A wide expanse of freshly cut grass lay before a house whose mustard-colored façade was covered with climbing vines—not a sign of neglect, but well-tended decoration. Roofs that were red like the Misiones earth, palms and other trees surrounding its hexagonal shape, which at the front and back gave way to separate buildings; he could glimpse, along a side path, at least two more houses, one small and the other, in the distance, also enormous. The grass was uninterrupted: if there were fountains, they were at the back. And he could hear the river. That’s where the catwalks are, thought Gaspar, near the river, and he looked up because suddenly the landscape had darkened. A threatening storm cloud, low and swollen and heavy with hail, hung over the afternoon. When he looked at it, his headache exploded along with the black flowers that opened with carnivorous ferocity. He had the horrible certainty—déjà vu again, but very powerful this time—that his parents were going to come out of the house. The ghost house with palm trees and ghost parents; he even expected to see his uncle emerge, ash-colored, ashes in his hair, the rotting arm in his hand, the rotting arm he would use to attack Gaspar, to beat him on the head and body. He leaned against the car and saw someone come out of the house, a man. He approached Gaspar and straightened him up by taking hold of his shoulders, making him meet his eyes. The elegant gray hair, the sunken dark blue eyes, a forehead that Pablo would have called “Teutonic” when he was doing his taxonomy of men: Teutons, fairies, breeders, bears, otters, daddies. The memory of Pablo almost made him smile. He knew this man. Esteban. He wasn’t expecting to find him here.

On the front steps of the house, a group of people had gathered. Gaspar could see them clearly, the pink light of dusk forming a golden aura around them, a diminished glow. Two old women, one of them elegant in a gauzy Indian dress. The other wore a mask on her face that hid her mouth and jaw, her gray hair cut very short, pants, and a high-necked shirt. Behind were some five or six other people whom he couldn’t distinguish as easily from where he was standing.

Gaspar summoned his strength and shoved Esteban away. He regretted not having thought to bring weapons, but what would be the point when he didn’t know how to use them? He had never fired a gun. Never used a blade. All he could do was fight: he felt weak, but still capable of going up against Esteban. So as Esteban tried to catch his balance, Gaspar rushed him, pinned his arms behind his back, and threw him to the ground. Esteban knew how to fight too, and he managed to get to his feet and remove Gaspar’s arms from his neck with a quick and almost professional movement. Panting, sizing each other up, they faced each other from a meter apart.