Chapter 1
Our first step was to find a house.
“We can’t have guests coming here,” Umberto had said, his eyes wandering around our living room. “We can’t shit where we eat!”
I arranged viewings at properties in Vargem Pequena, Pedra de Guaratiba, and Recreio dos Bandeirantes.
We needed something spacious with a nice outdoor area and, most important, secluded enough that no one would raise an eyebrow at all the cars coming and going, dropping people off on dinner nights.
I was careful only to visit properties that weren’t managed by the same agency that managed our apartment.
I wanted to avoid suspicion. I showed Umberto my best options, but he didn’t like any of them.
“Rich people hate to travel far,” he said, in his booming radio announcer’s voice.
“The location is the soul of a business, Dante. Imagine someone spending over half an hour in a car blindfolded! These dinners have to be held close to Copacabana, near the beach. Downtown at most. Get in touch with my lawyer, she can assist you.” Umberto’s lawyer was Cecília Couto, the curly-haired woman who’d had dinner at our apartment.
Apparently, their relationship went beyond the extramarital affair.
We arranged a meeting. She looked even thinner and taller than I remembered, like a withered tree.
“I was glad to hear you guys will be hosting other, you know … dinners. I’ll be a regular customer,” she said, grinning like a hyena. Then she handed me a list of houses in Rio de Janeiro.
That afternoon, we visited six properties on Estrada da Canoa, nestled in just outside Tijuca National Park, before arriving at a house in Jardim Botanico.
As soon as I saw it, I knew it was the one.
It was a luxury three-story villa, tucked away at the end of a dead-end street, with a large deck overlooking the mountain vegetation.
At the entrance was a hunter-green gate and a high wall overgrown with weeds that enclosed the entire perimeter, creating a significant obstacle for trespassers.
Not even including the five-car garage and the small guesthouse in the back, the villa’s ground floor alone was the size of our entire apartment.
The dining room housed a modern red ten-seater table illuminated by a handcrafted oval chandelier with colorful details.
Aubusson tapestries hung on the walls, depicting bucolic landscapes with forests, castles, and birds.
Later, I learned that the house belonged to a French family who rarely set foot in Brazil.
As soon as we signed the deal, Umberto called me.
“Our first dinner will be next Saturday. On Friday, all of you will come over to my place so we can iron out the details. I went ahead and deposited a little bonus into your account to be split four ways.”
I checked my online banking, and that “little bonus” was 80,000 reals. The right thing to do was to split the money five ways—Cora had become an essential part of our group.
“Absolutely not. She’s a parasite at best,” said Hugo.
“Hey, my baby girl does all the butchering,” Piglet snapped back. “Miguel doesn’t do anything!”
“But Umberto thinks he’s the one who selected the cuts.”
“Cora’s still going to help out,” I said.
I knew Miguel was on the brink of losing it completely. I couldn’t let him do that job all alone. He’d become a burden. It was a downer having him around, just sitting there depressed, a constant reminder of what we were doing. Still, kicking him out was off the table.
“Cora is part of the Seagull Meat Team,” insisted Piglet. “Dante, Miguel, and I all agree on that. If you disagree, Hugo, that’s your problem.”
He sighed, accepting defeat. I transferred sixteen thousand to each of their checking accounts, and later, when she arrived to spend the night with Piglet, I transferred Cora her share. The next day, Piglet came to talk to me.
“I don’t want Umberto to know about Cora. He might try to steal my girl. She’s all I’ve got, Dante.”
I understood his concern. It would be unbearable if she wound up in bed with that narcissistic old fool. No doubt as soon as he laid eyes on her, Umberto would try something. I assured Piglet that Cora’s involvement would stay between us, and relief filled his eyes. Being in love must be hell.
Every woman wants a gay best friend, and Cora was determined for me to be hers.
We got to talking over the next few days while Piglet slept or played video games in his room.
She was an incredible woman, beautiful, funny, and delightfully amoral.
She had her quirks, like her camera shyness and her collection of colorful stickers.
She talked nonstop about her past back in Goiás, how her mother had died in childbirth, her borderline marital relationship with her father, her first poems, early mornings spent gutting cattle, her arrival in the big city, and her first time with Piglet.
“Is Cora your real name?”
She was annoyed: “Of course it is, I already told you. After Cora Coralina.”
With time, she opened up to me completely. She’d cry in front of me, unabashed, telling me all kinds of personal stuff and showing me her poems.
“One day, I’ll be published,” she said proudly. “All these shitty publishers want are mainstream books … That’s not what I do, I make art for art’s sake, Dante!”
I read her poems. They were all pretty cringey, unsubtle, most of them crude, but Cora thought she was a genius, and I wasn’t going to be the one to tell her otherwise. In the end, she was right: There was already so much crap for sale in bookstores, so why not hers?
Once, on the wall of a public restroom, I saw a poem:
ANYTHING
CAN BE POETRY IF
YOU HIT
ENTER
ONCE
IN A WHILE