I took a good look at Yaqub; his face was much less irritated now. His body was upright, and he pulled himself together. I remembered the last time I had seen him at home, our walks around the city, and I was afraid of the long time that had gone by since I’d seen him: time that could have made him humble, cynical, or skeptical. I thought he might have become more arrogant, a know-it-all, certain of most things if not everything. I remembered my mother’s words: “As soon he came back from Lebanon, he used to come to talk to me. He was the only one who came to talk to me, the only one who wanted to hear my story … He only kept quiet with the others.”

He hadn’t lost his disdainful air: the pride of someone who had decided to prove to himself and others that a rustic like him, a shepherd, a ra’í as his mother called him, could be a famous engineer, revered by the circle he moved in in São Paulo. Now he didn’t want to be called “Doctor Yaqub”; he felt more at ease at home, without a jacket and tie. Nor did he behave like a guest. He was a son returning to the family home, where he had spent his childhood. He was chewing things over in the hammock when his father and mother came in almost at the same time. Zana was the first to see her son, to bend over and kiss him, but she soon left when she heard groans coming from Omar’s room.

“I’m going to see what’s happening to your brother,” she said, flustered. “Halim, look who’s come; what a surprise.”

Halim was complaining that the city was flooded; there was a stir in the center of town, and confusion, and the Floating City was surrounded by soldiers.

“They’re everywhere,” he said, embracing his son. “Even in the trees in the bits of wasteland you can see bunches of soldiers.”

“Those plots are asking to be occupied,” Yaqub said, smiling. “Manaus is ripe for growth.”

Halim wiped his face, looked in his son’s eyes, and said with no enthusiasm:

“What I want is something else, Yaqub … I’ve done all the growing I’m going to do.”