As we spoke the door opened and the figure who came in looked at all three of us without much interest and moved across to one of the bookshelves. Jorge and his father paid no attention to him. He was dressed casually and his attitude was easy and casual as well. He was dark and stocky. When he turned to leave, having found the book he was looking for, I saw that his eyes, like Jorge’s eyes, were a crystal blue. Instantly I knew who he was. He was the brother who had gone to the United States years earlier. I remembered that he had phoned during the Malvinas War one night while I was in the house. He was, I knew, younger than Jorge by a year or two. Jorge and his father continued talking as he left the room, behaving as though he were an ordinary, fixed part of the household. I tried to remember his name as his father droned on about his election campaign. I must have known it at some point, but I could not remember what it was. As I was thinking about this Jorge asked if I no longer worked in the school. I told him that I had left and had found work as a translator with Donald and Susan. He and his father looked at me suspiciously. They did not ask me to stay for dinner. Jorge, instead, offered to drive me to the station. I accepted and shook hands with his father before I left. He was quiet now and surly. I think he had expected the Americans to hand him money which he could spend on advertising his candidacy in the newspapers, letting everyone know that the Americans had paid for the publicity and were thus supporting him. The fact that they wanted him to do something, take some initiative, seemed to make him uncomfortable and depressed.

On the way to the station I asked Jorge if the figure who came into the room was his brother. Yes, he said, about a month earlier his brother had telephoned from the airport to say that he was home and Jorge and his father had gone to collect him.

“What is his name?” I asked Jorge.

“Pablo,” he said.

“Is he going to stay?”

“Yes, he’s working with my father as well. They haven’t had a single argument yet. They used to argue a lot.”

“What age is he?”

“I’m thirty, which means that he is twenty-eight.”

“And where has he been living?”

“California. He speaks English with an American accent. Maybe we’ll send him to talk to the Americans.”

“Yes, he might get better results than I did.”

A FEW DAYS later Jorge rang to ask me if I thought that Donald would like to come and play tennis. They had bought a new net and the court was in good order, he said. He and his brother could play against me and the American. I telephoned Donald and he agreed. Thus the following Friday, carrying our tennis gear, we caught the train out to the Canettos’ house so that we would avoid the traffic; Jorge met us at the station. He was already dressed in white shorts, white shoes and socks, and a white tennis shirt.