Page 74 of The Secret Dinner

“None of our concern? We’re in business together, for fuck’s sake!”

The waiter brought the whiskey, and Umberto slammed it back. He made a sound with his lips, fidgeting with the tablecloth. Then he glanced around before whispering, “It’s no use, I can’t tell you much.”

“Tell me or I’m leaving right now and going to the nearest police station.”

“You’re too smart to do that. Here’s the thing, Dante: You’ve got a good sum of money coming your way from these last few dinners. I can’t deposit it directly into your account; the tax authorities will get suspicious. We’re just going to keep raking it in, so you need to find some way to launder it … I do it through my film production company, UMM Company. You need some kind of front, preferably in the cultural sector, where there’s less oversight.”

“There’s no point in changing the subject, Umberto. Tell me or I’m out.”

I could tell a deep-seated fear was preventing him from taking the next step.

“Vladimir helped us grow our business,” Umberto finally conceded.

“Was he the one who squashed the police investigation?”

“Yes … He’s influential but discreet. It’s important to him that no one knows of his existence; neither you nor your friends. Please don’t tell anyone I said anything.”

“So what’s his cut from all this?”

“Eighty percent of my share. I really don’t want to say any more. You all have nothing to do with him.”

“I need to meet him.”

“You don’t understand. Vladimir is a very dangerous man, Dante.” There was sincere horror in his voice. “Keep hosting the dinners, earn your money, and forget about it. Forget what I told you, and not a word to the others, okay? It’s for your own good. And for mine, too. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve lost my appetite.”

Umberto dropped two hundreds on the table and left without looking back.

5

I hailed a taxi in front of the restaurant and got out at Copacabana beach, near lifeguard station 2. I felt watched, like I was being followed by a ghost. I looked around. Nobody. It was late and the street was deserted, except for a few homeless people sleeping in the darkness. I didn’t feel like going home and decided to walk around a little, which had always helped me think. There was a lot at stake. I couldn’t afford to make the wrong decision. On Avenida Atlântica, I passed a couple of bars full of rowdy gringos, samba music playing and hookers offering themselves to passing cars. I thought about going into one of those little neon-lit dives and ordering a drink, but I couldn’t shake that bad feeling. It felt like it was getting closer, more material. I hightailed it home.

Cora was in the living room, lying on the sofa in her nightgown. In the lamplight, she scribbled absentmindedly in her notebook, listening to Kate Bush on her iPhone. Without saying a word, I got a glass of water from the kitchen and stared at my reflection in the dark screen of my phone. I didn’t want her to pick up that anything was off.

“Where were you?”

“I had dinner with a friend.”

“Uh-huh, you had dinner with a friend or you had your friend for dinner?”

“I’m not in the mood for jokes, Cora.”

“Geez, guess that one bombed … Do you want to talk?”

I really didn’t. I changed the subject.

“What are you doing?”

I sat down next to her, and she laid her head on my lap—it was becoming a habit.

“Writing poetry,” she replied, handing me her notebook. “This time of night inspires me.”

I skimmed the pages; she had beautiful, neat handwriting, with rounded a’s and o’s. Her rhymes were still corny, leaning heavily on gerunds and vulgar subject matter.

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

IN THIS LIFE

THERE ARE FEW TRUTHS