Argenis thought he could see the fruits of those envied moments in the ample pride that kept his brother’s spine erect, his chin pointing out some spot on the horizon, his chest puffed out like a fighting cock’s.

Ernesto got up from his enormous armchair, took three steps around to the front of the desk, and made a little backwards jump to sit on it. He was as white as their mother Etelvina, but had inherited their father’s appetite: he was much shorter than Argenis and a spare tire was starting to encircle his midsection. His feet hung down like those of a plucked chicken and Argenis could see the colorful checked socks he wore under his pants. Ernesto swung his feet as he inspected his nails. “You know what this is?” he asked, putting one hand on top of the mountain of paper. “It’s the future. Projects, investments, capital. Contracts we’re giving to people. Investors who come to put money into your country. The president brought me from Argentina to evaluate them. You could have a slice of the pie, too, except that you’re a retard.”

Another call demanded Ernesto’s attention and Argenis dared to serve himself a whiskey from the designer minibar in the corner. There he looked at himself in the mirror that covered the wall. He was wearing Bebo’s brown pants and a cotton shirt his Aunt Niurka had given him. He didn’t look so bad, except for the overly long toenails that peeked out from his leather sandals. In the background a man who shared his blood, wearing a designer suit too tight for him, was seducing one of his lovers in a loud voice.

A driving rain began to beat against the windows and Argenis imagined the scene as part of a Dominican musical. In it, his brother, wearing the designer suit and a Che-style starred beret, danced under a downpour of government contracts for building bridges, highways, and medical clinics. Ernesto shared his pie with other choreographed scoundrels, most of them fat and bald and in linen suits, who spun in place while smiling up at the sky from which a deluge of paper and liquid shit was falling. With sadistic pleasure, Argenis filled Ernesto’s mouth with that shit until he was forced to swallow it, to savor it, with a smiling, stupid face.

An assistant had entered with lunch on a silver tray. Ernesto had ordered from some menu a half hour earlier. Without offering anything to Argenis, he went back to his chair and took the metal covers from the steaming plates. He placed the telephone next to the tray and turned it onto speaker. A flirtatious woman’s voice on the other end asked about the color of some rugs. He cut the fish with knife and fork and put a huge piece into his mouth. His eyes gleamed with something empty and monstrous, like Saturn devouring his son in the Goya painting. Content in the belly of the Titan, he imitates his gestures, thought Argenis.