Page 70 of The Secret Dinner

That day truly represented the start of a new chapter in our lives. We were on top of the world, and the money was rolling in. Piglet was burning through cash like there was no tomorrow, showering Cora with designer bags, shoes, and perfumes. He also spent a small fortune on video games and takeout. I tried to tell him to tone it down, but I wasn’t exactly low profile myself: I splurged on nights out at gay clubs, guzzling their most expensive booze and the best drugs money could buy. It was during this time that I tried cocaine and ecstasy for the first time and had a taste of the wonderful world of obsession, of craving a hit of something that would help me forget all about the things we’d done to get here and what we were continuing to do to maintain our perfect little life.

Business was booming. I was starting to earn Umberto’s trust, and he didn’t always come to the dinners. He claimed to have business meetings and appointments, but it always felt like he was hiding something more serious. He and Cecília had had a falling-out, and she’d made a point of letting me know she no longer represented him. Still, she continued to faithfully attend our dinners at least once a month, enjoying every morsel.

By now you might be wondering if I ever tried the seagull. As I’m sure you can imagine, I got more curious with every dinner, with every eureka moment from the diners, every moment of gushing adulation Hugo received. I watched the meat being served, soaked in sauce, garnished with herbs and tomatoes. It always smelled so tantalizing, so inviting. Of course I wanted to try it. But then I’d remember the bodies that supplied these events, their lifeless faces, and I’d lose my appetite completely.

Late one night at the end of November, I finally bit the bullet. I was in the villa’s living room after having cleared the table with Cora’s help. There were two bottles with some leftover wine, and she suggested we finish them before going home—she’d had a fight with Piglet and was in no hurry to get back. I accepted.

We chatted for hours—talked about sex, family, love, and food. Cora got up to go to the bathroom and sat back down a few minutes later, crossing her legs. She set a leftover plate of seagull rib eye steak with fresh mushroom sauce on the little table next to me.

“I found it in the kitchen,” she said. “Have a taste.”

I looked at the plate. The delicious smell of rosemary and fat filled my nostrils, and I felt my mouth flood with saliva.

“I’ll pass.”

“Go on, Dante. It’s just us,” Cora insisted. “You really ought to know what you’re selling … Do it!”

Trying not to give it too much thought for once, I cut a piece and put it in my mouth. I chewed slowly, releasing all the juices, as my taste buds captured every nuance. An unfamiliar stupor quickly washed over my entire mouth, from my cheeks to my palate, and my whole body relaxed with pleasure, begging for more. It was, without a doubt, the most delicious steak I’d ever eaten. I took another bite. And another one. I only stopped, putting down my knife and fork, when I remembered where I’d tasted that flavor before: It was identical to the pork tenderloin I couldn’t get out of my head, the one served at Umberto’s house. No … It can’t be …

Cora tried to calm me down, but it was no use. I called an Uber and went home on my own, lost in thought but still intoxicated by the taste. Hugo probably knew we weren’t eating pork that day at Umberto’s. He should have told me. He had no right to hide it from me.

I stepped into our apartment, more enraged than ever, and was suddenly hit with déjà vu: There were my friends, sprawled out on the sofa, staring up at the old man in a suit and bow tie, standing in the middle of the room. I advanced toward Umberto, ready for a fight, but stopped short when he turned to face me. His shoulders were hunched, he had a forlorn look in his eyes, and even his bow tie—navy and red stripes—was wrinkled. I’d never seen him look so vulnerable before.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“This,” he said, handing me his phone, open to an Instagram post. “There’s been a leak, Dante.”

VLADIMIR

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The Instagram post was when all hell broke loose. Posted eight hours earlier by @Kassio_Kolks, it showed a plate of grilled meat with a side of sautéed vegetables, from one of the secret dinners. Below it was a series of hashtags: #SecretDinner #TopSecret #HumanFlesh #Humans #BestDinner #SoDelicious #GetInMyBelly. It couldn’t have been more brazen. To our dismay, the post already had over two hundred likes and thirteen comments—from horrified people asking if it was really human meat and from curious people wanting to know how it tasted.

Shaking, Umberto explained that he’d received the link via an email from an unknown party and demanded an immediate solution from Piglet. Sitting in front of his MacBook, sweating profusely, Piglet typed frantically and backdoored access points, trying to take down the post. The photo kept getting likes and comments, and our greatest fear was that it would spread. The internet is a hellscape: You delete one piece of information and it instantly resurfaces in a hundred other places; images are forwarded and shared at the speed of light, impossible to control.

Miguel paced back and forth, wiping his glasses on his shirt.

“I knew this was gonna happen, I told you we should’ve put a stop to this!” he repeated. “We can’t keep having dinners. It’s over!”

He was right, things had gotten out of hand. This was the end of the road, and there was nothing we could do about it. I went to the bathroom and popped two Klonopin. I slipped Miguel a third. Bringing up the pork tenderloin from Umberto’s would only make things worse. Miguel would lose his shit, maybe even go to the cops. We could fight later, when the vibe was less tense.

“Piglet, you’ll be able to fix this, won’t you?” urged Umberto.

“Let me concentrate. I’m doing my best.”

I could tell from Piglet’s face that it wasn’t a simple fix. The next few hours were awful, fueled by Red Bull, coffee, and Coca-Cola. Everybody was on edge, paranoid the police would come knocking at any moment and shatter our glass house. Hugo kept fiddling with his phone, scouring search engines to check the picture hadn’t gone viral.

“There’s still hope,” he said, mostly to himself.

Umberto mopped his forehead with a dirty handkerchief and disappeared occasionally down the hall to take a phone call. I caught bits and pieces of his conversation and got the impression that the person on the other end was giving him a hard time. Umberto would say, “Sorry, I’m taking care of it, sorry,” and come back to the living room looking even more dejected, plopping down on the sofa and staring hopefully at Piglet. I thought it was weird, but this wasn’t the time to demand explanations.

“This is all your fault, Dante,” said Umberto, breaking a heavy silence. “You were in charge! How could you let someone take a picture like that?”

“I don’t know how it happened. There’s definitely been a security breach.”

“You’re incompetent! Do you know how much shit is coming down on me because of you?!”

“Fuck you,” I replied.