Mr. Ladombas, lying on his back on a large, noble bed, stares vacantly at his snow-white, curvy belly, which protrudes between a short t-shirt and a long pair of shorts, swelling and deflating like a faulty vacuum cleaner. The time approaches four o'clock and the heat is unbearable.

The room, one of those old ones with high ceilings, which make today’s owners a bit melancholic when they think of how much space has gone to waste, is locked up, and the sheer blue curtains are drawn. The decor is rather simple, except for the plaster reliefs around the ceiling, a large crystal chandelier, the gilt furniture, a few small curiosities, and the skins of two tigers on either side of the bed.

A large fly suddenly darts out from a corner and begins to whirl around frantically as if it has been stung by a person. "These flies, oh, these flies!" whispers Mr. Ladombas, trembling with his irritation. However, he doesn't have time to finish his thought because the fly is now circling threateningly above his wrinkled groin.

He immediately turns and mechanically reaches for the nightstand, but the only thing he finds there is a letter from Fofo. With his gums tight, he carefully lifts himself a bit, and while slowly leaning forward, he approaches the fly and tries to swat it with his hands. His failure enrages him. He grabs a pillow, gets up from the bed, and starts the chase.

The fly, after making a few quick circles around his head, escapes and sticks to the ceiling near the chandelier. Out of breath, he throws the pillow once, as high as he can, but when he sees that the chandelier is in more danger than the fly, he lowers his head and returns woefully to his bed.