Page 52 of The Secret Dinner

“Of course not,” he said, his face hidden by the refrigerator door. “What makes you think that?”

There was no subtle way to bring it up. Like Piglet always said, you just had to let shit hit the fan.

“I went down to the garage last night, Hugo. Bukowski’s front is all dented.”

He downed the glass of water in one gulp, left it in the sink, and walked past me without saying a word. He went straight to his room and locked himself inside.

“There’s no point in avoiding me! Open the fucking door!”

Let’s face it, we all knew that Hugo wasn’t the most moral guy in the world. But as far as I knew, he wasn’t a killer. I banged a few more times until he gave in. He opened the door a crack and turned to the bedroom window, watching the pedestrians go by on Rua Duvivier.

“What did you do?” I asked.

He stared at me with bloodshot eyes. But his expression showed no signs of regret. There was even a certain pride in it.

“I solved our problem.”

“How could you?”

“Well, because of me, you can stay in your little apartment. You should be thanking me.”

That wasn’t the answer I had expected. I was prepared to hear some excuse, a tall tale, but not that: a cold, detached confession. Hugo had crossed the threshold, and there was no going back.

“Did you run over that guy?”

He threw himself onto the bed, drawing his legs up and hugging his knees. He began to sob, his face hidden by his long hair. I thought about going up to him, putting my hand on his shoulder to comfort him, but I didn’t really feel sorry for him. I just crossed my arms, waiting for the show to end.

“Did you kill that guy?” I asked again.

“I … I was desperate, Dante! I had this idea to follow an ambulance. It was our only chance to get a body. But it’s not easy, those guys really floor it. So I had to do the same … to stay on their tail.”

“And?”

“I was at the Largo do Machado, when … when this guy just walked out in front of me. I didn’t even get a good look at him, I just felt the impact. That son of a bitch was jaywalking! It wasn’t my fault.”

“Stop lying! You ran over that guy on purpose!”

“It wasn’t on purpose!” Hugo looked up. “He was still alive. There were some other people around, some pedestrians, and they helped me put the guy in the back seat of Bukowski so I could take him to the hospital, but … but he died on the way. You have to believe me. It was an accident! I looked in his pockets, but he had no wallet, no ID, nothing, not even some spare change. He was homeless. And that’s when I had the idea…”

“To serve the guy you just ran over.”

“I mean, he was already dead and…” Hugo cracked a tiny grin, a jarring contrast to the rest of his troubled expression. “A homeless guy is pretty much a stray animal.”

I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard. “Pretty much an animal?”

“You know what I meant … Don’t lecture me on morality,” he said. “A homeless guy is the perfect victim. Nobody’s going to come looking for him! All food has a price, Dante.”

His tears had dried and now his gaze had morphed into something else, something cynical and lifeless. There wasn’t any trace of my friend in there. He had completely crossed over to the other side.

“You’re a murderer, Hugo,” I said.

The truth hit him hard. He got up and shoved me toward the door, shouting:

“Leave me alone! Go to the cops, go to the press, do whatever you want. If I’m guilty, so are you! This was a win-win for everybody, Dante. Everybody!”

There was no point in fighting, Hugo was a lot stronger than me. Besides, I was already running late. I took the bus to work, overcome by an uneasiness I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Later, I understood: Even though I knew what needed to be done, I didn’t have the guts to report Hugo. I’d benefited from what happened, and in a way, I’d also gone down a path of no return. I was an accomplice. My survival instincts took over my sense of justice. Nobody would be looking for that guy. Nobody would miss him. And, well, our problem was solved.

Once, on the wall of a public restroom, I saw a poem: