The youngest brother, whose name was Lahouari, looked behind him, then down on the floor, his full plate suddenly plain to everyone. He was wearing Aziz’s black T-shirt, and it hung from him. His arms were pencils. The apple of his throat was a basket that rose and moved and fell.

“We paid money,” one said, putting his hand on Lahouari’s back. He had decided to answer Rafik’s question and ignore Aziz’s about their sister. “My father, he was ready to pay with his life. But he was able, because my mother has a brother in the oil ministry, to speak to him, and together, man to man, they were able to send the money in a way that ensured our safety.”

“This is not for others,” the youngest brother said. “This stays here.”

“Never,” Rafik said.

“No, we would never,” Heather whispered.

“And your sister? Zahra?” Aziz reminded them. Zahra had married a man Aziz respected, Ashraf Frarma, a philosophy professor. Ashraf’s mother was a doctor, and all their family had been college-educated in Algiers or Paris. Ashraf’s sister was a novelist in London. This family, Aziz knew, was superior to his own. But they were not proud. Ashraf’s father treated Aziz’s father with deference. When Zahra and Ashraf were married, it was in the hotel Aziz’s father managed. They spoke of the poetry of the place. It was a hotel, thanks to Aziz’s father, that resembled the words of the wind; Aziz remembered them saying that. The last he had heard, Ashraf and Zahra had two daughters. They lived in one of Arzew’s best homes, with a view of the sea. Their daughters were Fellah and Fatima. They could not be more than babies—but no, they were older. Or were they?

“My sister had a son last year,” the youngest brother said. Aziz searched his tone, but could hear too little. Dread barreled through him.

“What a gift!” Rafik exclaimed. The two older brothers’ heads were bowed. The youngest brother gave his one smile. It too was impossible to read. His eyes closed, a laugh threw back his head, and then he shook it, almost desolate. “You cannot say that,” one of the older brothers said to Rafik. “No,” said the other.

Rafik’s eyes dropped. “It is not a gift?” he asked softly. “To have a son is not a gift?”

“You know my father,” the youngest brother said, his eyes on the floor, still shaking his head. “Daughters, more daughters. He has been saying this as long as I could make out words to hear him. When this son came last year, do you know what he said?” He paused. “I will put this one on a boat, like the Chinese do with their girls. What use are men who grow to be killers? I want sweet songs for Algeria.”

“You can’t answer a question!” Aziz heard himself yelling.