Page 111 of The Secret Dinner

Ataíde continued to deflate like a water balloon.

“What”—vomit—“the hell”—vomit—“is happening?”

“Holy shit, my trip to New York, for fuck’s sake! Fucking feminists!” Soninha continued.

Ataíde stumbled two steps to the kitchen door and said, “Umberto”—vomit—“I think I’m going to”—vomit—“pass out.”

But he didn’t pass out; he puked again. Kiki’s prayer had fallen silent after a few minutes. Streams of blood ran from her nostrils, eyes, ears, and mouth, like a fountain in a quaint European square. She died still holding her knife and fork, maintaining that impeccable posture she’d learned at charm school decades before. She was a high-class lady, even with all those precious jewels painted in viscous crimson.

I don’t know how much time passed before they noticed my presence. Five, ten minutes, maybe. For me, it felt like an eternity. Later, I tried to time out the night using the songs: I remember hearing Mariah Carey’s “Dreamlover,” Rihanna’s “Love on the Brain,” and Taylor Swift’s “Love Story,” but it was like the seconds had been stretched out to maximize the guests’ pain.

I watched everything from the foyer with enormous satisfaction, until Mateus moved away from his sister’s body to glare at me, brimming with rage. Umberto was curled up on the floor like a baby, his swollen belly nearly bursting his buttons. He was choking on his own blood. Heckel was turning purple, especially his lips, fingers, and ears—I later learned this was called cyanosis—and he crawled along, veins bulging on his forehead and eyes wide beneath his thick-framed glasses.

“You fucking cunt, goddamnit!” Soninha tried to scream, her voice raw. “Faggots! Commie faggots!”

And Ataíde:

“Who”—vomit—“did this?”

Mateus came at me, made a fist, and punched me. I fell to the ground, caught by surprise. I got a kick to the face as I tried to fight back. How is he still standing? I thought. Only then did I remember that Mateus had ordered his meat without gravy. He hadn’t been poisoned. Fuck!

I grabbed his right leg to gain some leverage, then tried to pull myself up by the waistband of his pants but fell back to the ground. I looked over my shoulder and saw Umberto holding on to my foot. With his last bit of strength, the old man was crawling toward me and gurgling something I couldn’t make out. His mouth was full of blood, and his eyes no longer belonged to this world.

“It was you!”

“You fucking traitorous faggot!”

Suddenly Soninha, Heckel, and Ataíde were all advancing toward me, spitting out their guts like zombies. A breathless Umberto kept hold of my ankle. Mateus managed to regain control and slammed me in the head until I fell again, face to the ground. I flexed my arms to press up against their kicking and punching, but it was too late. They were already on top of me like feasting vultures. My blood-soaked tuxedo stuck to the marble floor. I felt someone biting my leg and Soninha sank her teeth into my ear, tearing off a good chunk of my earlobe. I howled in pain, paralyzed. Ataíde’s thousandth spew of vomit landed straight in my face. It tasted like the sewer. I was dizzy, I grew tired of fighting and let myself be devoured by cannibals in formal dress.

Then, over the sound of Stevie Wonder’s “Isn’t She Lovely,” I heard the roar of a motor. Isn’t she lovely? Vroommmm, vroommmm, vroommmm. Isn’t she precious? Vroommmm, vroommmm, vroommmm. I kept my eyes closed, certain the noise had been invented by my already-failing mind. But it came closer, and suddenly the beating stopped. I no longer felt their weight on top of me. Confused, I turned just in time to watch Arthur slicing up Mateus with Cora’s yellow chainsaw. The country singer’s organs leapt from his body like chunks of fruit flying from a lidless blender.

Vroommmm, vroommmm, vroommmm. Heckel, lying in the chainsaw’s path of destruction, tried to move away but left his feet behind, severed at the ankles. As he howled on the floor, swinging his stumps in the air, blood splattered the walls, staining the pictures and the dining table. Arthur went back in to finish the job.

“Shit, merde, what a fucking mess!” Soninha yelled.

“Please”—vomit—“don’t kill me!”

God knows how Ataíde was still breathing after all that puking. The congressman commando crawled across the carpet, propping himself up on fallen bodies, making his escape. His swollen face looked like it was about to explode. Before Ataíde could vomit again, Arthur ran the chainsaw across his neck, shredding through skin and fat, bursting him apart once and for all. Ataíde bled out fast, to the tune of “Every Breath You Take” by the Police.

“Ahhhhh, you fucking bastard!”

Surprisingly for her age, Soninha still had the strength to capitalize on Arthur’s distraction and leap, naked, onto his back. What a hero. Arthur dropped the chainsaw to take hold of the old woman’s spindly arms as she tried to squeeze his neck. The chainsaw was still vibrating, dancing around the room like a wild and ferocious animal, clawing off limbs and faces, which later would make the work of crime scene investigators all the more difficult. I dodged the chainsaw and ran to help Arthur. He didn’t need me: He launched Soninha backward, spinning her in the air and slamming her body against the ground. The old woman’s ribs cracked and she writhed in pain. Arthur scooped up the chainsaw again with skill and approached. Vroommmm, vroommmm, vroommmm.

“You disgusting feminist jackass—” she screamed before the blade made its way through her throat, slicing her open just below her chin. According to the papers, Soninha’s tongue was found stuck to the chandelier, but I didn’t see that at the time. I was too busy looking at Umberto, who was trying to hide behind the couch, panting. Grinning, Arthur stalked over, and I saw then that the grieving, lovesick pharmacist was gone. In his place was an avenger, who’d made a point of saving the best for last.

Vroommmm, vroommmm, vroommmm. Umberto wet himself and begged for his life, spitting blood. In one swift movement, Arthur severed the old man’s right foot from his leg, delighting in his agonized screams. Without wasting any time, he proceeded to cut off his left foot and both hands, right at his Rolex. Sometimes the blade would jam, but it was impressive how it swiftly crushed through bone on the second or third try, like butter straight from the fridge. Umberto’s shrieking drowned out even Whitney Houston’s voice belting “I Will Always Love You.” Rejoicing in Umberto’s desperation, Arthur waited a few seconds to finishing cutting, this time at his knees and then elbows.

Umberto lay on the living room floor like a scarecrow, but Arthur was indifferent: He stood over him, raised his arms, and—letting out a guttural howl—brought down the roaring chainsaw and plunged it into Umberto’s chest. He had to step back quickly as the blade sliced through the old man, splitting his body in half. His organs bounced off the wall, joining the remaining seagull steaks on their china plates at the table. Vroommmm, vroommmm, vroommmm. The chainsaw worked its way through the corpse for at least another minute before shutting itself off. I looked at Arthur, panting.

“Thank you,” I said.

We were filthy with blood and other things. Arthur circled the room slowly, taking in his work: previously decorated in tones of terra-cotta, the house was now decidedly red. In addition to blood, there were pieces of jewelry, platters, chunks of food, extinguished candles, and vomit scattered across the tablecloth. Arthur walked over and picked up a fork. He stirred some meat around on one of the plates and turned to me. His eyes welled with tears, and I figured it wasn’t for the people who’d just died.

“That lunch…” he said, pointing at Umberto. “Was it human flesh we were eating?”

I got on my knees and opened my arms wide:

“You can kill me now, Arthur. You don’t need me anymore.”