Two brothers, both named Teodoro, embark on a westward journey with enigmatic intentions. Out there, instead of limitless freedom, they get swept up in the pursuit of more questionable rewards: a grieving woman’s trust and confidence, loopholes in the legal barricades around a dead man’s estate. What, exactly, are the Teodoros trying to find, and what do they not want others to find out about them?

Teodoro, the Brother of Teodoro is not a book for those who demand clarity from a narrative. With deadpan humour and a devious style, through a complex arrangement of doublings and forgeries, it entices its readers into a miasma of obfuscation, away from certainty. And, as it evokes the prickly, playful novels of Jack Cox and William Gaddis, it imprisons its characters in the architecture of its own language: in coded documents, deceptive descriptions, ambiguous referents and duplicated identities. From the very first page, only one thing is certain: in Teodoro’s world, and Teodoro’s as well, any promise of certainty itself is a mirage.