Montemor, Portugal, May 1, 1994.
Rineke Dijkstra

“For god’s sake, you can’t even take care of yourself and you wanna get dad with you. That’s a good one,” Jorge said with an inquisitor gaze up to his brother, waiting for a reply that was not going to happen.

“Bah…” added in conclusion, clutching half his face as he scanned the surroundings of the square, a spark of disgust in his eyes.

Jorge leaned on two legs of his chair, like a teenager, his legs widespread, holding his mouth with a hand to refrain himself from adding anything else to his brother’s idea.

Jorge could not stay quiet for long, though.

He loosened the knot of his tie and raised a hand to the waiter who was taking another order three tables away. “Hey dude, we waiting,” yells at him. He just got off the office and was dressed in a dark grey bright suit a bit too tight, as he liked, to show up. Jorge did not spend an hour a day in the gym to hide the results.

Anyway, he was not there to discuss any choice with his brother Lucio. He did already decide what they were going to do. He was the one paying for the nursing home. A good one. His dad was not going to end his days in that lousy apartment of Lucio.

Jorge bent down to grab a brochure out of his maroon leather briefcase when the waiter got closer. “At least”, grumped Jorge, “a gin-and-tonic for me, and bring some chips. What do you want, Lucio?,” asks mechanically even if not wait for an answer. “Here, look. It’s expensive but medicalized. Three thousand bucks, buddy. You hear that? Three thousand! Wait see the yard. You gonna luv’it,” says turning the pages until he finds a panoramic view of a French style garden in a sunny day with an old couple sitting on a white bench in the center of it. “Fancy, isn’t it?”

“A coffee for me, please,” whispered Lucio to the about to leave waiter, not willing to cut his brother off while he exposed the benefits of the residence. “It looks really nice, but I can’t even pay a third of it.”

“Of course, you can’t…,” mumbled Jorge right away shaking his head, staring at him with a pity look.

He looked like a hobo, in Jorge’s mind. Lucio was bending forward on the edge of his chair, both hands gathered between his thighs. He seemed that he was cold even with that thick old corduroy brown jacket, too hot for the season. He kept his wide honey irises right on Jorge, both brothers in silence for a while.

Lucio shrugged his shoulders and pursed his lips forming those dimples that gave him a childish air even if he was about to turn forty. Lucio was begging pardon Jorge with his entire being. He hated disappointing his brother, but he knew that whatever he did, he would never measure up to him.