Page 91 of The Secret Dinner

“I just can’t stop thinking about that poor guy who lost his fiancée. I can’t get that flyer out of my head.”

“Stop it, Dante. What can you do about it? Call the man and apologize?”

“It’s our fault.”

“No, it’s not. Umberto tricked us, he made up that story about the crematoriums. But look at us now. We have money. We can do what we want. Life can still be good, my friend.”

She went to the wine cellar and picked out a 2008 Bonnes-Mares, a French pinot noir worth 20,000 reals.

“We can’t drink this.”

“Screw it,” she said with a grin. She opened the wine and poured two glasses. “Drink up, it will do you good. Booze is like existential lube.”

3

After the craziness of the last couple of days, I ended that night on my best behavior. Cora and I polished off the bottle of wine, talking about everything and nothing all at once. The sun was already up when she helped me tidy up the living room and we took an Uber back home. I fell into bed and woke up at noon, with a splitting headache and a crushing depression weighing on my chest, a feeling I was used to the morning after taking Molly, but which had been growing increasingly strong these days.

I got up and made a sandwich. My mind kept revisiting a nightmare I’d had recently, where Umberto said horrible things as he dissolved into colorful shapes and lines like a Romero Britto painting. Suddenly, I remembered something Umberto had told me at the slaughterhouse, about Ruth. That was a direct order from Vladimir. Eliminating a witness. She had died because she knew too much.

I stared at the flyer with its creased, faded picture. If I wanted to find out more about the big boss, this was the best way. I locked my bedroom door, sat on the edge of my bed, and called one of the numbers on the flyer. A man answered on the first ring.

“Hi, I saw a flyer for a missing woman.”

“Yes, she’s my fiancée,” he blurted breathlessly. “I’m Arthur. Have you seen her?”

“I don’t know, maybe.”

I heard a sigh from the other end. Maybe I was the first person who’d called.

“What’s your name?”

“Dante,” I said, not quite sure why I was telling the truth.

“Can we meet?”

The hunger with which he asked the question made me wince.

“Where?”

“You choose.”

“There’s a café on Rua Duvivier, opposite Beco das Garrafas.”

“I know it,” he said eagerly. “How about in an hour?”

“Okay, see you then.”

“Listen, thank you for calling.”

4

I took a long shower, rehearsing lies as I lathered up. Even under the cold water, I was sweating. I toweled off in the mirror to confirm I looked at least a little human. I needed something specific enough to tell Arthur without losing sight of the reason I’d scheduled the chat: to find out what Ruth knew that was so important it’d gotten her murdered.

The café was only a couple blocks away. I got there a few minutes early and recognized Arthur as I was passing a newsstand. Sitting at a small table on the sidewalk, facing the street, the sad man followed passersby with his eyes, obviously expecting one of them to be me. I took a deep breath, crossed myself, and approached his table.

“Dante?” he asked, standing up to shake my hand.

I noticed a strong Southern Brazilian accent from the way he said the second syllable of my name. Arthur’s angular face broke into a smile. He was even thinner than when I’d seen him at the bar, and his understated good looks had been replaced by a haggard appearance, a scruffy beard covering his cheeks and highlighting his jaw. He looked at me like he’d never seen me before.