Chapter 7
Arthur froze. As the words left my mouth, his expression went cold. His back was straight and his elbows rested on the table.
“I’m sorry, man, I’m sorry … I’m such a piece of shit,” I said every now and again, before resuming the story, trying my best to tell him everything in chronological order, with that alphabet soup swirling around in my head: the back rent, stealing the first body from the hospital, Bukowski’s crumpled fender …
“I’m sorry, man, I’m sorry … I’m such a piece of shit.
” Umberto and his dinners, the house in Jardim Botanico, Ruth’s flyer, the visit to the slaughterhouse, Miguel’s murder, the guilt, the regret, Piglet’s murder.
All because of Vladimir, the world’s biggest son of a bitch.
Arthur didn’t react violently or break into tears at any point during my story—our story.
Even when I’d finished, he just stared at me, motionless, and I felt an enormous emptiness, as if his numb gaze was sucking all the life out of me.
The homely smell rising from my plate, the picture frames of a smiling Ruth, Arthur’s inertia …
it all made me want to jump off the balcony.
But he didn’t live on a very high floor. At most, it would leave me paralyzed.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?” I asked.
Getting a punch to the face would have been easier. The red wine stain spread across the tablecloth—our friendship bleeding out. I picked up my glass because I needed something to push down the dry, painful lump blocking my throat.
“Don’t drink that,” he said.
“What?”
“Don’t drink it. Your cup’s also spiked.”
I sat there for a few seconds, not understanding.
“I knew,” he said calmly. “I knew you were involved.”
Arthur walked to a drawer and took out two sheets of paper that were stapled together and folded in half.
The first one was an email exchange between Ruth and an unidentified person, who I soon understood to be the informant.
The most recent email, received only days before her disappearance, had a JPEG attached titled “Vladimir.” I turned the page to a picture of Umberto.
“Your godfather is Vladimir, Dante,” he said. “Ruth died because she saw this photo. It was in her email, in a folder called ‘Secret Dinner.’ I only got access yesterday.”
So it was true. Vladimir was Umberto, and he’d been making a fool of me all this time. Piglet had been murdered because he’d confirmed his suspicions. It occurred to me in that moment that maybe Miguel had also known. But how?
Arthur waited for me to answer.
“I didn’t know … I swear I didn’t know…”
“That guy is your godfather, and you didn’t know?”
“He’s not my godfather! Umberto said he worked for Vladimir. He tricked me too, okay? He swore to me that he’d never even seen Vladimir!”
Arthur looked at me, somber, and after a few seconds said, “I believe you.”
“What did you put in my wine?”
“A combination of drugs. People call it truth serum. It was supposed to make you tell me everything I asked. But there was no need … What about you? What did you put in my wine?”
“A sedative.”
He let out a sad chuckle. He seemed more emotional now.
“I guess our friendship is beyond repair, huh?”
“Yeah,” I replied, letting a long silence fall between us. “You’re not going to kill me? Aren’t you going to call the police?”
“No.”
“What, then?”
“Wait a minute.”
Arthur disappeared down the hallway. The key was in the door and I could have left, but I didn’t.
After getting everything out, I felt lighter and even kind of relaxed in that middle-class apartment with a pan of lasagna cooling on the table over the stained tablecloth.
I just wished life would lead me somewhere.
If I got arrested or killed, at least the decision was out of my hands.
Arthur came back and sat down, resting his hands on the table and leaning his face close to mine. His breath smelled like béchamel.
“You said the dinners are on Wednesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays, right?”
“Right.”
“So the next dinner is tomorrow.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re my way in. You can get an invite.”
“It’s not that simple. There’s a list. Tomorrow’s going to be a special night. The hundredth dinner. It’s impossible.”
“I want those sons of bitches to suffer, Dante. I want them to die.”
Arthur opened his hand, revealing a small bottle.
“What is that?”
“A combination of carbamate and warfarin. We’re going to add a little special seasoning to those cannibals’ food.”
I looked at the bottle: There was no label or pharmacy name. It was just a regular glass bottle, filled to the brim with a dark powder the texture of salt.
“Does it kill instantly?” I asked, holding the vial up to the light.
Arthur flashed me a sadistic smile.
“I guess you’ll have to find out tomorrow.”