Page 8 of The Secret Dinner

He loved cooking for us, but what he really loved was making us his audience. Every December 31st, we met in our apartment’s suffocating kitchen early in the morning. Impeccably dressed in a black chef’s coat and hat, Hugo would describe every detail as he prepared the dishes. He tossed around a lot of French terms, like ciselé, fond, fouet, compote. It was like his own little one-man show, like Einstein presenting the theory of relativity to a bunch of ignoramuses. Pretty insufferable, as I’m sure you can imagine. Living with Hugo wasn’t easy, but all it took was one bite of his cooking to forgive him for being such a prick. That New Year’s Eve dinner was exquisite. By the end of the meal, our bodies and souls were humming in transcendental bliss.

Romantically speaking, my year had been just like all the ones before: a disaster. Quick encounters with partners I found on Tinder and Grindr, casual sex. It’s not like I was worried about finding a life partner—I thought I was too young for anything serious—but I did miss having someone to cuddle and watch horror movies with on a Friday night. Finding that was no easy feat on the apps, but I kept trying. Just like the start of every new year, I was filled with a sense of renewal, convinced this was the year I’d finally have a great love affair, quit my job at the bookstore, and find work that was somehow related to my degree.

The financial crisis was here to smash everyone’s hopes, though. Twenty years ago, Brazil had had its moment of glory; it was the country of the future, where everything seemed prosperous and better, until reality crashed back in. The world was swimming in a sea of shit and Brazil sank right along with it. The hospital where Miguel was doing his residency suffered spending cuts and his grant from the federal government wasn’t paid on time. Hugo, who was working at a restaurant owned by one of Brazil’s top female chefs, had pissed off his boss by refusing to sweep the dining room. “A woman’s place is in the kitchen … at home!” he’d said. Word got out and people in the industry started bad-mouthing him, forcing him to live off occasional gigs at a catering company while wasting the rest of his time on the internet writing food reviews and posting photos of his dishes with hashtags like #SharingHappiness #DivineDelight #BestChef.

Piglet was the same as ever, moping around in bed, meeting up with Cora from time to time (I saw her at least three times at the apartment after our birthday present), and adding to his collection of nerd porn: Sex Note, Lord of the Cockrings, Sex Trek: The Next Penetration, Buffy the Vampire Layer. I survived a round of staff cuts at the bookstore but had a nagging feeling that there would be another at any moment. It was a terrible time to be young in Brazil.

I could barely sleep without the help of Klonopin. If I couldn’t make it in the city, my only option would be to go back home to Pingo d’Água and work at my father’s notary office. On the phone, my mother was already hinting that I should throw in the towel. It was a nightmare. When I first came to Rio, I had dreamed of making a difference in the world. Now paying my monthly bills was the most I could dream.

Right after Carnival, I decided to get everyone together so we could discuss household finances. We stuck to the same arrangement for paying rent: Each person transferred their share to Piglet, who forwarded the total amount to the property management company online. We’d been doing it like that for five years and there had never been any hiccups. Since Miguel hadn’t been paid for two months, we agreed I would cover his share until things returned to normal. We agreed to cancel our cable and share the Netflix account. Plus, Piglet promised not to leave the AC on all day long, Hugo promised to stop spending a small fortune at gourmet markets, and I swore to take quicker showers.

Finally, we made the hardest decision of all. The next day, after work, I called Mrs. Dores over for a chat. She had been cleaning our apartment once a week since we’d moved in. It was tough to see this woman who had been through so much fall apart in front of me as soon as I opened my mouth. It was like she already knew. I tried to stay impassive, keep my distance, but it was impossible for my heart not to break when she looked at me with those pained red eyes, begging for mercy.

“We have no other choice,” I said. “I promise I’ll call you as soon as things get better.” I spent the rest of the night staring at the ceiling. Not even sleeping pills helped. Seeing the poor thing trembling, her eyes frightened by what the future had in store, felt like a bad omen. I knew we had to do it, but it ruined my mood. I went over the household budget again and again, under the delusion that I had any control over the situation. All we had to do was hold firm, cut our expenses, and wait for the tough times to pass. I dozed off when the sun was rising and woke up at nine to the sound of my phone. Still groggy, I looked at the screen (unknown caller) and answered.

“Good morning, Dante, this is Heitor, from the property management company. Sorry to call so early.”

I was suddenly awake. In the five years we’d lived in that apartment, Heitor had never called me. What could he possibly want?

“I’d rather talk in person,” he said when I insisted he cut to the chase. “Can you swing by my office in about an hour? Unfortunately, it’s not good news.”

2

The property management company was located in a stuffy little office on the third floor of a shopping mall downtown. It reeked of dust and paperwork, and a Bee Gees concert was playing on the TV. I was greeted by a bug-faced secretary who offered me coffee and told me that Heitor was just coming back from a meeting. I turned down the coffee, too nervous to be drinking caffeine. After the call, my brain had come up with a thousand scenarios until I reached a conclusion: He wanted to raise the rent and would no doubt blame it on taxes and renovations—you know how it is, the markets fucking up the lives of young people trying to become adults. I was ready to argue that we were good tenants, and that we’d agreed to rent increases in previous years, but there had to be limits, especially during a recession like the one we were living through. If he insisted on raising it, there’d be no other way: We’d have to jump ship.

Miguel was on call that morning and constantly texted us in the group chat Piglet had created—“Orgy in Rio”—asking for updates about the meeting. I texted back saying Heitor was late and he replied with sad crying emojis. I was worried, too.

While I waited in the small office, I checked my social media to briefly distract myself, to forget about the financial crisis and the rest of my problems. Finally, the agent arrived, reaching out his hand to greet me. He was bigger and balder than the first time we met. More of a bullshitter, too.

“Dante, good to see you.”

He walked around and sat in the chair across from me, back straight. He rummaged through the stacks of papers on his desk in silence until he found the one he was looking for.

“I got this letter from legal yesterday,” he said, handing it to me. “It’s about the debt collection notice the property management company intends to serve. Out of consideration, I decided to call you first and try to resolve everything amicably.”

“Resolve what?”

“You haven’t paid rent in six months.”

I stared at him, not understanding.

“We’re never late with the rent.”

“I know. That’s why I was surprised when I got the letter. The deposit’s no good in this case. They want to evict you.”

I leaned in close enough to take a good look at him.

“Are you not listening? The rent’s been paid.”

“The money never made it into the account. Are you the one making the deposits?”

“Piglet takes care of that.”

“Are you sure he’s been paying the last six months?”

“I trust my friends.”

“Dante, you’re the named tenant, your name’s on the lease. You’re the one responsible for payment.”