Page 80 of The Secret Dinner

“How long has this been going on?”

“I’m not sure,” he said, and he sounded sincere. “Vladimir organized everything. I just run things, pay the cops, that’s it.”

Amóz and another officer soon emerged from the woods carrying the woman’s body, also wrapped in black plastic. They placed her in the trunk of the car, ignoring me entirely, doing their job like robots.

“Did you shoot her?”

“She’s still alive,” replied Umberto. “Just a little doped up.”

“What are you going to do?”

“You mean what are we going to do,” he corrected me, slamming the trunk closed.

Umberto looked around to confirm he wasn’t being watched, then got in the driver’s seat. He started up the car and honked, beckoning me with his hand.

“Now you’re going to see where we store the seagull meat. Get in and put on the blindfold, okay? We don’t have all day.”

3

Once, on the wall of a public restroom, I saw a poem

TELL ME WHAT YOU EAT

AND I’LL TELL YOU WHO YOU ARE

The trip was faster this time. Or at least it seemed that way. My head spun with the memory of that murdered couple, tinted bright red. They’d been on vacation, happy, and then … that. There was nothing I could do. If I’d dared to react, I would have ended up just like them.

Every now and then, going around a sharp curve, I’d hear a rattle in the trunk and my stomach would churn. Judging by the car’s speed, we’d exited the highway and entered a wide but very busy road—maybe Avenida Brasil? After several more minutes, we turned onto a dirt road, heading uphill and through more desolate areas devoid of traffic noise. Finally, the car came to a stop.

“You can get out,” said Umberto.

I took off the blindfold. In front of me was an expansive lot, its perimeter marked by a barbed wire fence. In the center of the plot were two industrial warehouses topped with spotlights and huge exhaust fans—a large factory in operation. We were in the middle of nowhere. The sun was already beginning to set, painting the sky a beautiful and ominous orange.

“Let’s go,” said Umberto.

We passed through a gate flanked by two armed security guards and crossed the dirt. Nothing—not even the manhunt at the police station—could have prepared me for what lay beyond those walls. I’d never thought human beings were capable of imagining so much cruelty, much less executing it. I’ll try to describe what I saw in those few minutes I spent inside those warehouses. It’s important for you to know, but trust me, this isn’t easy for me.

I know that by now all this woe-is-me, crisis-of-conscience shit must be starting to wear a little thin for you. Because no, I didn’t do anything to stop it. I walked through those corridors, went into those rooms, watched horrific spectacles of violence and death, without lifting a finger against any of it. Two or three times I thought I was going to pass out, but that does nothing to lessen my culpability, I know. I left whatever shred of humanity I still had and plunged into a pit of suffering with no return. That was the moment I truly turned into a monster. So be warned. Into the slaughterhouse we must go.

The small door at the south end of the first warehouse led to what looked like a law firm waiting room, where we collected badges from a silent receptionist. From high windows came a mechanical hum, mixed with what sounded like the murmur of an audience waiting for the show to begin.

“Which of the senses do you think is the most important?” asked Umberto as we arrived at a turnstile.

“Sight. I could handle being deaf or mute, as long as I could see.”

“Wrong. Without taste, life is miserable, Dante. Taste is the only sense exempt from the ethics that govern the others. Imagine a performance artist mutilating an animal at a gallery or a musician capturing the sound of a tortured animal—it would be unthinkable! Yet for years, we’ve been killing, mutilating, and torturing animals simply because they taste good. People excuse so much suffering for their food. Anything is possible in the name of taste, my friend. That’s the principle you’ll witness here today.”

At the main entrance, before turning the door handle, Umberto looked back at me.

“I forgot one more thing. Your phone, please.”

I handed it over, praying he wouldn’t find the recording I’d made at the police station or the dropped pin I’d sent Cora. For a moment I had this horrible feeling that I’d never get out of that place alive. But Umberto powered off my phone without even glancing at the notifications on the lock screen and handed it back to me. I put it in my pocket, and we started down a series of well-lit corridors with clean white walls, like in a high-end private hospital.

From the other side of a set of metal doors came continuous sharp howls and animalistic growls, which Umberto didn’t seem to notice. At the end of a corridor was a larger metal door where the loudest screams seemed to come from, accompanied by desperate pleas. These were human screams. Two security guards in white overalls and tool belts were stationed at the door. With a nod, Umberto walked past them and opened it.

Instantly, a strong smell hit me. There were no windows or ventilation, just powerful white spotlights to mimic daylight. I took a few steps and my feet sank into a mixture of vomit and blood. Stacked against the walls were large cages, with naked, filthy, injured men and women chained to the bars.

There were at least thirty people, mostly women. Most of them looked homeless, though they could have taken on that appearance—bruised skin and blackened scabs—after their kidnapping. Placed in front of them were pots of greenish water and mustard-colored paste. Most seemed too drugged up to eat or say anything. Those who were still awake begged for help in muffled wails. I avoided their eyes.