“Your skin is white like the moon, your hair black like the sky,

Your hands are round and plump, resembling ripe fruit …”

His face had caught the mood of the song. It looked sad, love-stung, and his voice was nasal, drawing out the song as if it were a dirge.

He stopped and everyone applauded.

“You’ll get your reward,” Darius said to him with emphasis.

The waiter nodded and walked away, into the kitchen.

One of the men at the next table kept staring at me, a sleazy smile hovering on his face, his gold tooth glistening. His black eyes were shadowed by dark lashes and his dark hair was combed in a pompadour. I looked away from him, then glanced back. He was still staring.

Darius noticed the man’s expression. “Did you see that? He has the nerve to flirt with you while I’m sitting right here.”

“It’s all right. No harm to it.”

“You don’t care? Well I do.” His face had taken on a frightening rigidity. “If he keeps that up I’ll crush his bones. I’ll pluck his eyes out.”

The man arched his eyebrows.

Darius jumped up and went towards him. “You’d better get up and answer for yourself.”

The man got up, grinning uncomfortably. They stood face to face, looking into each other’s eyes, as if each were gauging the other’s strength. I watched nervously. “What do you think you’re doing flirting with my sister?” Darius grasped the man’s arms.

“Please leave him alone. I really don’t care,” I said.

“It’s his pride he has to defend,” Ziba said.

“Easy, easy,” my father said, lifting up his heavy bulk with difficulty.

“Stop it!” I cried.

Darius tightened his grip and the two men struggled together. My father and the man’s companions tried without success to pull them apart. The waiter came back from the kitchen. “What’s going on, what’s happening?” he asked.

No one answered him.

He took hold of the man’s waist and managed to pull him away from Darius. “Tell me. I’ll be the judge.”

“I’m going to kill him,” Darius threatened, grabbing the man again.

One of the companions whispered something to the waiter. The waiter turned to Darius. “He’s young and stupid. Let him go and he’ll leave the restaurant.”

Darius hesitated, then let go. The three men went back to their table, picked up their jackets, and left without glancing at us.

“If it wasn’t for the women’s presence, I’d have spilled his guts,” Darius said, taking his seat. He was sweating and breathed heavily.

The waiter said, “Your sister is used to such things. In America men and women hold hands freely on the streets.”

“Do you want me to give you a beating too?” Darius said, a vein on his neck standing out.

“No offense intended,” the waiter said, walking away swiftly.

All the way home I was silent, troubled by the incident. Darius had always had a way of putting me off balance. There was that day when I was climbing the stairs leading up to the roof and Darius grasped my arm from behind, bringing me to a halt immediately. Even though he was a year younger than me I always viewed him as older and stronger.