Page 54 of The Secret Dinner

My manager at the bookstore was a guy named Demóstenes. He sported a bushy red beard and took regular breaks to puff at a smelly pipe behind the mall. He allegedly had a degree in philosophy, but there were nasty rumors that he hadn’t even finished elementary school. He had the stuck-up air of someone from Ipanema, the strut of someone raised in a palace in Catete, and the street smarts of a poor kid from Lapa. Once, someone spotted him strolling around Leme carrying shopping bags.

At any rate, what Demóstenes got up to outside the bookstore is neither here nor there. Among the shelves, new release displays, and café tables, he was real. This was his territory, where he was always center stage. We’d never had the best relationship. Demóstenes knew this job was just temporary for me. He knew I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life helping old ladies find spiritual self-help books or selling teenagers the latest BookTok sensation.

I walked right past him, head down, pretending not to hear his scolding for being thirteen minutes late. I knew that soon enough I’d be called into his office for the unexplained absences the past couple of days. Sure, I could say Sorry, I was looking for a corpse to serve at a dinner party, but maybe it would be better if I convinced Miguel to write me a fake doctor’s note. I clocked in and put on the humiliating sales assistant apron. For the first time, I thought about throwing it to the ground and walking out. I spent eight hours a day in that bookstore, and at the end of the month, all I had to show for it was barely a tenth of what we’d earned with the dinner the night before.

The thing is, that dinner was savage and murderous. I had to remind myself of that. Our immediate problems had been solved, but a wire had been tripped, bringing to the surface resentments that I’d worked hard over the years to suppress. I felt wronged, spineless, and just done with it. I tried to distract myself by cataloging some new stock.

Atop a ladder with my back to the store, arranging books on the Code of Civil Procedure, I felt a hand wrap around my shin. Startled, I grabbed onto the shelves to keep from falling. Umberto Marcondes de Machado, dressed in a suit very similar to the one he’d worn to dinner, grinned at me like he was about to tell me I’d won the lotto. He must have a wardrobe full of nothing but three-button jackets and multicolored bow ties. This bow tie was hot pink.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, trying to keep my cool.

“I’m looking for a cookbook for seagull meat. Got any?” he said, chuckling, then made a vague gesture with his hands. “Just kidding, I came to talk to you.”

“I’m working.”

I glanced around the bookstore looking for Demóstenes. He’d slice my throat if he saw me talking to someone. Luckily for me, he must have gone out for a smoke and the bookstore was practically empty.

“Come grab a bite with me? I’ll wait for your break.”

“What do you want? How did you know I work here?”

“Sorry to show up like this unannounced, but … yesterday, after our dinner, I went home and tried to sleep, and I just couldn’t. I needed to talk to you, kid. I need to.” He ran his thumb along the side of his mouth, wiping away saliva, and fixed his gaze on me, eyes ablaze. “The dinner … I loved it. I mean I really loooved it. My God, what a meal. What an experience! I’ve never seen anything like it. The food was so delicious, and the apartment was beautiful … Do you live there, or did you rent it just for the event?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Hey, there’s no need to talk to me like that. I’m just saying I liked the space. My apartment used to be worth five million. By 2012, it jumped to ten. There was the World Cup, the Olympics … Brazil was trendy, but now it’s gone to shit. We had one chance to pull ourselves out of the gutter, and we sank even deeper … Typical. Recession, inflation, political scandals, a pandemic, but you know what? This could all be very good for business. The gringos still have their eyes on us. When times get tough, wise investors come out on top, Dante.”

“Sorry, but I have things to do,” I said, climbing down the ladder.

I went to the self-help section. On edge, I moved books around at random on the shelves. Ten Steps to Win in Life, The Way to Happiness, Know Thyself, A Happy Family … I couldn’t just kick Umberto out, but I also didn’t know how to avoid him.

He followed me, refusing to give up, and grabbed my arm tightly.

“Hey, you don’t get to talk to me like that!” he said. “Don’t you know who I am?”

“Yeah, I know,” I replied dismissively. “A washed-up aristocrat who still thinks he can call the shots and wishes the country would bring back the monarchy.”

Piglet had found photos of Umberto at a pro-monarchy event, the Imperial House of Brazil, which was pathetic. His great-grandparents had been important players in the transportation industry, but nowadays the disgraced Marcondes de Machado family was in debt up to their eyeballs, besieged by foreclosures and lawsuits. Umberto only had the one apartment, in the Chopin Building, which was considered a precious family asset, untouchable by the courts.

His eyes grew wide.

“It’s all over the internet,” I said.

“I am a Marcondes de Machado, I demand that you respect me!”

“You don’t even have a college degree.”

“And? I never needed college to be who I am. Money is all that matters, nobody gives a damn about the rest. What’s your degree in? Go on, tell me.”

“Business administration.”

“And how much money have you made with your degree? Nobody needs a diploma. Look, we got off on the wrong foot, but … I just want what’s best for you. While everybody’s complaining about the economy tanking, I’m seeing it the other way around: Now’s the time to make it big in Brazil. Especially for someone like you, who’s young and just starting out. Are you going to spend the rest of your life here, shelving books and taking them down? Is that what you want? I’m sure it isn’t. Strike while the iron’s hot, Dante. Brazilians are like weeds, we grow everywhere. In every far-flung corner of the world, you can find Brazilians. New York, Milan, Bangladesh. Paris, Taiwan, Barcelona, same thing. Disney World, for all the Brazilians it has, might as well be down the street.”

“What are you getting at?”

“You really don’t want to grab a quick bite with me?”

“No.”