“Son, what happened in Cuba – let me explain,” he tried to tell Argenis, but Argenis got ahead of him and said, “Don’t worry, Dad. Everything’s fine.” Just like on that distant afternoon when he had guided his father into the tailor shop, he felt compassion, a need to take care of him. His father owed him a suit, a pair of sneakers, a bunch of stuff – but he owed his father his life, a life that in Orestes Loudón’s waiting room seemed to him immense and full of pleasures still to be discovered. That impeccable suit had awoken an unknown pride within him; that stitched-together fabric not only made him look distinguished and attractive, but also had restored the world to him in a lustrous splendor. He felt the vigorous thrust of his youth, recognized a richness in his young age that his father and Loudón both envied, and that tender envy made him feel powerful.

Loudón appeared with the suit on a plastic-covered hanger and, when José Alfredo made as if to pull out his wallet, he explained that his son had already paid. The bureaucrat put his wallet back in his jacket pocket and went out onto the street, holding Argenis’s hand as if he were a child. José Alfredo’s driver brought the black Lexus SUV up to the sidewalk and got out to open the door for them. José Alfredo let his son get in first, then the suit, and then finally climbed in himself. Another bachata, this one by Aventura, ruined the moment’s perfection, but as soon as José Alfredo closed the door behind him and both of them were inside the luxurious vehicle Romeo Santos’ voice disappeared completely, as if by magic.

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Avocado stuffed with crab

Crab legs with garlic and parsley

Shrimp in vinegar

Tuna carpaccio

Grilled squid

Shrimp cocktail

Crab cocktail

Galician-style imported octopus

Half dozen Blue Point oysters

Spanish tortilla

Just reading the appetizer menu of the Don Pepe restaurant made Argenis’s throat start to itch. His father had forgotten that he was allergic and ordered one of everything for the table, to share with Pellín and Aquiles, two old buddies who, like José Alfredo, now worked at the National Palace. Argenis said nothing, waiting for the Spanish tortilla and the French wine his father had ordered with the only French he had. He had known Pellín and Aquiles since he was a baby, from the meetings his father had held at their home when he was still married to Etelvina. Back then they had hidden their bony faces behind beards that emulated Fidel’s and wore guayabera shirts eaten up by the kind of sweat known only to Caribbean pedestrians. They were broke, jobless, and they fell on the sancocho stew Etelvina made for them as if they hadn’t eaten in years.

They ate now with that same desperation, and his father – even though he had better manners than they did, thanks to his second wife – slurped his oysters noisily. They talked with their mouths full – about their golden years, their dead comrades, the hard times they’d endured in the mountains, Cuba, as if they had to justify their excessive appetites to Argenis. Pellín nudged José Alfredo with his elbow, since his hand was dirty, and told Argenis, “Your father was a daredevil. His pulse never went up at all, not like these fags.” Argenis wondered what fags they were talking about. Was a contingent of fags trying to topple the government? Pellín and Aquiles disgusted him. They were creatures lacking any grace, leeches who survived by attaching themselves to any possibility of notoriety. Their premium linen suits and chubby wrists adorned with heavy Bulova watches added a picturesque touch to the ensemble, something historical and clinical, like Velázquez’s dwarves.