Chapter 3
When I arrived at the villa in Jardim Botanico, I found Cora out back. She was wiping dried bloodstains from the blade of her chainsaw.
“I got fired,” she said, clearly hurt. “They’re going to start delivering the prepackaged steaks.”
“I heard.”
“I hope they fuck it up. It’ll be my revenge.”
“Are you going to be okay?”
“I think so. I just came by to sort things out, I’m not going to steal anything. Piglet’s taking me to an action movie to cheer me up.”
“Which one?”
“Don’t know, don’t care. They’re all the same.”
Cora gave me a peck on the cheek and went upstairs to shower. In the kitchen, Hugo was laser focused on his mise en place and didn’t feel like chatting. I was getting dressed to receive the guests when Arthur texted me:
Want to have dinner tonight?
Something wrong? I replied.
He answered immediately:
Nope. Just wanted to take my mind off things.
I’m slammed today and tomorrow. Sunday?
Sounds good.
I put the phone back in my pocket, thinking about what a nice guy Arthur was.
My feelings for him weren’t just an emotional stand-in for the void left by Miguel—one person’s arrival could never make up for another’s departure.
At the same time, our relationship had started to feel a little dangerous.
No doubt he was going to start wondering what unavoidable commitment I had every Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday night.
And I’d need to have a good answer at the ready when it happened.
That weekend, almost every secret dinner guest was a third- or fourth-timer.
The new members dwindled with each dinner, the club getting smaller the more secrets it kept.
One of the Saturday diners was a renowned chef who’d attended a few Seagull Meat Team dinners in S?o Paulo but had gone out of his way to experience the original in Rio de Janeiro.
On Sunday Arthur texted suggesting coffee at his place. It was a step forward in our friendship—so far we’d only met in public places. But going to his apartment would lead to an obvious problem: I’d eventually have to invite him over to mine in return.
Arthur’s building was on Rua Siqueira Campos, a few blocks from the subway station, right above a grocery store.
Since it was ten in the morning, I decided to stop at a bakery on the corner and bring him a carrot cake with brigadeiro icing.
The building’s entrance was discreet, a white door camouflaged by the surrounding shops.
The doorman called up to let him know I was coming.
There were eight apartments per floor; Arthur was waiting for me in shorts and flip-flops. He smiled and waved me in.
“I have some news,” he said.
I walked into a fully renovated all-white kitchen, with a four-burner gas stove, built-in microwave and dishwasher, and a swath of cute knickknacks, typical of a young couple who buys every fun thing they see. I put the cake on the counter.
“Did you get anything from Umberto’s private investigators?” I asked.
“Your godfather?”
“Yeah.”
“I spoke to one of them, but I wasn’t one hundred percent sure about him,” said Arthur, taking a knife from the drawer. He held the cake in his other hand. “Anyway, after what I’ve discovered, I don’t think I’ll be needing his services … Let’s go to the living room.”
The living room was simple, modest, and pleasant.
There were a couple of colorful beanbag chairs in front of a TV, as well as several framed photos of the happy couple.
On the walls, artwork, like a girl holding a balloon and blowing the words of a poem, written in wavy script: Loving what’s lost makes the heart pause.
“Ruth made it. She likes artsy, DIY stuff like that,” he said, placing the cake on a round table already laden with juice and an assortment of fresh bread. “Do you want the full tour, or would you rather eat first?”
“I’m not in a rush.”
We continued down a small hallway. The apartment had three bedrooms: the primary suite, with the same youthful boldness as the living room and kitchen; Arthur’s office, with a computer, crowded bookshelves, and three filing cabinets (he sometimes worked from home); and Ruth’s office, which held a simple, dark laminate desk with space for a laptop.
There were fewer books in her office, almost all of them nonfiction.
“The guy I hired took her laptop. He still hasn’t been able to get into her emails, but he managed to access the hard drive, and yesterday he brought me a flash drive with all her Word docs.”
Arthur paused. I realized he was about to tell me something very important.
“I found a draft of the article she was writing,” he said. “It was about these secret dinners, where they serve actual human flesh.”
“What do you mean?”
“Apparently Ruth heard a rumor, went digging for more information, and found out it was true … People are having cannibal dinners right here, Dante, in Rio de Janeiro.”
“Are you sure?”
I was a shitty actor, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“She even interviewed some people who attended the events. Super fancy, very pricey. They’re held at an isolated villa; nobody knows where it is.
From what I understand, Ruth had a connection and was put on the waiting list. She wanted to find out how long they’d been going on, who attends them, and most important, who’s running them. ”
“And did she find anything out?”
“I don’t think she’d finished her research. But there’s one name that pops a few times…”
I stared at him, praying he wouldn’t say Dante.
“Vladimir.”
“Vladimir?”
“Yeah, Vladimir,” he repeated slowly, as if the letters tasted bitter in his mouth. “Wanna know what I think? I think she was investigating this guy Vladimir, she got too close and then wound up murdered.”
I nodded silently. I should have comforted him, but Arthur wasn’t crying. He was no longer the fragile, shaken man I’d met at the bar. His eyes held sadness, but also an unapproachable coldness.
“I’m going to get to the bottom of this,” he said. “I’m going to find out who those sons of bitches are, Dante. And when I do, I’m going to torture and kill every last one of them.”