Chapter 6
“This has been the wildest experience of my life,” said Kiki. “Eating human flesh in an apartment in Copacabana!”
Some laughed, others remained quiet, still affected by the meal. Already a little drunk, Cecília couldn’t resist her curiosity.
“Hey, psst, you…” she called to me. She swirled her index finger around the rim of her glass, then brought a few drops to her tense lips. “Are we really eating human flesh?”
“Seagull meat.”
“Where does it come from?” asked Ataíde.
“An excellent source, I can assure you.”
“How’d you come up with this? Why seagull meat?”
“Just four friends with a rather unorthodox idea,” I replied, trying to be vague without sounding evasive. “We’re the Seagull Meat Team.”
“The Seagull Meat Team! That’s really good,” said Umberto. “How did you come up with the idea?”
I told them the riddle that, in a circuitous way, had led us to this dinner, but they figured out the punch line easily, since they already knew the ending.
“No wonder the guy liked the taste of his dead wife,” Albertina laughed. “This was stunning!”
“I found the story to be in very poor taste,” said Soninha.
“Oh, leave the boys alone … Such witty young men!” said Cecília, letting her head hang over the table. A few more glasses and she’d be out cold.
Almost everyone refused the stuffed lychee ice cream and the digestif.
They wanted to lock that indescribable taste in their memory and were already asking about the date of the next dinner.
Ataíde even took his checkbook and Montblanc pen out of his tuxedo pocket.
I replied that there were no plans for another event, but I promised to get in touch with any updates.
“I’ll pay whatever you want. Come on, name your price,” insisted Ataíde, massaging the pen between his hairy ring-laden fingers.
“Let’s not pressure the boy,” Umberto interjected with a menacing smile. “Send us an email.”
While I carried the last dishes to the kitchen, Soninha Klein, Albertina Terranova, and Kiki Dourado left with Gabriel Franco Herméz Neto, as they all lived by the beach in Ipanema or Leblon.
When the driver came to pick up Ataíde, he offered a ride to Nilo Carlos and Cecília, who was pretty wasted and wandering around the room talking loudly.
Umberto stayed on the sofa with his legs crossed, in no hurry, and lit a cigar.
“I made sure to be the last one,” he said, blowing a puff of smoke in my direction. “I want to keep in touch with you.”
I already knew he didn’t like being contradicted. I wasn’t remotely in the mood to have that gun pointed at me. So, I just smiled and tried not to look nervous.
“You know, I really identify with what you’re doing here, with this dinner … We have a lot to talk about.”
He arched his eyebrows, extending his hairy hand to me. We shook, and he took a gold card from the inside pocket of his jacket. Umberto Marcondes de Machado—Executive Producer. Below it, the company name in a stylish rhombus: UMM Company.
“You, kid … What’s your name again?”
“Dante.”
“Is there a phone number where I can reach you?”
“Don’t worry, I will definitely be in touch.”
“Experience has taught me not to trust promises. Please give me your number.”
I didn’t let him finish the sentence. I quickly reeled off my number without waiting for him to pick up his pen to write it down.
“That last bit … Just repeat the last part. Five-two-zero…?”
“Five-two-zero-seven.”
Umberto typed the numbers into his phone and called.
My phone vibrated in my pocket.
“Did you think I was lying?”
“I just wanted to check.”
He smiled, unfazed. He showed no signs of leaving anytime soon.
I let out a yawn to indicate that it was getting late, but Umberto looked very comfortable on our living room couch.
I hadn’t liked him from the start and was becoming more certain about it.
I should have paid more attention to that first impression, but I’d gotten carried away by it all. I’d been oblivious.
“You know, Dante, I wasn’t born yesterday,” he began. “I can just imagine what you told that little couple when they got up from the table. You told them to break their plates, said you’d swap out the meat … Am I right?”
I swallowed hard, without answering. Umberto seemed to see something in my expression.
“I’m sure I wasn’t wrong about you. You’re a rare type these days.”
“I don’t know what you’re insinuating.”
“You are a mediator, Dante, a justice of the peace. You promised that couple you’d swap out the meat on their plates for normal steak, but you didn’t. They ate human flesh; they just didn’t know it. That was smart, kid. I like smart people.”
Umberto finished his cigar and left it in the ashtray on the coffee table.
“I live nearby, I’ll walk,” he said, getting up. “I hope we see more of each other. I’ll call you so we can get coffee.”
I called the elevator. Umberto patted me on the shoulder.
“Don’t torment yourself, kid. You did well to fool those two,” he said before walking away. “The world belongs to the bold, not the cowardly.”