Chapter 3
Once, on the wall of a public restroom, I saw a poem:
BECAUSE HALF OF ME IS MADNESS
THE OTHER HALF INSOMNIA
I arrived back in Rio de Janeiro craving any drug that could make me forget how shitty my life had gotten.
Sitting on the plane as the flight attendant offered me cookies and orange juice, all I could think about was the day Piglet had posted that first dinner online: Remember that riddle you told us about the seagull meat?
he’d said. I don’t know why, man, that stuck in my head.
Now I understood why. And it was my fault.
I’d told him the seagull riddle. I’d awakened that impulse inside him.
At home, I mixed the last of my Molly with water and flirted with about fifteen guys on Tinder while a pleasant twinge ran up my legs and euphoria coursed through my veins.
I had an uncontrollable urge to hook up with somebody.
I arranged to meet an Argentinian couple traveling through Rio at their hotel room, where I filled myself with Molly, poppers, and other shit I can’t even remember, but which at least made me briefly happy in a way I hadn’t been in a long time.
I woke up in my bed alone at four in the morning, not knowing how I got home, too hopped up to go back to sleep.
I vaguely remembered the couple (one of them looked like Richard Gere, who I always thought was a total silver fox), but a lot of the sex was a blank.
My head was buzzing, my mouth was dry, and my stomach growled with hunger.
I made a tuna sandwich and drank a flat Coke I’d forgotten in the fridge.
I laid my head on my pillow and swallowed two Klonopin, hoping there were no side effects to taking drugs to get high and then taking more drugs to sleep like a rock.
I woke later to someone slapping my face as the midday sun streamed in through the bedroom window. I cracked open my eyes, smelling lavender from the hands that were hitting me: thick, hairy fingers with silver rings … Umberto was on the edge of my bed, a crooked smile on his wrinkled face.
“What the hell?”
“You look terrible.”
He was wearing a pin-striped suit and a mustard-yellow bow tie. He withdrew his hand as I sat up, shielded by the blanket.
“How’d you get in here?”
“Hugo gave me the key,” he replied, drawing my curtains even wider. My eyes burned. “After stuffing yourself with all that toxic shit, it would appear you’ve forgotten what day it is … Do I need to send you to rehab?”
“Fuck off, Umberto.”
“It’s Wednesday! Time to get back to work, kiddo.”
“I already told you, I’m out. What’s your problem, you son of a bitch?”
Umberto rolled his eyes impatiently.
“You can’t just quit, Dante. The only way out of this kind of business is in a body bag.”
I lay there, hands itching to shove Umberto out the window. The old man was trying to provoke me. I tried to focus my bleary vision on him.
“You killed Miguel, didn’t you?”
“Vladimir did.”
“What?”
I didn’t expect him to confess so easily. He walked over to the desk and opened his leather briefcase, running his fingers over some papers, then quickly putting them back.
“Vladimir killed Miguel. Ordered him killed, actually. He was a threat.”
My throat closed in panic. Things had gotten out of control; Miguel was dead because of all this. It wasn’t a joke anymore—and it hadn’t been one for a long time. Fear and resentment ate away at my insides, but I remained still.
“Why?”
“Miguel was going to screw up our plan, but Vladimir found out.”
“I want you to introduce me to him.”
“Impossible, as I’ve told you. Even I haven’t met Vladimir personally—I don’t have access to him.”
“That’s a lie, I heard you guys on the phone the night of the Instagram post.”
“I only communicate with his assistant, or Virgínia, the secretary … his subordinates. Never directly with Vladimir,” said Umberto. Judging by the slight twinge of sadness in his voice, he was telling the truth. “I’m like you, kid, just a cog in this huge machine.”
“But Miguel was so quiet, he kept to himself…”
“Your friend was going to betray you.”
“Liar!”
Umberto reached into his pocket and disdainfully tossed a cell phone into my lap. It was Miguel’s.
“He’s the one who took that photo of the plate and sent it to Kássio. He told him to post it on Instagram. Miguel was gathering evidence on the dinners, Dante. Just look at his photos. The password is zero-five-zero-three.”
An obvious one, his mother’s birthday. My heart racing, I opened the camera roll: There were dozens of photos taken from covert angles showing the front of the villa in Jardim Botanico, the decorated table, Hugo with his sous-chefs in the kitchen, even photos of me in a tuxedo welcoming guests.
“He’d printed the photos and was going to give them to the police. It was all in the briefcase he was carrying,” said Umberto, beaming with pride. “There’s more. Go to the last voice note.”
I scrolled wildly through the apps and pressed play on the most recent recording, titled CONFESSION. I heard his voice, followed by mine:
Dante, I was always against this whole thing … From the very beginning, you know I was against these dinners … You forced me into this!
Don’t be like that.
I’m just worried. You’re doing a lot more drugs. Dante, it’s getting out of control. Why do you keep doing these dinners? It’s not about the money anymore, is it?
What?
You like it, don’t you?
Fuck you, Miguel!
Sorry, I … I’m just confused, I feel like you guys forced me into this.
I dropped the phone onto the bed. My muscles were tense, but I felt weak. He betrayed me, I thought. He betrayed me, and without a drop of remorse. If that recording found its way into the cops’ hands, I was fucked, with no chance of defense. I stared at Umberto.
“Sorry to have to show you that, but you needed to understand. It’s time to move on, kid,” he said, flashing me the plastic grin of a TV presenter.
“I’ll give you another day off, okay? But the next few are going to be busy.
In three weeks we’re celebrating our hundredth dinner, on the twenty-first. It’s going to be a special night, with all the original guests from that first night in Copacabana. ”
“Even Cecília?” I joked humorlessly.
“Well, almost all the guests,” he said with a chuckle. “Obviously I didn’t invite that tramp. Or the gay couple who caused all that trouble. But Soninha Klein, Kiki Dourado, and Congressman Ataíde have already RSVP’d.”
“Leave me out of this, Umberto. Please…”
“No can do, kiddo,” he said, getting up to grab the briefcase from the desk. “Also, I’ll need you to be there next Friday. Vladimir’s ordered something new. We’re going to serve seagull ‘veal.’”