Here we have Mr. Omar Pires de Moura, talented executive, back at the office. Take note: though exhibiting apparent interest and unapproachable superiority he is barely tolerating yet another early-morning meeting of management to consider possible responses to the striking workers. His department has prepared a careful survey rending useless all the tedious theories of those mongoloids who make it their business to worry about politics, including a list of all the imponderable circumstances which could influence this or that and, suddenly fed up with it all, here we have the prestigious and loudmouthed financial wiz speaking out of turn and putting an end to that idiotic and pointless discussion, by analyzing the company’s production over the last five years as it relates to national production and the exigencies of the economic sector, establishing once and for all, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the irreversible necessities, outlining a reassuring profile of the firm’s prospective performance regardless of political course of the nation as a whole, skillfully demonstrating the necessity of a purely technical approach to the question, examining the production chart along with the other department heads who are utterly fascinated and submissive to his talent and persuasiveness, and here he is, at last, proclaiming that they should be able to absorb, without risk, a salary hike of up to thirty percent, then finally volunteering to deliver personally to the works the calculations proving that due to a and b their pay raise can be no greater than fifteen percent. Ha, ha, ha, here he is returning to his desk, to Elza his secretary, who unquestionably thinks he looks like Omar Sharif but of course says nothing, adoring, as he explains how the report should be set up and why it is of the utmost urgency, but then, at the sight of her carefully manicured hands, he turns into the profligate Sir Henry Spencer Ashbee, dreaming about how those red fingernails could just as well be caressing his skillful two-by-eight instead of having to type all night preparing that report with accompanying statement of terms and proposal to the strikers.

Next we have the legendary British libertine Sir Henry Spencer Ahsbee on his way to the club to meet his friend and brother-in-law, Sir Harold, following yet another delectable adventure in which his famous two-by-eight once again played the gusty role of king of the muff-snatchers. All of Sir Henry’s considerable finesse and aplomb will be necessary at this encounter to ensure that he doesn’t lose his temper and end up slapping Sir Harold in the face for his persistent expressions of disbelief—often without so much as the delicacy to check who is at the neighboring tables or use an appropriately discreet tone of voice—with regard to his lascivious activities. Sir Henry, not a man of great patience, has in the past managed to restrain himself only because Sir Harold knows of all his intrigues and is, as it were, brother to his fortune; but if things reach an unbearable limit today, as they have several times previously—today of all days, a day filled with general irritation at the office due to the strike in the Osasco factory which already has him out of sorts, and then afterward there was that abominable traffic tie-up caused by a minor collision which prompted two cretins to discuss at great length the issue of who would pay to have their cars repainted while all Rua Augusta yelled and honked, obliging the irritated Sir Henry to abandon his car in a no-parking zone and seek refuge in a massage parlor, with delicious consequences; if, then, irony and suspicion are forthcoming from Sir Harold, Sir Henry, somewhat relieved from having taken his pleasure but nonetheless undermined by cumulative irritation, will be obliged to forget kinship and expedience and come out swinging. Here, then, we have the notorious adventurer striding into the bar, drawing reproachful glances from the family men, surmising their whispered remarks: Here he comes again, the fornicating philanderer. Inaccessible, with an air of contempt for the values of that lazy bourgeoisie, he twists his mustache between thumb and forefinger, smoothing any hairs which might be out of place, a characteristic gesture, and scans the room for Sir Harold. With a measured, decisive, and as much as possible, sensual stride, he advances toward his friend’s table after an almost invisible gesture of greeting—such exemplary British discretion. Listen now as Sir Henry recounts at length for the friend of his youth, companion in some of the most outrageous revels in all São Paulo, long before becoming his brother-in-law, godfather to his son, and accomplice, listen as he recounts his ingenious, tortuous maneuverings to corrupt the reluctant masseuse. There are other girls for that, she said to Sir Henry the Dangerous, as he reported to Sir Harold, you can ask for one who does, he quoted her, trying his best to convey her sensual manner in order to give Sir Harold an approximate picture of what a hot number she was, supplying his friend with the raw material to evaluate the diabolical offer he made her even though she was a relatively upright young woman, with a daughter, who swore she worked there only because she really, really had to. At the sauna she earned six thousand before tips; in a store on Rua Augusta she would only have made two thousand. I want my daughter to have everything, the very best, she said, and Sir Henry was emphatic in his narrative, painting the scene like an artist, until finally he came to the conclusion, the irresistible offer of two thousand cruzeiros, and her tears as she yielded, giving in to everything. Every little thing. A blonde?—Sir Harold inquired, perhaps with a certain air of incredulity, or maybe irritating superiority, the satyr wasn’t quite sure how to define it, and she he revealed, as proof, that the girl was a blonde with black pubes, like Marilyn Monroe.