Rânia didn’t give in. She was worried about a downturn in trade that January; things were almost at a standstill, and the dockworkers’ strike was keeping the clientele away from the area around Escadaria harbor. She filled a box with samples of the latest things from São Paulo and asked me to chase up the best customers. “Get after those deserters; if anyone wants to buy, I’ll take the goods to them myself.” It was an immense list, and on every street I went into eight or ten houses to offer Rânia’s wonders. I dealt with every kind of customer: indecisive, pedantic, demanding, spendthrift, aggressive, fearful, and impossible. Some asked me in for a snack, told endless stories, and then said goodbye as if I’d just paid them a polite visit. I remembered Halim’s words: “More than anything else, trade is an exchange of words.” Many were saving up for Carnival, but there was always someone who would buy, and I dragged a smile out of Rânia, and a bit of change as commission. She was euphoric, glowing, rolling her big eyes with the excitement. Business gave her a thrill, and she changed when she got orders, bit her lip and gave me a hug; I trembled just as I had done on the parties for Zana’s birthday, which no longer took place. I spent the months of January and February going up and down streets, alleyways, and avenues. At nightfall, Rânia shut up shop and took over my work, while I went after Halim. Zana didn’t want him to be out of the house at night. “He can’t wander around alone out there, it’s dangerous,” she said. I would find him with a group of cronies in the Canto do Quintela, or at the house of an old, sick friend. He was reluctant to go back, let out a few Arabic swearwords, but then he’d mutter: “All right, dear boy, let’s go, let’s go … that’s the way it is, I suppose.”