Page 77 of The Secret Dinner

“Yes, eating meat, any kind, is monstrous, yet there’s nothing inherently wrong with it. We’re all monsters,” he said, adjusting his robe and smoothing his comb-over.

“Where do you get all that meat, Umberto? I have to know!”

He sighed pitifully.

“There’s no need for secrets between us, Dante. If you really want to know, let me get dressed and I’ll show you. But you better be ready.”

2

I started to feel kind of ridiculous, and reckless, for confronting Umberto without telling my friends. This was exactly the kind of fatal mistake you’d see in a horror movie: going after the killer without telling anyone. So once the old man disappeared down the hall, I messaged the group: Talking to Umberto. If anything happens to me you know who to talk to. I slipped my phone back into my pocket, feeling the stabbing ache in my head worsen. The face of every person we’d served at dinners over the past few months flashed before my eyes … thin women, fat men, people of all ages, wealthy gentlemen and young men with bright futures ahead of them … My God … all those people had been murdered. How? By whom?

The ring of my phone brought me back to reality. I had zero desire to talk to Miguel, but declining the call might make things worse.

“Dante, are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

“I saw your text—you need to get out of there right now!” he said, in tears. “These people are dangerous! I found out that pork tenderloin wasn’t pork. It was fucking human flesh, man! We have to go to the police!”

“Miguel, don’t do anything. I…”

I wanted to cry too, but then Umberto walked into the room wearing a navy-blue dress shirt and a bow tie that matched his khaki pants, a more discreet choice this time.

“I have to go.”

I hung up and looked back at him, trying to hide my fear.

“Is there a problem?”

“No, it’s nothing, it was just my mom. Shall we?”

Umberto stood aside, motioning for me to lead the way. We took the elevator down in silence and made our way to the back of the building, exiting onto Avenida Nossa Senhora de Copacabana.

“We’ll take your car,” he said. “But I’ll drive.”

I was still in shock, and my conscience urged me to react, but I didn’t know how to. We walked to my building and went directly to the garage. Without complaint, I got into the passenger seat. Before starting the car, Umberto took a blindfold out of his pocket and handed it to me.

“Please, just do it,” he said. “It’s for your safety.”

I put it on and leaned back against the headrest, plunged into darkness but determined to memorize the path somehow. We hit heavy traffic early on. The windows were up, which prevented me from reaching any further conclusions about our route: There were a lot of traffic lights, and a long series of left and right turns. Then we finally got onto what felt like an expressway—Aterro do Flamengo? The Red Line? I was lost. We’d been driving for at least two hours when Umberto put on his turn signal and parked on the right.

“We’re here,” he said. “You can take off the blindfold now.”

My eyes took a while to get used to the strong sunlight beaming through the windshield. I glanced at the clock on the stereo: 11:14. Looking around, I couldn’t help but feel surprised: We were stopped at a highway patrol station on what appeared to be a busy parkway surrounded by trees and bushes. There was a small bottleneck where patrol officers wearing vests were waving cars onto the shoulder for inspection behind a line of orange traffic cones.

“Is this some kind of prank?” I asked.

“Just get out of the car,” said Umberto.

He slammed the door and walked toward the station, motioning for me to follow him. There were three or four cars parked next to us, with nervous drivers showing their licenses and registration to the traffic cops. I noticed a black Nissan Maxima nearby with a young woman napping in the passenger seat. Meanwhile, the driver—a goofy-looking guy—and an officer were facing the trunk. Something about that scene felt familiar, but I kept walking.

We walked down the main corridor of the police station without any officers stopping us or asking any questions. For a moment I wondered if Umberto was actually an undercover cop. Maybe it was all a setup to arrest Vladimir, though it made no sense at all for him to be from the highway patrol.

We went into an office behind a dark glass partition at the end of the hallway, which contained a desk, an old computer, a fax machine, and several stacks of paper. A man got up from behind the desk to greet Umberto. I peeked the name on his badge: Antunes.

“Who’s this?” he asked, pointing his hairy finger at me.

“He’s here to go hunting with us.”