Page 99 of The Secret Dinner

Cora shrugged and went back to the living room. I continued working, well aware that as soon as he noticed his phone was missing, Umberto would suspect me. I finished downloading the files and decided to look at his text messages. It didn’t take me long to hit the jackpot: his texts with Virgínia, Vladimir’s secretary. I quickly skimmed the thread, trying to glean as much information as possible. Most of the texts were short and sent by her: L square, 8pm or Hotel Fasano, tomorrow or Vladimir’s not happy. Umberto’s replies were simple, always submissive: ok, yes, or as he wishes.

Scrolling back farther, I came upon the date that photo had been posted on Instagram. Virgínia’s messages weren’t very nice, to say the least; Vladimir had threatened the life of Umberto’s daughter. I didn’t even know he had a daughter but now understood why he’d been so distressed that night. There were also some instructions, sent the afternoon Miguel was murdered: He got proof. Action. It was basically my friend’s death certificate. It really got to me.

I selected all the messages and forwarded them to my phone. Without thinking twice, I texted Virgínia: Meet in half an hour at the Fasano. URGENT. I put on nicer clothes, never letting my eyes leave the phone screen. It had to work … She replied in less than five minutes: Ok. She’d taken the bait.

I put the phone in my pocket, stuffed five hundred reals into my wallet, and, in a pathetic attempt at protection, grabbed my Swiss Army knife. I took a taxi to the Fasano hotel, which was very fancy and right across from the Ipanema beach. I’d been there once before for a party, where I felt completely out of place. Though two years had passed, my feeling remained the same—at least I now had enough money to have lunch at their restaurant, and even order dessert and a nice bottle of wine. I chose one of the sofas in the busy lobby and picked up that day’s newspaper, to shield my face. I kept an eye on the cars pulling up at the entrance: lots of foreign families and a few executives arriving for business meetings.

I looked at my watch. Five minutes past our agreed time. I tried to reassure myself; the secretary to someone like Vladimir probably always ran late. The minutes crawled by. When she was half an hour past due, I started to become impatient. I typed a text asking where she was, but before I could hit Send, I got a text from Virgínia: Where are you?

I looked around the lobby. A tall Black woman with long hair and a muscular build had just walked in. She wore a black pantsuit and gripped her phone as she went from table to table, obviously looking for someone. She looked down at her phone again and left the hotel. It had to be Virgínia. I followed her. A black Audi with tinted windows was waiting for her on the corner by the beach, outside a restaurant with a terrace. She got into the back seat, and I could see that there was someone else besides the driver inside the car. He looked like a bald man. Could it be Vladimir? The car sped off down Avenida Vieira Souto.

Without wasting any time, I ran to the taxi stand in front of the hotel and asked the driver to take the waterfront.

“Where to?” the driver asked.

I avoided the cliché Follow that car and told him I would dictate the route as we went. The Audi was just a car length ahead of us, heading toward Leblon, when it made a sudden U-turn. I took a picture of the car and zoomed in to see the license plate. We turned onto Avenida Atlântica and the beauty of Copacabana, stretching out from the corner of lifeguard station 6, unfolded before us.

The Audi turned left on Rua Figueiredo Magalhães, heading away from the beach. It switched on its hazard lights and stopped on the right side of the street, in front of the Shopping dos Antiquários: a run-down antique mall full of secondhand bookstores, vintage clothing stores, and, of course, antique shops. The woman got out of the car and hurried inside. I gave the cabbie two twenties and ran off, not caring if the driver of the Audi noticed me.

I climbed the ramp to the second floor, passing in front of the Tereza Rachel Theater. Most of the shops were already closed, and as night fell the place began to take on a sort of ghostly vibe. I was sure that Virgínia was going to meet Vladimir. She turned down a deserted corridor with display cases full of old paintings, chandeliers, mannequins, and statues. At the end of the hallway was a single light. The woman waited at the door like she needed permission to enter. A man’s hand reached out to shake hers.

I whipped out my pocketknife and followed her down the corridor, fearless. I was less than ten feet away when the man came out, as if the two of them were going to head back the way they’d come. On reflex, I managed to hide behind a column. My heart jumped into my throat. Even with a brief glance, I could see it was Umberto. I listened to their footsteps on the tile floor, calculating how many seconds I had before they passed me.

Holding my breath, I prayed they wouldn’t notice me. When they were a few feet ahead, Umberto suddenly stopped and turned, looking in my direction like he’d known I was there all along. I wanted to run, but his expression made it clear that any attempt to escape would be futile. I gripped the knife, ready for a fight.

“I believe you have my phone,” he said, holding out his hand.

Hatred blazed in his eyes. I was sure that if it were up to him, I’d be murdered on the spot. I handed over the phone, flashing him a wide, derisive smile, similar to the one he’d given me at lunch with Arthur.

“If you try another prank like that, I’ll kill you,” he said and walked away, limping slightly. Virgínia was gone. I ran to the main entrance in the desperate hope of catching the Audi stopped at a traffic light, but it was gone.

7

It was already dark by the time I made it home. At the dining room table, Piglet was typing on his laptop and drinking a milkshake, while Cora scribbled poetry in her notebook swinging in the hammock. Hugo came out, carrying two cookbooks under his arm:

“What happened?”

I opened a bottle of whiskey and helped myself to a generous pour. There was no point in hiding anything from them. They were my friends, after all. Even though my relationship with Hugo was rocky, I knew that behind that cold, egotistical facade there was still that fragile version of him in there, someone I could trust. I sat on the floor, leaning against the window, and recounted in detail my chaotic day: my meeting with Arthur, the pork tenderloin for lunch, stealing Umberto’s phone, and my message to Virgínia, the mystery woman. The three of them listened attentively, respecting my occasional pauses to sip whiskey or suck on an ice cube. When I’d finished, Piglet got up, slurping at the last drops from his empty milkshake cup. He tossed it in the trash and let out a burp.

“I think you’ve been tricked, Dante,” he said.

“What?”

“The phone on the table, the woman at the Fasano, I think it was all an act…” Piglet continued. He took a glass and filled it with whiskey, no ice. “Some friends called me earlier. They’ve been helping me dig for Vladimir. It’s nearly impossible not to leave any digital records nowadays.”

“And what did they say?”

“Nobody found a thing, not a single thing on him.”

“Okay, so?”

“So either this guy really knows how to hide or Umberto’s tricking us,” Piglet said with a smirk, sipping his whiskey. “It’s a lie, a story that weird old man made up. Vladimir doesn’t exist.”

[Letter]

Rio de Janeiro, June 13, 2024

Hi Mom,