Page 50 of The Secret Dinner

“Did you think I was lying?”

“I just wanted to check.”

He smiled, unfazed. He showed no signs of leaving anytime soon. I let out a yawn to indicate that it was getting late, but Umberto looked very comfortable on our living room couch. I hadn’t liked him from the start and was becoming more certain about it. I should have paid more attention to that first impression, but I’d gotten carried away by it all. I’d been oblivious.

“You know, Dante, I wasn’t born yesterday,” he began. “I can just imagine what you told that little couple when they got up from the table. You told them to break their plates, said you’d swap out the meat … Am I right?”

I swallowed hard, without answering. Umberto seemed to see something in my expression.

“I’m sure I wasn’t wrong about you. You’re a rare type these days.”

“I don’t know what you’re insinuating.”

“You are a mediator, Dante, a justice of the peace. You promised that couple you’d swap out the meat on their plates for normal steak, but you didn’t. They ate human flesh; they just didn’t know it. That was smart, kid. I like smart people.”

Umberto finished his cigar and left it in the ashtray on the coffee table.

“I live nearby, I’ll walk,” he said, getting up. “I hope we see more of each other. I’ll call you so we can get coffee.”

I called the elevator. Umberto patted me on the shoulder.

“Don’t torment yourself, kid. You did well to fool those two,” he said before walking away. “The world belongs to the bold, not the cowardly.”

7

The kitchen was empty. Some of the dishes had already been washed and were on the drying rack. Hugo had silently escaped to his room. His message was clear: I don’t want to talk about the body, leave me alone. My head was a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts, and I didn’t know how to proceed. I left the rest of the dirty dishes in the sink.

Once the adrenaline had worn off, I began to feel the physical effects of the tense evening: My whole body ached, my arms and legs cried out for rest. I took off my jacket and threw it over a chair. I unbuttoned the cuffs of my shirt and grabbed a clean glass to fill with what was left of the 2007 Château Le Puy Emilien Bordeaux. I turned off the lights and stretched out on the couch. I wanted to get a joint from Piglet’s room, but I was too lazy to get up. It still hadn’t registered what had happened. My tired eyes wandered the darkness, replaying the shadows of the guests, like they’d left behind threads of life. A dim light filtered from the hotel rooms on the corner and the streetlamps outside.

I can see now what a horrible thing we started that night. And I understand how such monstrosity was never going to end well. Distance and time allow you to see the facts more clearly. But back then, I didn’t consider myself an asshole; I wasn’t some cruel bastard who woke up plotting evil. I always helped blind people cross the street, I donated to a charity for sick kids, I liked to share videos of cute animals on TikTok. I refused to give out any cash, but I’d buy a sandwich for somebody who was hungry. I liked Carnival parades, toasting on New Year’s Eve, and having sex. I was exactly like you, exactly like anybody else. I just wanted to be happy.

With everything I’ve already told you, I’m sure you’re judging me. You must be relieved, thinking to yourself: I would never do what he did, this guy is a psychopath. I’m your thermometer of criminality, your mirror of morbidity, your compass of madness. But the truth is, if you were in my shoes, you’d have done the same. It’s easy to condemn someone, divert the blame, fabricate theories, and accuse the guilty party. But I’ll say it again: You would have done exactly the same.

People associate madness with evil and rationality with goodness. According to statistics, 12 percent of so-called normal people are criminals, murderers, or dangerous offenders. Meanwhile, only 3 percent of so-called crazy people become involved in serious crimes. That means that normal people kill at a much higher rate than crazy people. If there were more crazy people in the world, there would be less violence.

I had the urge to get up, but this time laziness won. I thought about the guests that evening, about the couple looking at each other in fear, about Albertina with her cheeks puffed out, about Umberto with his gun on the table and Ataíde with his foodie tales from around the world. I thought about the man on the table, sliced into prime steaks, served with a vodka, citrus, and green apple reduction. We didn’t even know his name. I went to the back door and called the service elevator. I hesitated a few seconds before pressing the garage button. I knew there was no going back.

There was only one light on in the garage. The time on my watch showed half past three. Turning on the flashlight on my phone, I walked between the parked cars. I could hear my heart beating. Bukowski was parked in the back. Hugo had parked it facing the wall. Usually he backed into the space.

At that moment, I knew my suspicions were correct. But still, I needed to see. I squeezed between the vehicles, my tuxedo pants brushing against the filthy metal, until I finally reached the front of the car. The left headlight was broken and the front panel looked dented. When I brought the white light of my cell phone closer, I could see traces of blood and pieces of skin stuck to the remaining shards of the headlight. I was overcome by this incredible pain.

Hugo had killed that man.

[Recipe]

Grilled Rack of Lamb with Citrus Vodka and Roasted Green Apple Reduction

INGREDIENTS

²⁄³ cup orange zest

¼ cup of lemon zest

2 teaspoons black pepper

1 teaspoon allspice

½ teaspoon cloves