Page 82 of The Secret Dinner

Umberto talked the whole time as we walked between stalls, pointing out slaughterers, deboners, evisceration processors, and those responsible for splitting the carcasses. I paused to look at the machines, their whir of chains lifting bodies through the air on hooks. That loud metal clanging mingled with the squeals of animals from neighboring stalls, and the cries for help from the people dragged into that place. At the same time, there was this false sense of comfort brought about by the sterile, white cleanliness and the synchronization of the machines. The technology was stripping people of their humanity and turning them into objects on a production line.

We stopped at an empty stall where two workers were hosing down the bloody floor. They continued their work, ignoring our presence, until the woman I’d selected was brought out and left in the middle of the space. Her face was disfigured, her arms crooked and broken. When they cuffed her wrists and tried hoisting her up on the chains and pulleys, she howled in pain.

Her screams were so piercing that I stopped hearing whatever it was that Umberto was saying. The worker finally caught on that her right arm was broken and lowered her back to the ground, securing shackles to her ankles to hoist her upside down. Hanging naked from the hooks, the woman really did look like a piece of meat, her muscles stretched, her chest heaving, blood running down her long, bristly hair, pooling on the ground.

By this point I’d assumed she’d be dead already or at least unconscious, but she remained lucid, moving her torso as best she could, screaming as she watched herself be butchered. Finally the shorter worker approached with a pneumatic pistol and fired into her skull. The woman collapsed instantly.

“That’s called stunning,” Umberto said. “It’s a humane slaughter technique.”

The worker pulled a knife from his tool belt and carved a neat chunk of flesh from her left buttock. He made another cut on the side of her abdomen. “Just make it stop,” I asked desperately.

The man grabbed a chainsaw from the tools hanging on the wall. I couldn’t stand to be there any longer. I didn’t care about the consequences; I turned my back on that monstrosity and ran. I could hear Umberto shouting for me to come back, but I didn’t stop. I fled the room, down empty corridors and stalls.

The workers didn’t even look at me, absorbed as they were in their mind-numbing labor, but two security guards stopped me as I was passing from one warehouse to the other. I started to scream. They gripped me tightly as I flailed my arms and legs. It seemed for a moment like they were about to hook me up, too, and slice me up. In my despair, I remembered the look on that hunted woman’s face back at the station, witnessing the execution of her husband and dog and then being taken to the slaughterhouse. If I’d known what they did to people here, I would have killed her on the spot. Out of pity. To spare her more suffering.

The security guards dragged me to the infirmary. As I lay on the floor near the entrance, immobilized, my head spinning, a worker approached, syringe in hand. I tried to escape, but my legs wouldn’t move. I felt a twinge in my arm, which soon went numb. Seconds later, my body collapsed, and I was plunged into darkness.

4

I woke up furious, punching the air. I don’t know how long I had been out. My head was pounding, and I lay on a floral-patterned sofa. I immediately recognized Umberto’s tacky living room in the Chopin Building. For a second, I wondered if I’d emerged from a nightmare. No … Those smells, sounds, and images were too visceral to be a fever dream. Umberto appeared, holding a glass of water. He left it on a small table next to me and sat down in the purple armchair, which seemed to be his favorite.

“All that … How can you…?” I started to say, but a stabbing headache clouded my thoughts.

“Relax, kid, don’t get all worked up again.”

“It’s sadistic … treating people like they’re…”

“Drink your water,” he said.

I obeyed like a little lamb. Water had never tasted so good.

“If it’s any consolation, the seagulls served at the villa are special. They don’t go through that whole process. After all, you’re the ones who butcher them,” he said. “Now go home and rest.”

“My friends are going to ask questions. They’ll want to know what’s going on, too. The woman on that flyer…”

“That’s your problem. Tell the truth or make something up. But be creative if you have to,” he said, pouring himself a shot of whiskey. “You’re excused from dinner this weekend, if you want.”

“I’m never going to another dinner again … after the things I saw…”

“Dante, my boy, you’re fired up,” said Umberto, sipping his whiskey. “Just do as I tell you: Go cool off. Get some rest. The car keys are over there on the coffee table. We’ll talk later. You can’t jump ship now, not when we’re all in the same boat.”

“I’m not scared of going to jail.”

“That’s the least of your problems, kid.” He raised his glass like he was making a toast. “Bye-bye now.”

Umberto disappeared down the hallway, leaving me alone in the living room. I felt like knocking over an expensive-looking golden vase, but I knew it would just be a foolish provocation. I grabbed the car keys and slammed the door behind me. I turned on my phone and several messages immediately popped up, in addition to thirteen unanswered calls from Miguel. I called him back, but he didn’t answer. I tried two more times before I got to the building’s garage and started the car.

On the way home, I passed the police station on Rua Hilário de Gouveia, a few blocks from our apartment. I thought about stopping and putting an end to it all. I had the location of the highway patrol station and the audio recording as evidence. That would be enough to open an investigation, right? But I couldn’t do it alone. I decided I’d tell my friends what I’d seen and we’d come up with a plan together.

I got home just before ten. Weak and devastated, I stepped out of the elevator and turned the key. As soon as I crossed the threshold, Cora came running toward me, weeping, disheveled. Piglet and Hugo were sprawled on the sofa, looking feverish, their eyes also wet. I’d never seen Hugo cry.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

Piglet just looked at me, his eyes full of pain.

“The police just called. Miguel is dead.”

[Human Organs on the Black Market]