“Please, Marcelina,” said Juan, “could you bring the drinks inside? By the picture window, if you don’t mind. We’ve had a long trip.”

I went over to Juan and received, along with his kiss, the smell of gasoline and sweat. I caressed his damp back. Betty followed Marcelina inside: she didn’t like strangers to see her, not her or her daughter. She shielded Adela from the eyes of others, always focused so coarsely on her stump, and she also wanted to protect herself. She couldn’t be too careful, and she didn’t know this man with Juan.

The three of us went up to the house, Juan carrying Gaspar. Before going in, Luis paused for a second.

“It’s wonderful,” he said. From the catwalk, you could see almost the whole house. I remembered Luis was an architect.

“Von Plessen designed it. It’s very hot, it doesn’t work for this climate. The gardens are the nicest part.”

“They must be by Blanchard.”

Juan ignored us and went inside, while I stayed with Luis. Large hands with broad fingers; wrinkles at the sides of his impressive eyes that seemed not to blink, their color compact, artificial, similar to Gaspar’s; jeans with slight bell-bottoms. Juan was twenty-four years old, so his brother must have been thirty, but he looked older. He was polite, but clearly on edge.

Juan sat down on the sofa facing the picture window looking on to the orchid garden. Marcelina served fresh water with ice for everyone, left the oranges in the middle of the table, and went to get iced tea as well. Juan took off his shirt and sat Gaspar on one of his legs.

“Luis is here because he needs to get to Brazil. He can’t do it alone, and we need you to help.”

“Well, aren’t you blunt,” said Luis.

“What kind of runaround do you want me to give her?”

“Not a runaround,” said Luis. “But I’m asking for a favor. Let me do the talking.”

Juan raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.

“Take it easy,” I told him. Then I turned to Luis: “Your brother gets like this when he’s exhausted. You must know already that his health isn’t good.”

Luis looked at his hands. He was wearing a broad gold ring, but it wasn’t a wedding band.

“You traveled all the way from Buenos Aires and didn’t say a word to each other,” I guessed.

“We took turns sleeping,” said Luis, and he looked at Juan with a hint of reproach.

“Well. His heart is quite decompensated, so I suppose that if he went to Buenos Aires to get you, it must be for something important.”

“I didn’t go to get him,” said Juan. “I went for what I had to do, and we met up. He told me he needs to get out of the country, so I offered him help.”