For months he had been silently cursing his father, calling him a cocksucker out loud when no one could hear him, but when Argenis heard the other man insulting José Alfredo he felt bad and wanted to defend him. “Genes are everything,” Loudón jabbered on from the other side of the machine as he lit another cigarette from the butt of the previous one. “You know they can get your DNA off that disgusting collar,” he said, pursing his lips toward Bebo’s jacket, and then, blowing smoke through his nose, he added, “One goes around leaving bits of oneself all over. Keep that in mind if you’re going to kill someone.” And his laughter, which burst out without warning, was sharp and mocking, like that of a shameless old whore.

When he saw Loudón get out of his seat and grab a yellow measuring tape that hung with a few others on the back of his chair, Argenis opened his mouth: “I want a suit.” “Why else would you have come?” Loudón said, gesturing for him to get up as he opened an old, battered school notebook. Without asking his name, Loudón wrote “Argenis Luna Durán” with a red Paper Mate at the top of a page before sticking his arms out like Christ on the cross so that Argenis would do the same. Then, without using his hands to smoke the cigarette between his lips, the tailor proceeded to take his new client’s measurements. After each measurement Loudón wrote the result down next to the body part.

From the neck to the shoulder, so much.

The chest, so much.

The waist, so much.

Shoulder to shoulder, the width of the back.

From neck to waist, from shoulder to wrist, the circumference of the wrist.

The length and circumference of the arm.

The hips.

The length of the leg.

From the waist to the groin and from the groin down the length of the leg again.

Using these measurements, Loudón would cut patterns like the ones he had tacked up on the door and then he’d use them to cut out the selected fabric. Those tissue paper patterns reminded Argenis of the flayed hide of a cow – shadows snipped by scissors, just as light casts shadows from a body onto a wall. With those shadows, the tailor would work his miracle on the basis of his clients’ tastes and aspirations.

After closing the notebook Loudón bent over a pile of magazines and pulled one out. He flipped through it and showed two pictures to Argenis. The first portrayed a male model in a navy-blue sports coat with gold buttons, one hand resting on the sail of a catamaran; in the second an older man crossed a European street in a formal black suit. Argenis chose the second.

“What is this suit for?” Loudón asked him as he stubbed out the cigarette on the sole of his shoe and tossed it out the window. For a second Argenis thought of telling the truth: “To take revenge on my father, to make him feel guilty, so he’ll pay what he owes me.” He knew he would go to visit him, elegantly dressed, but he wasn’t too clear on the details of his plan.