For some months now, Julieta had been having meetings with lawyers representing Gaspar’s mother’s family. They had communicated to her that Gaspar’s grandparents would not demand custody or visitation. Really, they couldn’t intervene in the matter of custody, because Juan had done the paperwork while he was still alive. But Julieta had the feeling, peculiar but distinct, that Juan had bypassed them by giving his son to Luis before he died and that it bothered them immensely, which was why they had mentioned custody for no reason. Bypassed? What do you mean? asked Luis, and she didn’t know how to answer. It was an instinct. The lawyers seemed to concede from the start that the boy would not go with his grandparents, like it was a fight they’d already lost. The meetings were held at one of the properties of Gaspar’s maternal family—not the main offices, but a smaller branch. The meeting room was bizarre, Julieta thought. In addition to the fireplace, which was already out of fashion with its false firewood covering the gas screen, there was a wood stove and a samovar that looked authentic. It was never cold enough in Buenos Aires to justify such a display of heaters. The walls were covered with what she supposed were hunting trophies, but that were only the horns of different animals. Stags, bucks, she’d been told. Without their heads. The table was oak and very large, and they always had her sit at one end. The lawyers, a man and a woman, were polite and meticulous, but they took a long time, many months, to approve Gaspar’s inheritance, the list of property that would belong to him. Whenever she was leaving one of those meetings, Julieta had the feeling she would never see them again. But Gaspar’s monthly allowance, which was a lot, continued to appear punctually in the bank. Luis didn’t want to touch the money: he wanted to save it for Gaspar’s future. Julieta disagreed. She had told him so while the two of them were smoking in bed, talking in low voices so Gaspar wouldn’t hear them, though he tended to fall asleep wearing his headphones or with the radio on.

“He’s mature, we always say so. He’d be happy to share his money.”

“Maybe later. I don’t want their cash. It’s a nasty story, but I never knew how to unravel it, or never had the courage to. What am I talking about? That guy, the doctor, kidnapped my brother for his own professional benefit, and who knows what else.”

There was a silence, and Luis consumed his cigarette in three drags.

“Do you suspect something?”

“I suspect, but Juan never told me anything. Bradford was a prominent figure, the most respected doctor in the country. Fuck, the other day I went to La Plata and I found out they named the new medical school building after him. The guy was weird, and when he lost his hand, he got worse, he was like Narciso Ibáñez Menta, but more British. Like the guy in the Saturday movies.”