Chapter 3
“Just pretend nothing happened,” Arthur said before returning to the guesthouse.
I was a wreck. I wiped down the murder weapon, placed it with the other knives, and looked around to make sure that I hadn’t missed anything. Arthur returned from the back and guided me to the living room couch. I leaned my head back, closing my eyes, trying to calm down. It was impossible.
I searched for a lie to tell the sous-chefs about Hugo, but before I could come up with one, they arrived.
Arthur ran to hide, and I only had a few seconds to compose myself.
I told them that Hugo had finished the mise en place and the sauce but had had to leave to take care of a personal matter. They would be on their own that night.
“Do you think you can manage?” I asked, challenging them.
They agreed hesitantly. I sent them to the kitchen to finish preparations and headed upstairs.
I took a shower and put on my tux. It was the night of reckoning.
I was nervous, but at that instant I wasn’t scared.
A target on your back will do that to you.
This was it—the moment that I’d felt approaching in the back of my mind for months now.
All my friends were now dead. All my trust was now in Arthur.
Minutes before the guests’ arrival, I laid the finishing touches on the table—flower arrangements, cloth napkins, and candles.
I hit shuffle on my Best Love Songs of All Time playlist, lowered the volume, spritzed some breath freshener into my mouth, and went to answer the door.
In the first wave of guests, Kiki Dourado arrived in a silver dress, chatting away with Nilo Carlos Arruda and Gabriel Franco Herméz Neto.
I complimented her—she was an attention whore—and welcomed the two men inside.
I ordered the waiters to serve champagne while I presented the evening’s menu: as an amuse-bouche, seagull foie gras paté with pain d’épices and green pepper foam; for the starter, eggplant and seagull carne de sol with Halloumi cream and date compote.
“And the main?”
“The main course is a surprise this evening,” I said with perverse pleasure. “But I can tell you that the sauce is our most delicious yet. And the meat … it’s exquisite!”
I repeated the same spiel a second and third time for each new wave of guests. I circled the room, taking orders, serving drinks, and making small talk. Around nine, once everyone was in the living room, I clapped my hands to get their attention.
“It’s a pleasure to welcome you all here today on this very special occasion. You already know me, but my name is Sidney and I’m here to make sure you have the best night of your life. I want you all to have fun. I suppose you have a lot of questions; most do their first time.”
“There are no newbies here!” said Soninha, nibbling on the cherry in her drink.
A hungry buzz grew among the guests, like shoppers outside a Walmart on Black Friday. I forced my best smile: Dinner would be served shortly. I led everyone to their seats, arranged with their initials on place cards. Umberto took the opportunity to approach me and grabbed my arm.
“It’s nice to see you here. And Arthur?”
“I did what you asked.”
I quickly moved away to pull out the chair at the head of the table for Ataíde Augustín, who was even bigger than the first time I’d met him.
His name had recently been involved in every political scandal in the country, but he seemed surprisingly relaxed and in good spirits.
While one of the sous-chefs finished the starters with meticulously arranged basil leaves, I asked the other to prepare some fresh-squeezed limeade to take to the drivers and security guards outside.
“Fresh-squeezed limeade?” he asked.
“Let’s do something nice for them.”
I went out the back with the tray, slipping sleeping pills into each of the glasses before reaching the patio. I served the drinks and returned to the dining room just in time to watch the amuse-bouche being served.
“To start, our traditional seagull paté with spiced bread,” I explained as the waiters refilled their glasses with Tokay wine. “Our chef has added his own special touch with green pepper foam. Enjoy!”
Umberto leaned forward, tapping a fork lightly against his glass. He lifted it into the air, unable to contain his excitement.
“Cheers to this merry evening! May we make it to two hundred, three hundred, a thousand dinners!”
The glasses clinked joyfully. Guests enjoyed the amuse-bouche and starter while chatting and drinking more and more.
Within minutes the plates were licked clean, and the main course was served.
One of the waiters lifted the first cloche, revealing grilled breasts in gravy with a selection of smoked vegetables.
The diners’ eyes lit up with curiosity. They wasted no time digging in.
“It’s delicious,” said Kiki, scraping the gravy from the plate.
“The marbling on the meat … it’s divine,” Maitê agreed.
“There’s a sort of sweetness, right?” said Heckel.
“It’s spectacular,” said Soninha. “Are those almonds I’m tasting?”
I thanked them on behalf of the chef and maintained a safe distance from the table, keeping my eyes on the clock. There was a ringing in my head, and a feeling in my soul building: How much longer would it take?
Once, on the wall of a public restroom, I wrote a poem:
A PERSON IS BORN
GROWS UP
REPRODUCES
AND GETS SERVED FOR DINNER