Chapter 3
Umberto Marcondes de Machado lived in the iconic Chopin Building on Avenida Atlantica, next to the swanky Copacabana Palace hotel.
We arrived on foot and found him at the hotel pool, surrounded by sunburned tourists clutching caipirinhas.
He came over to greet us. He was wearing floral-print shorts, flip-flops, and a white T-shirt with tufts of gray hair peeking out from his armpits.
It was the first time I’d seen him without a bow tie.
His cologne reminded me of my grandma. He kissed each of us on the cheek and gestured to follow him.
“The Palace is like my backyard! I go for a swim there every day!”
We passed through Chopin’s main entrance into an imposing and well-appointed lobby.
By the time we arrived at his floor, however, all signs of luxury had disappeared.
A rusty mirror in the hall welcomed guests.
Inside, the apartment was kitsch personified, brimming with chairs, cocktail tables, gargoyles, old pine cones, and decorative knickknacks.
The musty smell wafting from the furniture and walls made you think the last time the place had been renovated was in the nineteenth century.
I took a seat in one of the fifteen chairs in the living room, and my friends followed suit.
Umberto chose a purple velvet armchair in the middle.
He crossed his legs and clapped his hands to get the ball rolling.
“So, excited for tomorrow? I’ve been informed that the investigation into the body at the hospital was quashed. Has anyone troubled you again, Miguel?”
He swallowed hard. “No.”
“Excellent! That little detective guy who inspected the car was a real pain in the ass, but I don’t think he’ll be bothering you anymore. I took care of that too, didn’t I?
I agreed reluctantly. Umberto stood up to pour us each two fingers of whiskey and proposed a toast. Our glasses clinked in the air. Then the maid came in to say that lunch was served.
“Wonderful, Cícera! I don’t suppose seagull’s on the menu today, is it?” he said, amused.
“No, sir,” she replied sheepishly. She had no idea what he was talking about, but she must have been used to her boss’s unhinged behavior.
The dining room was equally old and gaudy.
Umberto sat at the head of the table, undoing the elaborately folded cloth napkin covered in stains that had probably been there for years, tucking it into the collar of his shirt.
His movements were affected, overdone, like he was living inside a never-ending play.
For a moment it occurred to me that Umberto Marcondes de Machado might have been a closeted gay man, the type who marries women, has kids, and spouts prejudice in the name of “traditional family values.” But I didn’t dwell on the idea and even managed to enjoy the lunch, which was surprisingly nice.
For the first course, pork tenderloin in a passion fruit reduction, a combination Hugo had never seen before.
“Our event is going to be a hit,” he said, chewing. “This is heavenly, isn’t it?”
We agreed, feasting on the meal. It was the best pork I’d ever eaten. Just exotic enough, leaving a slight sweetness on the roof of the mouth.
Umberto talked nonstop, boasting profusely. Gradually, his defense mechanism revealed itself: He used his silver tongue to reclaim his halcyon past and mask his downtrodden present.
“I’ve already got a waiting list long enough to sell out five dinners,” he said in between bites.
“An interior decorator gave the house a refresh, and I called up five hyper-discreet waiters who have been with me for years. One for every two guests—that’s the proper etiquette.
I’ve got a trustworthy company to handle transportation and security on-site. You’ll be well protected, my boys.”
None of this seemed to lighten Miguel’s mood. Even at the table, he kept his head down. He didn’t make the slightest attempt to hide the fact that he was hating every second of being there.
“Hey, wipe that look off your face. You’re ruining my appetite,” Umberto told him minutes later, as the maid collected our empty plates.
Miguel dropped his knife and fork, slamming his fist on the table so hard that the glasses vibrated.
“I can’t just sit here and listen to this in silence … It’s revolting! How do you guys sleep at night?”
“Consumption has nothing to do with morality, Miguel. Much less with having a conscience,” said Umberto, wiping sauce from his mustache.
“Why do you eat beef, for example? Or rather, why did you just clean your plate? Because that’s how you were raised!
This is your everyday reality! Meat is satisfying, it has a pleasant taste and appearance.
So we eat it! What’s wrong with that? Absolutely nothing.
With a little elbow grease, in two generations eating human flesh will be as standard as eggs and bacon for breakfast.”
Miguel cowered like a wounded bird. The maid brought in the main course: roasted duck—crispy on the outside, lush on the inside—served with a tamarind sauce, which gave it a tangy touch.
It was delicious, but nothing compared to the pork tenderloin.
I would dream about that dish for years to come.
We ate in silence, accompanied only by the crunch of biting into flaky crust, silverware clinking on plates, glasses being placed on the table.
Then Umberto spoke again, getting back to business.
“We need to define the company’s high-concept pitch.”
“The what?”
“You know, the core concept, an idea that sums up its whole vision. Every company has one. I was thinking gourmet anthropophagy,” he said, raising his open hands as if drawing a marquee in the air.
“But it seems a little spineless, you know? Like a cop-out. I think it’s better to go with gourmet cannibalism. ”
Piglet laughed. “Gourmet cannibalism?”
“The concept of cannibalism has been sullied; it has a very negative semantic charge. Just the mention of it and people immediately think of that guy who volunteered to be eaten online, or Hannibal Lecter, or that death cult in the Northeast who sold human empanadas. Empanadas, for Christ’s sake! What a way to cook a delicacy!”
Miguel got up from the table. “Now you’re saying cannibalism is cool?”
“I’m saying we need to put an end to its correlation with savagery and evil.
Right now, it’s taboo. Take the word queer: It had a pejorative meaning in the past, but that’s no longer the case.
The value people place on certain flavors is a cultural thing.
For example, why is caviar more expensive than cassava?
Both are divine delicacies! Human flesh is also divine; it has the most intense flavor of all. That’s what we need to show people.”
It was useless to argue with him. Dejected, Miguel sat back down, and we munched on our duck in silence for a few more minutes.
I sometimes had the impression that Umberto was just saying those ridiculous things to rile us up.
I tried to decipher his expression and mannerisms, but he seemed to truly believe what he was saying.
“People need to understand that eating human flesh can be virtuous and delicious!” he explained.
“Did you know that for the Tupinambá tribe, ritual cannibalism was the main form of cultural acquisition, capable of transforming nature’s inherent evil into good?
They ate their vanquished enemies to uplift the soul and gather courage, strength and vitality.
From the moment I tried human flesh for the first time, I understood those Indians!
It’s the fountain of youth, boys. It has a healing and regenerative effect.
Let me ask you something: What’s the world’s biggest problem today? ”
“Disease,” Miguel ventured.
“Social media,” said Piglet.
“Hunger,” I replied.
“That’s right, hunger,” said Umberto, like a teacher pleased with his star pupil.
“Have you ever stopped to think about how cannibalism could become the most immediate solution to world hunger? What I mean is, it’s a cultural thing, not eating our dead.
We weren’t raised that way. But as it turns out, burying the dead is a huge waste of tasty meat that could be used as nourishment.
Even in the poorest villages in Africa, where people are starving, perfectly good meat is going to waste.
Why not eat it? These people are going hungry because of this moral hang-up about eating their fellow human beings… ”
It was sheer madness. Before anyone could respond, the maid came in to clear our plates. As if he’d been counting the seconds, Umberto stood up, rubbing his hands in front of his face.
“Time for the grand finale!”
He got up from the table and disappeared down the hall, shouting “Follow me” when he realized we hadn’t joined him.
We went down a small staircase and into the rear elevator, which took us to the garage.
There, parked among pickup trucks and convertibles, was a brand-new black Lexus with tinted windows.
It was gorgeous, with leather seats and a panoramic sunroof.
“Forget that old clunker. This is my little gift to you, so you can arrive in style at dinner tomorrow,” he said, tapping lightly against the metal.
I was briefly suspicious of why Umberto would buy us a car like this. But then the old man swung open the doors and handed me the keys, and I didn’t think any more of it, overcome by that new car smell. Umberto patted the hood like a proud papa bear.
“You can call this one Hemingway.”