Page 67 of The Secret Dinner

“It’s cool,” she said, lighting a cigarette. “I trust you guys.”

“I trust you too, Cora.”

“So why don’t you tell me what’s really bothering you? I know you.”

“I was on the phone with my mom. She was asking about my job at the bookstore. I told I’m still there, that everything’s going great, that I even got a raise. I just feel more and more distant from her.”

“Don’t say that, Dante. You’re the shit,” she said, like those words were the solution to all my problems. Then she smiled at me, her eyes half-closed.

Minutes later, she was snoring on my lap. I sat there, studying her features. For me, Cora was more than just fun or outspoken, she was mysterious. How could she just disembowel another human being like it was no big deal? I had always held a certain fascination for women, as if they were these immaculate, unattainable beings. Maybe that’s why I never felt anything sexual toward them.

I got up, driven by a sudden curiosity about this woman I’d become so fond of. I went to her bag and rummaged through its contents: lipstick, blush, toothbrush, eyeliner, coin purse, and even a pair of lace panties. Finally, at the very bottom, I found her faded ID, her biggest secret. The girl in the photo, born in 1993, really was Cora, but she looked more fragile, uglier, her eyes tired and her skin dull. Her name was Deusdete da Silva.

3

Umberto Marcondes de Machado lived in the iconic Chopin Building on Avenida Atlântica, next to the swanky Copacabana Palace hotel. We arrived on foot and found him at the hotel pool, surrounded by sunburned tourists clutching caipirinhas. He came over to greet us. He was wearing floral-print shorts, flip-flops, and a white T-shirt with tufts of gray hair peeking out from his armpits. It was the first time I’d seen him without a bow tie. His cologne reminded me of my grandma. He kissed each of us on the cheek and gestured to follow him.

“The Palace is like my backyard! I go for a swim there every day!”

We passed through Chopin’s main entrance into an imposing and well-appointed lobby. By the time we arrived at his floor, however, all signs of luxury had disappeared. A rusty mirror in the hall welcomed guests. Inside, the apartment was kitsch personified, brimming with chairs, cocktail tables, gargoyles, old pine cones, and decorative knickknacks. The musty smell wafting from the furniture and walls made you think the last time the place had been renovated was in the nineteenth century. I took a seat in one of the fifteen chairs in the living room, and my friends followed suit. Umberto chose a purple velvet armchair in the middle. He crossed his legs and clapped his hands to get the ball rolling.

“So, excited for tomorrow? I’ve been informed that the investigation into the body at the hospital was quashed. Has anyone troubled you again, Miguel?”

He swallowed hard. “No.”

“Excellent! That little detective guy who inspected the car was a real pain in the ass, but I don’t think he’ll be bothering you anymore. I took care of that too, didn’t I?

I agreed reluctantly. Umberto stood up to pour us each two fingers of whiskey and proposed a toast. Our glasses clinked in the air. Then the maid came in to say that lunch was served.

“Wonderful, Cícera! I don’t suppose seagull’s on the menu today, is it?” he said, amused.

“No, sir,” she replied sheepishly. She had no idea what he was talking about, but she must have been used to her boss’s unhinged behavior.

The dining room was equally old and gaudy. Umberto sat at the head of the table, undoing the elaborately folded cloth napkin covered in stains that had probably been there for years, tucking it into the collar of his shirt. His movements were affected, overdone, like he was living inside a never-ending play. For a moment it occurred to me that Umberto Marcondes de Machado might have been a closeted gay man, the type who marries women, has kids, and spouts prejudice in the name of “traditional family values.” But I didn’t dwell on the idea and even managed to enjoy the lunch, which was surprisingly nice. For the first course, pork tenderloin in a passion fruit reduction, a combination Hugo had never seen before.

“Our event is going to be a hit,” he said, chewing. “This is heavenly, isn’t it?”

We agreed, feasting on the meal. It was the best pork I’d ever eaten. Just exotic enough, leaving a slight sweetness on the roof of the mouth.

Umberto talked nonstop, boasting profusely. Gradually, his defense mechanism revealed itself: He used his silver tongue to reclaim his halcyon past and mask his downtrodden present.

“I’ve already got a waiting list long enough to sell out five dinners,” he said in between bites. “An interior decorator gave the house a refresh, and I called up five hyper-discreet waiters who have been with me for years. One for every two guests—that’s the proper etiquette. I’ve got a trustworthy company to handle transportation and security on-site. You’ll be well protected, my boys.”

None of this seemed to lighten Miguel’s mood. Even at the table, he kept his head down. He didn’t make the slightest attempt to hide the fact that he was hating every second of being there.

“Hey, wipe that look off your face. You’re ruining my appetite,” Umberto told him minutes later, as the maid collected our empty plates.

Miguel dropped his knife and fork, slamming his fist on the table so hard that the glasses vibrated.

“I can’t just sit here and listen to this in silence … It’s revolting! How do you guys sleep at night?”

“Consumption has nothing to do with morality, Miguel. Much less with having a conscience,” said Umberto, wiping sauce from his mustache. “Why do you eat beef, for example? Or rather, why did you just clean your plate? Because that’s how you were raised! This is your everyday reality! Meat is satisfying, it has a pleasant taste and appearance. So we eat it! What’s wrong with that? Absolutely nothing. With a little elbow grease, in two generations eating human flesh will be as standard as eggs and bacon for breakfast.”

Miguel cowered like a wounded bird. The maid brought in the main course: roasted duck—crispy on the outside, lush on the inside—served with a tamarind sauce, which gave it a tangy touch. It was delicious, but nothing compared to the pork tenderloin. I would dream about that dish for years to come. We ate in silence, accompanied only by the crunch of biting into flaky crust, silverware clinking on plates, glasses being placed on the table. Then Umberto spoke again, getting back to business.

“We need to define the company’s high-concept pitch.”

“The what?”