you can’t leave,” Umberto repeated. This time, he reached into his waistband and pulled out a revolver. He left the gun on the table, next to his wineglass. “I’m not kidding, girls.”

Everyone stopped eating. Kiki cowered in her chair, staring pale-faced at the gun, and began to recite the Hail Mary in French.

“Why are you praying in French?”