Page 95 of The Secret Dinner

Piglet never did anything by hand. His world operated along virtual paths; I should have been used to it already. After I ate my slice of pizza, I tossed the greasy napkin and washed my hands. I opened the file on my phone to check the names of the slaughterhouses, with their addresses listed beside them.

“I can go with you,” Cora offered.

To Piglet’s dismay, I asked for another slice. I scarfed it down without chewing properly while Cora left her dishes in the sink and put on her shoes. She tied her hair back and donned sunglasses and an orange cap, looking like a lifeguard at a country club pool.

“Shall we get a move on?”

2

Since it was already dark by the time we made it to the highway, we only visited three of the six addresses on the list and did the other half the following day. Cora was the perfect partner; she talked a ton, told silly, rambling stories full of details, and constantly changed the radio station, singing along here and there while drumming on the glove compartment. All that sonic chaos camouflaged the danger we were in.

Unfortunately for us, the place I’d gone with Umberto wasn’t on the list. I remembered the open space well, the unmarked iron gate, the cold, fluorescent corridors. Those images made frequent appearances in my dreams. The slaughterhouse must have been an illegal operation, without regulatory clearance, which would make it more difficult to find.

Back at home, I asked Piglet to look for large factories in the region that could serve as a front for a slaughterhouse. His eyes gleamed brightly despite all the weed he’d been smoking, and he started typing on his computer, opening dark screens with endless sequences of numbers and letters. I didn’t understand any of it, and that complexity gave me a certain sense of security. Catching Vladimir had become personal for him.

I lay down on the couch to reread my texts with Umberto, looking for any new details. Immersed in my own thoughts, I was startled by muffled footsteps at the front door. It was Hugo, all dressed up, with polished shoes and colorful socks.

“Where have you been?”

“Just leave me alone,” he said, heading for the hallway. I grabbed him by the arm.

“There’s no point in running away from me.”

“I’m not running away. You’re just really fucking annoying, man. All you want is get your own way. I’m so sick of it…”

“They killed Miguel. We need to work together on this!”

“So a psychopathic whore, a fat cybercriminal, and a strung-out faggot … What kind of shitty Breakfast Club is that? Get over it, Dante. Man may have harnessed fire by instinct, but that instinct turned into passion,” he said, clenching his fist and showing me his knuckles, where he had a new tattoo: Be Your Own Hero. “Our species is the only one that cares about the taste of our food. And that’s why we evolve.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Human evolution keeps up with gastronomy. I don’t care what you saw, or what happened to Miguel … It’s all so minuscule in the face of what we’re doing here, don’t you see? Seagull meat is the future of human nutrition.”

I was speechless. Hugo stalked down the hallway and turned in to his room. Before slamming the door, he spun around and said pedantically:

“It’s the most flavorful meat that exists. Once everybody finds that out, do you really think they’re not going to want to try it?”

3

I arrived early at the villa on Wednesday. Hugo was in the kitchen, selecting which cuts would be served, but we barely greeted each other. As the waiters and sous-chefs arrived I tried to strike up a conversation, but they dodged every question, like talking to me might jeopardize their jobs.

As I took a quick shower and donned my tuxedo in front of the full-length mirror, I couldn’t help but think about Arthur. His devotion to his fiancée was touching. On two or three occasions, at different times of day, I’d walked past the corner of Rua Duvivier and Avenida Nossa Senhora and seen him from a distance sitting outside the café, his elbows on the table, his bloodshot eyes studying each passerby.

Until he found out about Ruth’s death, I was sure he would be at that café every day, waiting for the moment when she would cross the street, apologize for her sudden disappearance, and shower him in kisses. That was the last place she’d supposedly been seen, and like a faithful dog, he would wait for her there for the rest of his life. It was wrong to nurture a friendship, but I kept seeing him. Deep down, I knew it wasn’t just for the information he could offer me. Our stories had become inexorably entwined.

That night, as I was making my way downstairs to greet the guests, my phone rang. Unknown caller, but I answered anyway.

“Dante, it’s Arthur. Can we meet?” he asked, sounding stressed.

“What is it? Did something happen?”

“I’d rather not say over the phone.”

“I’m busy right now. Tomorrow morning?”

“Eleven o’clock at the café,” he said and hung up without saying goodbye.

After that call, I couldn’t concentrate. Arthur had never been so short and matter-of-fact. And why had he called from an unknown number? Why couldn’t he talk on the phone? I couldn’t stop thinking about the call, about his tone. Without a doubt, that night’s dinner was the worst ever. I got rid of the guests as soon as I could, regretting that I’d scheduled the meeting for the next morning. At home, I showered, put on my pajamas, and decided I wouldn’t do any drugs—no coke, no Molly, no weed, no Klonopin.