With the laughter and movement, the pin Loudón was putting into the waistband pricked Argenis a little. “This one’s the first of many,” Loudón said. “You’ll see how quickly you’ll get to like going around like this.” Argenis felt light, capable of anything, capable above all of visiting his father and asking him for money, a job, attention. Dressed this way it was impossible to imagine wasting his talent for drawing on women with black eyes who had no real interest in fine arts. A feeling of disdain for his aunt’s world made him lift his chin and he looked at the noble profile that his mother’s genes had bestowed on him, the stomach that addiction had smoothed, the height that surpassed that of his father and his brother, the slanted, feline eyes and the long-fingered, expressive hands that his past lovers had so praised.

Something made a noise in the outer room. “The cat, hunting mice,” said Loudón, now without pins in his mouth, as he took two steps back to contemplate his work and to smile, showing all his teeth, some of them pearly, and one golden like the morning star.

The door opened behind them and José Alfredo Luna entered. Argenis felt a strange calmness inside and it didn’t matter to him if it was a coincidence or if Loudón had set up the meeting. If it had been a mother and daughter, a seamstress would have praised her client: “Look how pretty your daughter is,” “She looks like a princess.” But these were men, and Loudón remained silent, contenting himself with moving his eyebrows and subtly nodding toward Argenis to show José Alfredo what he had achieved.

Argenis also remained silent as he spun around, with José Alfredo’s same smile, with José Alfredo’s same almond-shaped eyes, lifting his butt the way his father had once done, too, incarnating for his father an impossible vision of himself, a vision of life and hope, of youth, swollen with blood, claiming its place in the world. And that vision of his fingers on another hand, his lips on another face, suddenly sucked the life from José Alfredo. He felt like a container, useful only for his experiences, like a señor, like a fucking old man. He dropped into the white plastic chair by the door like a sack of potatoes. The electricity came back on, to the general rejoicing of the barrio and the noisy tears of José Alfredo. Argenis finally dropped his pose and kneeled in front of his father to wipe away his tears and say, “Papi, you’re the man. I’m here, with you. I love you.”

Loudón asked him to take off the suit so he could finish it and, giving them each a glass of water, sent them off to sit in the waiting room. An old bachata, “Medicina de Amor,” was playing in the colmado across the way. The only thing he and his father agreed on was their hatred for bachata. Argenis closed the door onto the street, but it did not prevent the noisy guitar from filtering through the woodwork. His old man had removed the gold-framed glasses he always wore. His eyes had bags underneath, crow’s feet, and little cream-colored warts. They looked like the eyes of a gremlin. He appeared tired and defenseless after months of dirty campaigning, intrigue, hustling. Like always, the triumph of his party had cost him tears, blood, and a significant portion of dignity. Age had come upon him and Argenis, seeing his father defeated by biology, couldn’t even recall the thirst for vengeance he had felt only a few hours earlier.